Gunpowder Green

“They just added a line of teddy bears,” said Haley helpfully.

“You see?” said Theodosia to Drayton. “It is more retail. Booth Crowley was talking about something entirely different.”

“How much you want to bet he was just bluffing,” said Haley.

“How did your meeting with Timothy go?” asked Dray-ton, deciding it might be best to change the subject and try to get Theodosia’s mind off Booth Crowley’s threats.

Theodosia stared at Drayton as though she wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Then she blinked, and understanding came back to her face. “My goodness, I forgot to tell you! I came back here and went rushing into that awful meeting.”

“So Timothy was helpful?” said Drayton.

“Actually, he was extremely helpful. And so were you,” said Theodosia. “Thank you for calling ahead and smoothing the way.”

Drayton waved a hand airily. “Just making sure the ferocious Timothy didn’t make mincemeat out of you.”

“So what did Timothy Neville say?” asked Haley.

“Basically, he told me it’s fairly easy to rig a pistol to explode,” said Theodosia. “All you have to do is overpack it.”

“Overpack it?” frowned Haley. “With what?”

A sly smile crept onto Theodosia’s face. “I think somebody overpacked the yacht club’s pistol with dirt,” she said.

“Which tracks with what Professor Morrow told you,” Drayton exclaimed excitedly. “He said the tablecloth had dirt on it.”

“Does somebody want to give me the complete story?” asked Haley impatiently.

“Haley,” said Theodosia, “Professor Morrow analyzed the tablecloth and said the smudge, or schmutz, as you called it, was garden-variety dirt. Then I talked with Timothy, and he said that if you stuffed a pistol full of dirt, it would probably explode.”

“Holy smokes,” said Haley. “So maybe the garden-variety dirt—”

“Is really from somebody’s garden,” finished Drayton.

The three exchanged knowing glances.

“Sounds like we might have to slip into our ninja costumes tonight and visit a few gardens,” suggested Haley.

Drayton rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Like Booth Crowley’s, Billy Manolo’s—”

“Let’s hold off on that for the time being,” said Theodosia. “Professor Morrow is going to try to break down the compounds. He thinks he can get a lot more specific than telling us it’s just dirt.”

“You mean he’ll determine pH balance or nitrogen content?” asked Drayton. “That would be fabulous! In fact, it would help launch us in a very specific direction. For example, if we found out the soil was acid-based, we’d look for someone who had, say, a rose garden.”

“Pretty slick,” agreed Haley. “That would really help narrow it down. When do you think your professor will have those test results for us?”

“Hopefully, tomorrow,” said Theodosia.

“Isn’t it serendipitous,” said Drayton, “that the Garden Fest kicks off in two days?”

“Kind of gives us an excuse to poke around in the dirt,” said Haley with an impish grin.

Chapter 25

The next morning, they all fluttered about nervously, waiting for Professor Morrow’s phone call. But when the good professor hadn’t called by ten A.M., Drayton suggested they put their heads together and work on some ideas for an artists’ tea.

“I’ve heard of garden teas and teddy bear teas and, of course, we just had our mystery tea,” said Haley, “but what the heck is an artists’ tea?”

Drayton’s eyes skimmed across the tea shop. Only three tables were occupied, and the customers sitting at them had all been served. Business was a tad slow but, then again, it was midweek.

“I was thinking of holding an artists’ tea in conjunction with Spoleto,” explained Drayton. “Theme the tearoom with Art Deco table decor, offer a creative menu, invite a few performing artists in. Maybe a jazz trio or string quartet. Or we could have a poetry reading.”

“Sounds neat,” said Haley.

“Theo?” asked Drayton. She had been arranging sets of miniature teapots on the wooden shelves and seemed lost in thought. “What do you think?”

“Judging by the success of your mystery tea, I think you could expect standing room only,” she said, producing a grin that stretched ear to ear on Drayton’s venerable face.

“What if one of the teas we served was badamtam,” suggested Haley. “Really make it special.”

Drayton feigned mock surprise. “My goodness, our little girl has actually been paying attention. Badamtam is, indeed, a grand Darjeeling.”

“We could even invite some fine artists in,” suggested Theodosia. “Display their work or actually have them sketching or painting during the tea. You know, in the manner of a plein aire artist, where a small painting is begun and completed in the field, so to speak, all in one sitting.”

“How about using sheets of classical music as place mats?” suggested Haley.

“That’s the spirit,” crowed Drayton as his black Mont-blanc pen fairly flew across the pages of his notebook. “Now, if I can just jot all these great ideas down—”

“Yoo-hoo.”

They all spun on their heels. Delaine was standing there, smiling in her maddeningly, self-important manner.

“Can I get a quick cup to go?” she asked. “Assam, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“We’ve got ten different kinds of Assam,” said Drayton as he deftly ran his fingertips across the lineup of tea tins that were shelved on the nearby wall. “But this golden tips is by far the best,” he said, pulling down one of the shiny brass tins.

“Theo, I’m still holding that jacket for you,” said Delaine.

“I know you are. And I’m still thinking about it.” Theodosia paused. “Delaine, did you by any chance say something to Booth Crowley’s wife the other day?”

Delaine smiled coyly. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Booth Crowley stopped in here yesterday afternoon. To say he was unhappy would be putting it mildly. He was under the impression that I’ve been asking probing questions about him.” She paused. “When in fact, we were just making conversation, were we not?”

Delaine hesitated for a moment, and Theodosia could see her mind working to formulate a plausible, Delaine-deflecting answer.

Theodosia sighed inwardly. Really, it had been her own fault. She knew that Delaine’s true nature was to dish out as much information as she could, and still she’d kept pressing her for answers.

“Good heavens, Theodosia,” Delaine said finally, “I ran into Booth Crowley’s wife a couple days ago, that’s all. Beatrix and I are on the same committee. I suppose I might have mentioned that her husband’s name came up in conversation, but certainly nothing beyond that.”

Theodosia gritted her teeth. She really should have known better. Delaine thrived on gossip and adored passing it on.

“Drayton,” said Delaine, eager to change the subject, “are you terribly excited about Garden Fest? Is there any chance we’ll get a peek at your Japanese bonsai trees this year?”

Drayton filled an indigo-colored paper cup with the freshly brewed Assam and snapped on a white take-out