Gunpowder Green

slipped in at the last moment, Lizbeth nodding knowingly to Theodosia, then found their seats and settled back comfortably to enjoy the play.

The actors, down to four now, were serving the main course, chicken satays with a spicy sauce of Sencha tea and ginger, and playing their roles rather broadly. Theodosia had her money on the Theodore character as the murderer. He was a pompous patriarch who certainly looked like he could whack someone on the head with a bronze nymph. (Now she knew why Drayton had gone to all that trouble with table centerpieces!)

On the other hand, you never could tell when it came to spotting suspects. First impressions weren’t always that reliable. Look how she’d pinned her suspicions on Ford Cantrell. He’d certainly appeared to be the perfect suspect, and now she wasn’t sure at all.

But Theodosia did know one thing for sure. She was going to get to the bottom of Oliver Dixon’s murder. If she discovered the real killer and was able to clear Ford Cantrell, she’d have done a great kindness for Lizbeth Cantrell. On the other hand, if Ford Cantrell wasn’t the innocent man his sister professed him to be . . . well, then at least the truth would be out. And knowing the truth was always better than not knowing at all.

Loud clapping and shouts of “Bravo!” brought Theodosia out of her musings and back to the here and now. Drayton was extending a hand toward the four remaining actors as they took a collective bow and then struck exaggerated poses.

“I present to you, the suspects,” announced Drayton, obviously pleased with the crowd’s reaction. “As they have dropped bold clues and broad hints throughout the evening, we shall now pass ballots around the table so you can be both judge and jury and hopefully solve our murder mystery.”

The guests’ voices rose in excited murmurs as the amateur actors, obviously still relishing their roles, walked among the tables, passing out paper and pens.

“And,” added Drayton, “while you ponder the identity of the perpetrator of the crime, we shall be serving our final course, tea sorbet with miniature almond cakes.”

“What’s the prize for solving the mystery?” called Delaine.

“Haley, care to do the honors?” asked Drayton.

Haley stepped to the front of the tea shop and cleared her throat. “The winner or winners, should there be a tie, will receive a gift basket filled with teas and a half-dozen mystery books.”

“Perfect!” exclaimed Miss Dimple. “Then you can have your very own mystery tea... any time you want.”

“But our evening is far from drawing to a close,” said Drayton. “After dessert, we shall be offering tastings on a number of select estate teas.” He paused dramatically. “And we have a special guest with us, Madame Hildegarde. Using her fine gift of divination, Madame Hildegarde will read your tea leaves.”

There was a spatter of applause, and then chairs slid back as people stood up to stretch their legs, move about the tea shop, and visit with friends at other tables.

Lizbeth Cantrell wasted no time in coming over to speak with Theodosia.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever met my aunt,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “Millicent Cantrell, meet Theodosia Browning.”

Theodosia shook hands with the diminutive woman who also had a no-nonsense air about her and gray hair that must have also been red at one time.

“Hello,” Theodosia greeted her. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the evening so far.”

Millicent Cantrell smiled up at Theodosia. “I’ve never been to a mystery tea before. Went to a mystery dinner once at the Hancock Inn over in Columbia, but everything was terribly overdone and not very good.”

Theodosia smiled at the old woman, even as she wondered if Millicent Cantrell was referring to the play or the cooking.

Millicent Cantrell’s hand groped for Theodosia’s. “You’re a real dear to help us.”

Theodosia searched out Lizbeth Cantrell’s eyes.

Lizbeth met her gaze. “I told her you had pledged to help clear my brother’s name.”

“Pledged, well, that might be . . .” began Theodosia, feeling slightly overwhelmed. These ladies seemed to have pinned all their hopes on her. It suddenly felt like an overwhelming responsibility.

“You’re a good girl, just like your momma,” Millicent Cantrell told her as tears sparkled in her old eyes.

“And she’s smart,” added Lizbeth. “Theodosia’s not thrown off by the occasional red herring, to use an old English fox hunting term.”

“Isn’t this cozy? I had no idea you all knew each other.” Delaine Dish had slipped across the room and now raised a thin, penciled brow at Theodosia. She seemed to be waiting expectantly for some sort of explanation. Theodosia wondered how much Delaine had overheard.

“Hello, Delaine,” said Lizbeth pleasantly. “Nice to see you again. Theodosia and I are getting pretty excited about the upcoming Spoleto Festival. She and I are both serving on committees.”

“Spoleto,” purred Delaine. “Yes, that does happen soon, doesn’t it?”

“It’s my third year on the ticket committee,” said Lizbeth smoothly.

“The ticket committee,” said Delaine in her maddening, parrotlike manner. “Sounds terribly interesting.”

“It is,” said Lizbeth, ignoring the fact that Delaine’s comments, delivered in a bored, flat tone, implied it wasn’t interesting at all. “As you probably know, tickets for the various Spoleto arts events are sold in packages.”

“Mn-hm.” Delaine leaned in close and narrowed her eyes.

“And our committee works out the various pairings.” Lizbeth ducked her head and grinned, and Theodosia could see that she was having a little fun with Delaine now. “Actually,” continued Lizbeth, “it’s kind of like seating guests at a dinner party. You try to pair the interesting ones with the shy ones. In this case, we pair the real blockbuster events with some of the events that people might perceive as sleepers but are, of course, really quite stimulating.”

“What a quaint analogy,” murmured Delaine.

“Delaine, come have your tea leaves read.” Drayton appeared at Delaine’s elbow. “Be a darling and go first, would you?” he whispered to her. “Help break the ice for the other guests.”

Theodosia grinned as Delaine reluctantly allowed herself to be led over to Madame Hildegarde, a sixtyish woman in a flowing purple caftan, who was now ensconced at the small table next to the fireplace.

Some forty minutes later, most everyone had departed. Angie Congdon, who owned the Featherbed House, one of the most popular B and Bs on The Battery, shared the honors for correctly guessing the murderer along with Tom Wigley, one of Drayton’s friends from the Heritage Society.

“Drayton,” Haley urged, “you come have your tea leaves read.”

“Oh, all right,” he agreed reluctantly.

“Don’t be such a curmudgeon,” Haley scolded as she slid her chair over to make room for Drayton. “Madame Hildegarde just told me I was going to meet someone verrry interesting. Maybe she’ll have something equally exciting for you.”

“Maybe she’ll predict when this storm will end and I can get out and work in my garden,” fretted Drayton.

Madame Hildegarde gazed at Drayton with hawklike gray eyes. “Drayton doesn’t care for prognostication,” she said with a heavy accent. “Doesn’t want to look ahead, only behind.” She laughed heartily, taking a friendly jab at his penchant for all things historical.

“You know how it works,” Madame Hildegarde told him as she poured a fresh cup of tea. “Your teacup represents the vastness of the sky, the tea leaves are the stars and the myriad possibilities. Drink your tea.” She motioned with her hand. “And turn the cup upside down. Then I read.”

Drayton complied as the remaining guests gathered round him to watch.

“An audience,” he joked. “Just what I don’t need.”

But Lizbeth Cantrell and her aunt Millicent, Theodosia, Delaine Dish, and Miss Dimple and her brother crowded around him, anyway. The rain was pelting against the windows now, and there was no question of leaving until it let up some.

“You want to ask a question or just have me read?” Madame Hildegarde asked Drayton.