Gunpowder Green

On her way with little more than a muddy fender to show for her mishap, Theodosia drove back toward the city, lost in thought. She wasn’t sure if Ford Cantrell’s business relationship with Oliver Dixon clearly meant the man was innocent, or if it gave Ford all the more reason to want Oliver Dixon out of the way. Maybe Ford Cantrell had somehow ingratiated himself with Oliver Dixon, gotten the consulting project, then conspired to move himself into the senior slot. If Oliver Dixon were out of the picture, the door would have been wide open. In the high-stakes world of business and technology, a power play like that wasn’t unheard of.

But now Ford Cantrell was out of a job, too. Correction, out of a consulting job. For all she knew, his part could have been done. He could have already been paid.

Or fired by Oliver Dixon?

She thought back to what Delaine had said a week ago. She had told everyone at the tea shop that the two men were arguing about fishing, which had sounded exceedingly strange at the time, unless you knew Delaine. But Ford Cantrell had just told her the argument was over video streaming. Had Delaine somehow gotten fishing and streaming mixed up?

Theodosia knew that the answer was yes. Probably yes.

Theodosia eased off on the accelerator as the Jeep approached Huntville, a small, sleepy village on the Edisto River. Creeping across a one-lane wooden bridge, she found the way partially blocked by a sheriff’s car.

Coming to a complete stop, Theodosia waited as a barrel-chested man dressed in a lawman’s khakis crossed the road and ambled over to her.

“Looks like you had yourself a spot of trouble.” The man with the sheriff’s badge pointed to her mud-caked front fender.

“Overshot a turn back there.”

“Yeah, that’s easy to do.” The sheriff grinned widely, revealing front teeth rimmed in gold. “Good thing this jobby’s got four-wheel drive.” He put his big paw on her door. “Lots of muck and quicksand around.”

And then, because her curiosity usually got the better of her, Theodosia asked him, “Is there some kind of problem here, Sheriff?”

The sheriff shifted his bulk to face the river. “Nah, not really.” He pointed to where the river narrowed to a sort of canal that flowed under the bridge. A skinny, young deputy in thigh-high waders was poking around down there. “Somebody come through here last night in a hell of a hurry,” he said. “Must of been a big power launch ’cause he clipped the wood where the sides is shored up, then completely knocked out one of the bridge pilings.”

Theodosia looked in the direction the sheriff was pointing and saw two timbers peeled back from the bank, rough edges exposed.

“Probably some good old boys got liquored up, then couldn’t steer their way clear,” continued the sheriff. “Only reason we’re checkin’ it out is ’cause we got a heads-up from the Coast Guard. They got tipped some two-bit smugglers might be workin’ around this area and decided old Sheriff Billings didn’t have enough to do. Send him on a wild-goose chase the first nice Sunday when he could be havin’ a nice time at the car races over in Summerville.”

Theodosia nodded, amused by the sheriff’s peevishness. She knew there was a maze of rivers and inlets and swamps to navigate out here. Lots of back country that only the locals were familiar with. “They’d have to know this territory pretty well,” she said.

“Sure would,” agreed the sheriff.

“Sheriff Billings, if it is smugglers, what would they be bringing in?” asked Theodosia.

“If it is smugglers, most likely goods from somewhere in the Caribbean. Booze, cigars, cigarettes. Folks just love to avoid that federal excise tax.” The sheriff peered down over the embankment. “You find anything down there, Buford?” he hollered to his deputy.

“Nothin’,” the deputy yelled back. “Seen a darn cottonmouth, though.”

“Well, leave it be,” advised the sheriff.

Chapter 22

“All you serve is tea?” asked the young woman with a frown.

“Come on,” said her companion, a young man in blue jeans and a Save the Redwoods T-shirt, “there’s gotta be a coffee shop down the street.”

“If you don’t care for tea, you might find something you like on our Tea Totalers Menu,” offered Haley.

The young woman accepted the slip of parchment paper tentatively. “Chamomile, Ginseng, Orange Spice,” she read as she scanned down the list. “But these are teas, aren’t they?”

“Actually,” explained Haley, “they’re infusions. Therapeutic fruits and herbs that don’t contain leaves from the tea plant.”

“Are they good for you?” asked the girl.

“Rose hips and hibiscus are extremely high in vitamin C, while ginseng and peppermint are energy boosters,” said Haley. “Tell you what, I just brewed a pot of rose hips. You can have a taste and judge for yourself.”

Haley went behind the counter and poured two small cups of rose hips. It was early Monday morning, and no other customers had come in yet. She could hear Theodosia and Drayton talking quietly in Theo’s back office. Her scones and honey madeleines were baking in the oven, and she could afford to spend a little time with this young couple.

Their eyes lit up at the first taste.

“This is good,” declared the boy. “But I think I’d like to try the plum. It sounds refreshing. Interesting, too.”

“I’ll stick with the rose hips,” said the girl. “And you serve pastries here, as well?” Her nose had picked up the aromatic smells emanating from the back room.

“Have a seat, and I’ll bring a pastry tray out,” said Haley. “That way you can see everything.”

Drayton stared at Theodosia from across her desk. “They were working together?”

“It would appear so,” said Theodosia.

“I can hardly believe it,” said Drayton. “Everyone and his brother has been so sure those two were still engaged in some dreadful eye-for-an-eye feud.”

“Including me,” said Theodosia. “I feel terrible about jumping to such a hasty conclusion.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” advised Drayton. “Tidwell certainly believed you and, in fact, seemed to confirm your thoughts. And, as you pointed out earlier, Ford Cantrell could have been secretly scheming to oust Oliver Dixon. He could have been seeking a permanent solution, if you get my drift.”

“I suppose,” fretted Theodosia.

“Frankly, I think you should speak with Tidwell again,” urged Drayton. “About Ford Cantrell and Billy Manolo. Just the fact that Billy Manolo showed up at Oliver Dixon’s funeral—and Tidwell was a witness to that—is somewhat suspicious. And I’m very uneasy about the fact that he threatened you.”

“Who threatened who?” asked Haley as she stuck her head in the door.

“It’s nothing, really,” said Theodosia. She didn’t want Haley to get upset over Billy Manolo’s cruel remark about her floating facedown in Charleston Harbor.

“When our Theodosia went to Billy Manolo’s house last Saturday, he picked up a piece of pipe and threatened her,” said Drayton.

“Did you call the cops?” asked Haley. “Any guy looks cross-eyed at me these days, I call the cops.”

“What about that Hell’s Angel with the overpowered motorbike who hung around here all last summer?” Dray-ton asked. “He frightened off half our customers.”

“Teddy wasn’t threatening,” said Haley. “He was simply in the throes of an identity crisis. Anyway, he’s back in school now.”

“Studying what,” asked Drayton, “anarchy?”