Gunpowder Green

honor to host a party for a delightful crowd such as this.”

There was exuberant applause and several shouts of “Hear! Hear!”

Again, Timothy waited for the noise to die down. “Our Garden Fest event continues to grow each year,” he told them. “This year alone we’ve added six additional garden venues to our program. That gives us a grand total of thirty-eight private gardens in our beloved historic district that will be open, over the next three days, for the public’s sublime viewing pleasure.”

More applause.

“On a more personal note,” continued Timothy, “I sincerely regret that the garden of my friend and neighbor, Oliver Dixon, will no longer be included on the Garden Fest roster. As you all know, we lost Oliver recently, and the memory of his accident still haunts us.”

With those few words, Timothy had suddenly gained the complete and rapt attention of the crowd.

“Oliver Dixon was a generous contributor to the Heritage Society,” said Timothy. “And more than a few years ago, when I was a younger and far nimbler fellow, I sailed against Oliver Dixon in several of the yacht club’s regattas: the Isle of Palms race, the Catfish Cup, the Patriots Point Regatta. Oliver was a true gentleman and a fine competitor. I know in my heart that he would not wish the yacht club’s reputation or any of its long-standing traditions to be tarnished by what was truly a senseless accident.”

Timothy paused, much the same way a minister would when asking for a moment of silence. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, sensing something big was about to happen.

“To celebrate Oliver Dixon’s vast contributions and help continue the yacht club’s time-honored customs, I am making a special donation in his memory.”

The inimitable Henry now strode forth, bearing in his arms a large wooden box. Turning to face the crowd, Henry paused for a moment, then slowly lifted the lid.

Catching the gleam from the overhead chandelier, a silver pistol glinted from its cradle of plush red velvet.

There was a hush at first, an initial shock, as a visceral reaction swept through the crowd. They were surprised, slightly stunned. Then a smattering of applause broke out among several of the men standing near the front. The applause began to build steadily until, finally, almost everyone had politely joined in.

“You were right,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia, “it was a shocker.”

But Theodosia had turned to face the crowd, and her eyes were busily scanning faces.

She caught the look of initial shock, then supreme unhappiness that spread across Doe’s young face.

Ford Cantrell, pressed up against the back wall, retained a mild smile that seemed to barely waver. But Theodosia had caught a spark of something else behind Ford’s carefully arranged public face: curiosity. Ford Cantrell had taken in the entire scenario and was trying to figure out exactly what was going on, what con was being run.

Booth Crowley’s sullen countenance bobbed among the crowd like an angry balloon. He had applauded perfunctorily but seemed nervous and distracted. His wife, Beatrix, at his side, maintained the look of mild bemusement she’d worn all night.

And Billy Manolo, looking like an angry rebel in his black T-shirt among a sea of dinner jackets and tuxedos, kept an insolent smirk on his face.

“What kind of pistol is it?” asked a young man at the front of the crowd. His eyes shone brightly, and he seemed pleased with himself for asking such a bold question.

Timothy’s grin was both terrifying and curiously satisfying. “A Scottish regimental pistol. Manufactured by Isaac Bissell of Birmingham, England. See the engraved RHR? Stands for Royal Highland Regiment.”

Delaine stood nearby, fanning herself nervously. “Is it loaded?” she asked with a mixture of alarm and fascination.

“Of course,” said Timothy, hefting the weapon in one hand and pointing it toward the ceiling. “The cartridge is a traditional hand-rolled cartridge, loose powder and a round ball wrapped in thin, brown paper. It was crafted in the British tradition by Lucas Clay, one of the foremost munitions experts in the South today.” Timothy held the pistol aloft for a moment, then put it reverently back in its box.

There were whistles of appreciation and murmurs as several people pressed forward to gaze at it, lying there, shiny and dangerous, on a bed of red velvet.

They are drawn to it like the hypnotic attraction of a cobra to a mongoose, thought Theodosia. The pistol was troubling yet difficult to resist, on display for all to admire on the library table next to the fireplace.

But the crowd was also beginning to dissipate now, moving out into the center hallway where it was cooler. Most folks were shuffling down the hall toward the solarium for drink refills at the bar.

Booth Crowley had shoved his way through the crowd again and stood talking with Billy Manolo. Or, rather, Booth Crowley was doing all the talking. Billy stared fixedly at the floor while the tips of Booth Crowley’s ears turned a bright shade of pink.

Almost as pink as Delaine’s dress, thought Theodosia, wishing she were a little mouse who could scamper across the floor and listen in on the tongue-lashing Booth Crowley seemed to be inflicting upon Billy Manolo.

“What do you think?” Drayton asked eagerly as he hovered at her elbow.

“Jury’s still out,” replied Theodosia.

“I’m going to dash over and grab a word with Timothy,” he said. “Be right back.”

As the room emptied rapidly, Theodosia moved along with the crowd, straining to keep everyone in view. Just ahead, Doe held an empty champagne glass aloft and, with a deliberate toss of her blond mane, handed it over to Giovanni Loard.

Giovanni Loard.

The thought struck Theodosia like a whack on the side of the head. Maybe we should have taken soil samples from his garden, she thought suddenly. After all, Giovanni seemed to get awfully cozy with Doe right after Oliver’s death. On the other hand, Giovanni was Oliver’s cousin, so he was expected to be sympathetic and solicitous.

She looked back to see where Drayton was, but he and Timothy were nowhere in sight.

“Theodosia!” Delaine’s troubled face appeared before her. “Did Timothy not transcend the boundaries of good taste tonight?”

Delaine wore a mantle of pious outrage, but Theodosia knew she would deliciously broadcast and rebroadcast tonight’s events for days to come.

“Timothy’s a true eccentric,” admitted Theodosia. “You never know what he’s got up his sleeve.”

“Eccentric isn’t the word for it,” sputtered Delaine. “He’s downright . . .” She searched for the right word. “Intemperate.”

Amused, Theodosia glanced back into the music salon. It appeared to be completely empty now. Drayton and Timothy must have exited via another door, she decided.

“And what’s with those soil samples you’ve been collecting?” asked Delaine. She nudged closer. “Any results you’d care to share?”

Soil samples, Theodosia thought again. Should get one from Giovanni’s garden, just to be safe.

“Oh my gosh,” gasped Delaine suddenly, “there’s Gabby Stewart.” She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of a pencil-thin woman in a short black cocktail dress. “Will you look at her face; not so much as a single line. Oh, Gabby . . .” And Delaine elbowed her way frantically through the crowd.

Theodosia stood by herself for a moment, watching the last of the guests amble toward the solarium and out onto the enormous front portico. Then she made a snap decision.

Giovanni lived nearby. His garden was highlighted on the map in the Garden Fest program that had been passed out earlier to all the guests.

She’d go there right now and take a soil sample. What harm would it do? After all, she’d be back in five minutes.