Gunpowder Green

square inch is littered with pieces of iron or covered with finished metalwork. We can drop by the yacht club, though, that’s easy enough.”

“And I guess it would be difficult to check Ford Cantrell’s place, since he lives on a huge plantation,” said Haley. “You wouldn’t even know where to start.” She turned to scan the tearoom, saw out the window that one of the yellow tour jitneys had just let off a load of tourists, and they were making a beeline for the tea shop.

“I guess we’ll just work with what we’ve got,” said Haley as she headed for the door to greet their new customers.

“Actually,” said Theodosia, once Haley was out of earshot, “it’s not all we’ve got.”

Drayton turned his head sharply to stare at Theodosia. Something in her tone told him she might be hatching another idea. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.

Theodosia bent close to Drayton’s ear and began to whisper. And as she did, a look of astonishment flickered across his face. When she was done, he gazed at her with admiration.

“It’s a jolly good brazen plan, all right,” said Drayton. “The question is, will it work?”

Theodosia lifted her shoulders imperceptibly. “It might flush out a fox or two.”

“It’s also dangerous,” he said, adding a sober note to the conversation.

“Agreed,” said Theodosia, “But that’s also why I like it.” She frowned. “Trouble is, the whole plan would hinge on Timothy Neville’s cooperation. Do you think we can persuade him to go along with us? And especially at such short notice?”

“You leave Timothy to me,” advised Drayton. “I can be very convincing when I have to. And since elections at the Heritage Society are coming up soon, and Timothy is lobbying strongly for reelection as president, he might just listen carefully to what I have to say. So you go call Lizbeth Cantrell and arrange for her to come up with some creative ruse to have her brother present at the party tonight. And leave Timothy Neville to me.”

Theodosia tapped her fingers on the telephone. This wasn’t going to be easy, she told herself. Because she could be setting Ford Cantrell up for a terrible fall. Then again, if Ford really was instrumental in engineering Oliver Dixon’s death, justice would be served.

The word justice echoed in Theodosia’s brain. Lizbeth’s wreath of coltsfoot had been intended to connote justice. Funny how that single word seemed to hang over this entire investigation like a sword suspended from a single thread.

Taking a deep breath, Theodosia opened the phone directory, ran her finger down a fairly long list of Cantrells, spotted Lizbeth Cantrell’s phone number, and punched it in.

Lizbeth Cantrell was in today; she picked up on the first ring.

“Lizbeth,” said Theodosia, the words tumbling out, “can you bring Ford to a party at Timothy Neville’s home tonight?”

“What’s going on?” asked Lizbeth, her antennae already at full alert.

“Hopefully, a plan that will reveal Oliver Dixon’s killer,” said Theodosia.

Lizbeth hesitated. “A plan you want my brother’s participation in.”

“Yes,” said Theodosia, “but I’m afraid I can’t share the exact details.”

“And if this plan backfires?”

Theodosia had heard fear and worry in Lizbeth’s voice and knew exactly what she was thinking. Backfiring was Lizbeth’s euphemism for Ford being proven guilty. She knew Lizbeth was utterly heartsick over the possibility.

I’ve got to strongly dissuade her of that thought, Theodosia decided. Keep her thinking positive.

“Hopefully,” said Theodosia, “this plan will help clear Ford’s name, once and for all. But it will only work if he’s in attendance tonight. At the Garden Fest kickoff party.” Theodosia listened to dead air for a moment. “You know where Timothy lives?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes,” said Lizbeth.

“So we can count on your attendance?”

“We’ll be there,” said Lizbeth finally. “Ford won’t like it, but I’ll think of something.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Theodosia hung up the phone. That hadn’t been as difficult as she’d thought it might be. But, then again, Lizbeth Cantrell was one tough lady, made of fairly stern stuff.

It would all play out tonight, Theodosia decided, once her plan was set into motion. Of course, her plan also hinged on a number of critical pieces: all the right people showing up and Timothy Neville’s supreme cooperation. Was that too much to ask? She surely hoped not.

Gazing at the wall of photos across from her desk, Theodosia’s eyes were drawn to an old black and white picture of her dad rigging one of his old sailboats, a Stone Horse. And her thoughts turned to Billy Manolo, the surly part-time handyman at the yacht club.

It would be perfect if she could somehow get Billy Manolo to show up tonight as well. Then they’d have all the players....

Yes, it would be perfect, she decided. It was certainly worth a try. But how exactly would she...?

Theodosia punched in the phone number for the yacht club. A crazy idea had popped into her head that, on closer inspection, might not be so crazy after all.

“Yacht club,” answered a youthful male voice.

“Is Billy Manolo there?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s...I think he’s out working on one of the boats. I saw him on one of the piers an hour or so ago, but I couldn’t say where he is now. I just stopped by the clubhouse to grab a drink of water, and the phone rang. I can’t really help—”

“Could you take a message?” asked Theodosia. “A message. Yeah, I suppose so. Hang on a minute. Gotta get a pencil and paper.” There was a fumble and a clunk as the phone was set down, then the young man came on the line again.

“Okay, go ahead,” he said.

“This is for Billy Manolo,” said Theodosia. “The note should say, please be at Timothy Neville’s home tonight at eight. Address is 413 Archdale.”

Theodosia could hear the man softly repeating the message to himself as he wrote it down. “Anything else?” asked the young man.

“Add that it’s urgent Billy show up and make a note that it’s at the request of Booth Crowley.”

“How do you spell that? I got the Booth part, I’m just not sure on Crowley.”

“C-R-O-W-L-E-Y,” said Theodosia.

“Okay,” said the young man. “And who is this?”

Theodosia ransacked her brain for the name of the woman she’d spoken with the day she phoned Booth Crowley’s office. Marilyn, the woman’s name had been Marilyn.

“This is Marilyn from Booth Crowley’s office.”

“Gotcha,” said the young man. “I’ll leave the note in his mailbox.”

“Yes, that’s perfect,” said Theodosia, remembering a line of four of five wooden mail slots that were used by employees, handymen, yacht club commodores, and other folks who spent time there.

Chapter 29

Timothy Neville adored giving parties. Holiday parties, charity galas, music recitals. And his enormous Georgian mansion, a glittering showpiece perched on Archdale Street, was, for many guests, a peek into the kind of gilded luxury that hadn’t been witnessed in Charleston since earlier times.

Although not an official Garden Fest event, Timothy had been staging his Garden Fest kickoff party for more years than anyone could count. It was a way to bring all the Garden Fest participants together in one place, and it served as a kind of unofficial marker that heralded the arrival of spring. Days were becoming warmer, deep purple evenings held the promise of fluttering luna moths and night-blooming nicotiana. And, once again, everyone in