Gunpowder Green

out the green silk jacket for her to try on. “No, this is a medium, Janine, get Theodosia a small. These jackets run a tad generous, and our girl seems to have lost a couple pounds. Did you, dear?” she asked pointedly.

Theodosia ignored Delaine’s question and, instead, slid into the smaller-size jacket. She adjusted it, buttoned a couple buttons, pirouetted in front of the three-way mirror.

“Oh, with your hair, très élégant,” gushed Delaine.

Theodosia gazed at herself in the mirror. The jacket was a stunner, she had to admit. Sleek, lightweight, and a very bewitching green. She could see herself wearing it to any number of upcoming outings and parties. Accompanied, perhaps, by Jory Davis?

“I have it in jade green, pomegranate, and, of course, black,” said Delaine. “Very limited quantities, so you won’t see yourself coming and going.” She plucked at one of the sleeves. “And so light, gossamer light, like butterfly wings. Perfect for a cool spring evening.”

Theodosia snuck a peek at the price tag and decided she’d have to sell a good sixty or seventy cups of tea to finance her purchase.

“Let me think about it, Delaine,” she said, slipping the jacket off and delivering it into the waiting arms of Janine.

Delaine wagged a finger at her. “Don’t wait too long, Theo. These jackets will go like hotcakes.”

“I know, I know.” Theodosia picked up a beaded bag.

“Those are all hand-stitched in Indonesia,” Delaine told her. “They come in that leaf pattern or there’s a star motif.”

“Lovely,” said Theodosia as she examined the bag, then set it back down on the little display table. “Doe and Giovanni stopped by the tea shop this morning,” she said.

Delaine brightened immediately. “Did they really? How is Doe getting along?”

“Seems to be bearing up quite well,” said Theodosia. She didn’t want to confide to Delaine that Doe and Giovanni had both exited the tea shop in a somewhat hasty huff. Delaine would probably learn about that soon enough. “And you heard about Grapevine, Oliver Dixon’s company? Booth Crowley closed it down.”

“Mmm, yes,” said Delaine as she fussed over a tray of scarves, arranging them in artful disarray. “I saw something about that in the paper this morning.”

“You haven’t heard why, have you?”

“I just assumed the company couldn’t get along without him.”

“But you haven’t heard anyone mention a specific reason,” said Theodosia as she fingered the beaded bag again.

“Mmm... no,” said Delaine as she straightened a stack of cotton sweaters. “Gosh,” she said, peeling an apple green sweater off the top, don’t you adore this color? Can’t you see it paired with white slacks? Yummy.”

“Pretty with your coloring,” said Theodosia.

Delaine held it up. “You’re right.” She preened in the mirror. “Anyway, Theo, to get back to what you were saying, Booth Crowley certainly must know what he’s doing. He’s had his hand in enough different businesses.”

“Yes, I guess he has,” said Theodosia.

“Do you know his wife, Beatrix?” asked Delaine.

“No, not really.”

“Delightful woman, patron of the Children’s Theater Company. She buys quite a lot of her clothing here. Of course, she also flies to New York and Paris. I believe she even attends some of the collections.”

“Wow,” said Theodosia, trying to look suitably impressed for Delaine’s sake. She wandered over to an antique armoire set against a cantaloupe-colored wall. The doors of the armoire were open, and it was stuffed with a riotous array of silk camisoles, jeweled pins, antique keys strung on ribbons, and Chinese ceramic cachepots. A turquoise silk sari hung down from one side.

“Delaine, your decor is absolutely delightful,” began Theodosia. “I’ve been thinking about giving my shop a bit of a face-lift. Maybe even go for a touch of exotica.” Theodosia watched as interest flickered on Delaine’s face. “One of the design firms that’s been recommended to me is Popple Hill. Are you familiar with them?” She’d tucked Billy Manolo’s Popple Hill connection in the back of her brain and now figured it might be worth seeing what Delaine knew.

“My dear, Popple Hill is extraordinary,” gushed Delaine. “It’s headed by two absolutely brilliant women, Hillary Retton and Marianne Petigru. I know them because they also shop here whenever they can. Both are cultivated beyond belief and so multitalented. Do you know Gabby Stewart, who lives over on Lamboll?”

“I think so.”

“She’s the pretty blond with the really good face-lift whose husband gave her the black Jaguar XKE for her last birthday, which nobody’s bothering to count anymore.”

“Now that you’ve described her so precisely, I do recall her,” said Theodosia, smiling.

“Well, the Popple Hill ladies took her house from early Dumpster to utterly dazzling. Gabby and her husband, Der-wood or Dellwood or something like that, inherited that great old house and all the furniture. The wooden pieces were okay, so-so seventeenth-century French that could be refinished and touched up a bit, but most of the dining room chairs were absolutely bedraggled. And nothing had been done to the interior, not a speck of paint nor snippet of wallpaper, in ages. Now it’s stunning, an absolute showpiece. I wouldn’t be surprised if Town and Country or Southern Accents wanted to do a big spread on it.”

“What about the exterior?”

Delaine wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t too keen on having her stories interrupted. “Yes, Hillary and Marianne masterminded a restoration on that, too.”

“They used wrought iron?”

“Oh, tons of it,” said Delaine, “because of the huge garden courtyard out back. You know that house, don’t you? You’ve been inside and seen that marvelous oversized fireplace?”

Theodosia ignored Delaine’s question. “Do you know any of Popple Hill’s craftspeople?” she asked.

Delaine frowned. “Their craftspeople? No, I wouldn’t know about that. I imagine they’re just ordinary workers. Hillary and Marianne are the real genuises.” Delaine paused. “I love that you’re thinking about updating your look.”

“Mm-hm,” said Theodosia, knowing she’d never let anyone tinker with the cozy interior she loved so much.

“Come to think of it, Popple Hill did some recent restoration work on Doe and Oliver’s home, too,” said Delaine as the ring of the telephone perfectly punctuated the end of her sentence.

“Chloe Keenland is on the phone,” Janine called to Delaine. “She wants to know if you’re still on for this afternoon.”

Delaine pushed back her sleeve, glanced at her watch, a Chopard rimmed with sparkling jewels. “Gosh, I’d forgotten all about Chloe.” Delaine chewed her lower lip as she gazed at Theodosia. “Garden Fest starts this Friday, and I’m on the opening night refreshment committee,” she explained. Swiveling her head toward Janine, Delaine smiled winningly. “Janine, could you be an absolute angel and work until five today?”

Janine looked glum. “I suppose,” she said.

“Wonderful,” declared Delaine. “Perfect.”

Back at the tea shop, Theodosia felt more confused than ever. Her somewhat strange and rambling conversation with Delaine hadn’t yielded much. And none of the theories she’d been tossing around seemed to make sense, either.

“Haley, did you—” began Theodosia, but her sentence was cut short.

Theodosia looked up to see Doe Belvedere Dixon striding into the Indigo Tea Shop for the second time that day.

“Miss Browning,” said Doe in a breathless, little-girl voice, “can we talk?”

Theodosia nodded and quickly steered the girl to one of the far tables. “Of course,” she said, her curiosity