Gunpowder Green

animatedly with three other young women. Giggling like a schoolgirl, not a decorous widow.

Scanning the rest of the crowd, Theodosia hoped Billy Manolo had gotten the message she’d left him and would also put in an appearance some time this evening.

Theodosia knew that any one of them could have overpacked that pistol. Any one of them could be a cold, calculating killer. And tonight was the night to set a trap and see who stumbled in.

Chapter 30

The hiss of the oxyacetylene torch was like a viper, angry and menacing. It was exactly how Billy Manolo felt tonight as he wielded his welding equipment.

He was angry. Angry and more than a little resentful. First of all, he was supposed to have this stupid gate finished by tomorrow morning. He’d been following a classical French design and using mortise joinery, and the project seemed to be taking forever. Marianne Petigru had made it perfectly clear to him that if he missed one more deadline, he could forget about getting any more work from Popple Hill. But Marianne was a snotty, rich bitch, he told himself, who could go stick her head in a bucket of swamp water for all he cared.

At the same time, he genuinely liked working on these projects. They were good jobs, substantial jobs, and they usually involved design challenges. It also didn’t hurt that he was able to earn several hundred bucks a crack.

And, face it, he told himself, there was no way in hell he could ever parlaz vous with those rich folks by himself and convince them to hire a guy like him to create wrought-iron gates, fence panels, and stair rails for their fancy houses. Hell, if he were a rich guy, he wouldn’t hire a guy like himself!

The other problem that gnawed at him was the fact that he was supposed to have gone out on another job tonight. And if he wasn’t along to practically hold the hands of those dumb yahoos, they’d sure as hell get lost. Because not one of those good old boys was smart enough to find his backside in the hall of mirrors at high noon. That was for sure.

But everything had changed when he received that stupid message from Booth Crowley. Old jump-when-I- sayso Crowley wanted him to meet him tonight at some guy’s house. What was that all about? Had the plan changed completely? Was he no longer honchoing their little clandestine operation?

Billy reached down with a leather-gloved hand and shut off the valve for the gas. He let the blue white flame die before his eyes before he tipped his helmet back.

Eight o’clock, the note had said. Eight o’clock. He guessed he’d better not cross a guy like Booth Crowley. Crowley was one important dude around Charleston, and Billy knew firsthand that he could also be a pretty nasty dude. Right now, he regretted ever getting involved with Booth Crowley.

Billy Manolo carefully laid his equipment on the battered cutting table. He shut off the lights in the garage, pulled down the door, and locked it.

As he picked his way across the yard, he told himself he had barely enough time for a quick shower.

Chapter 31

“Did you get the samples?” Drayton asked quietly.

Triumphantly, Haley laid three plastic Baggies full of dirt on the table next to Drayton’s bonsai trees. “I did just as you said,” Haley told him. “Used the litmus paper first in a half-dozen places. Then, when I found what seemed like a fairly close match for the soil’s pH level, I collected a sample.”

“Good girl,” breathed Drayton as he pulled two little plastic petri dishes out of the duffel bag that held his bonsai tools and copper wire. “You’re sure nobody noticed the light from your flashlight?”

“Positive. The yacht club was a cinch, ’cause nobody was there. And when I went into the two backyards, I only turned the flashlight on for a moment when I had to read the litmus paper. And then I cupped my hands around it.”

“Sounds like an excellent cat burglar technique,” said Drayton.

But Haley was still riding high from her little adventure. “Doe’s yard was easy,” she chattered on. “Nobody home at all. But I had to scale a pretty good-sized fence in order to get into Booth Crowley’s backyard. I had a couple hairy moments that definitely brought out my inner athlete.” She paused. “You’re going to test the soil samples right now?”

“That’s the general idea,” said Drayton as his fingers fluttered busily, measuring out spoonfuls of soil from each bag and dumping them into their own petri dishes.

“So we’ll know right away?” asked Haley.

Drayton slid the three petri dishes out of sight, behind a large, brown, glazed bonsai pot that held a miniature grove of tamarack trees. “Haley,” he said, “everyone will know right away if you persist in asking these questions.”

“I thought that was the general idea,” she said. Drayton smiled tolerantly. “All in good time, dear girl, all in good time.”

Lights blazed, conversation grew louder, the string quartet that Timothy Neville had brought in, fellow symphony members, played a lively rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Theodosia moved from room to room, dropping a hint here, a sly reference there. She was following in Delaine’s wake, so all she really had to do was toss out an innuendo for good measure. It was surprisingly simple. And since this was a party where conversation groups constantly shifted and re-formed, it was easy to mix and mingle and get the rumor mill bubbling.

In one of two front flanking parlors, Theodosia ran into their genial host.

“Enjoying yourself, Miss Browning?” Timothy pulled himself away from a group of people that was heatedly discussing the pros and cons of faux finishes and peered at her hawkishly.

“Lovely evening, Mr. Neville,” she said.

“I noticed you’ve been flitting about,” Timothy said, pulling his lips back to reveal small, square teeth, “and chatting merrily with my guests. The old marketing instinct dies hard, eh? Fun to be a spin doctor again.” His voice carried a faint trace of sarcasm, but his eyes danced with merriment. Then Timothy leaned toward her and asked quietly, “Drayton working his alchemy with the soil testing?”

“Should be,” she said, taking a sip of champagne, feeling slightly conspiratorial.

“Why not scoot out and check for results then. If it’s a go, we’ll launch part two of your little plan.”

Theodosia was suddenly captivated by Timothy’s quixotic spirit. “Why, Mr. Neville, I do believe you’re rather enjoying this,” she told him.

“It’s a game, Miss Browning, a fascinating game. Truth be known, Drayton didn’t have to twist my arm much to get me to play along. But”—Timothy Neville suddenly sobered—“at the same time, Oliver Dixon was a decent man and a friend. He was a generous benefactor to the Heritage Society and lent support to several other worthwhile charities here in Charleston. It was a terrible fate that befell him, and if someone was responsible for masterminding such a frightful, premeditated act, that person should be made to pay. If the police haven’t figured something out by now, I see no reason why the fates shouldn’t intercede. Or at least receive a helpful prod from us.” Timothy paused, removed a spotless white handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, and blotted his brow gently. “Now, when you have an answer, Miss Browning, be sure to tell Henry immediately. He’s the one charged with rounding up the troops for my little spectacle here tonight.” Timothy reached for a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, held it up to Theodosia in a toast. “Henry is also who most of my guests fear more than me.” He chuckled.

“Drayton, Timothy wants to know if you have any results yet,” Theodosia asked somewhat breathlessly. She’d hurried from one end of Timothy’s house to the other, then fairly flown down the back staircase into Timothy’s elegant garden.