Gunpowder Green

refrigerator, and I’m going to need space for my . . .” He dropped his voice. “. . . mystery goodies.”

After he had gone, Theodosia leaned back in her chair, a wry smile playing at her lips. All right, Drayton, she thought, I’ll go along with your little game. We’ll just wait and see what excitement you’ve cooked up for Saturday night.

She took another sip of Sencha tea and thought for a moment about the dilemma inside the refrigerator. Drayton was certainly correct; there were packages of finger sandwiches that had been in the hamper from yesterday, and now they’d been crammed into the refrigerator. What could she do, aside from tossing them out and wasting perfectly good food?

I know, she decided, I’ll pack everything up and take it to the senior citizen home with me. After all, I’m going there tonight with Earl Grey.

Her heart melted at the thought of Earl Grey, the dog she’d dubbed her Dalbrador. Part dalmatian, part Labrador, Theodosia had found the dog cowering in her back alley two years ago. Hungry and lost, the poor creature had been rummaging through trash cans in the midst of a rainstorm, trying to find a morsel of food. Theodosia had taken the pup in, cared for him, and opened her heart to him.

And Earl Grey had returned her kindness in so many ways. He’d turned out to be a remarkable companion animal. One who was personable and gentle and a perfect roommate for her in the little apartment upstairs. Earl Grey had taken to obedience training extremely well, delighted to learn the essentials of being a well-mannered pooch. He’d also shown a keen aptitude for work as a therapy dog.

Attending special therapy dog classes, Earl Grey had learned how to walk beside a wheelchair, how to gently greet people, and to graciously accept old hands patting him with exuberance. When one elderly woman, with tears streaming down her face and a mumbled story about a long-remembered pet dog, threw her frail arms about Earl Grey’s neck, he calmly allowed her to sob her heart out on his strong, furry shoulder.

Upon graduation from therapy dog classes, Earl Grey had received his Therapy Dog International certification and was awarded a spiffy blue nylon vest that sported his official TDI patch and allowed him entry to the O’Doud Senior Home two nights every month.

“Hey.” Haley stood in the doorway. “What’s the joke between you and Drayton? He looks like a cat that just swallowed a canary.”

Theodosia waved a hand. “It’s the mystery tea thing.”

“Oh, that,” said Haley. “He’s driving me crazy, too. Gosh, I almost forgot why I came in here. You’ve got a phone call. Jory Davis. Line two.”

Theodosia grabbed for the phone. “Hello?”

“Theodosia?” came a familiar voice.

“What happened?” she asked. “Where were you? Your boat never finished the race.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Jory Davis. “When we got out of the shelter of the harbor, just past Sullivan’s Island, the wind was so strong it blew out our genoa sail. We had to scrub the race and pull in at the Isle of Palms. By the time we found a place to moor the boat and hitched a ride back to Charleston, it was after ten. But we did hear all about Oliver Dixon. Poor fellow, what a terrible way to go. Kind of shakes you up. One day he’s glad-handing at the clubhouse, and the next day he’s gone. Do they have a handle yet on how the accident happened? Anybody examined that old pistol? I mean, it was an accident, right?”

That’s funny, thought Theodosia. Jory Davis was the second person she’d spoken with who’d made a casual, questioning remark about whether it had been an accident or not. Correction, make that the third person. She, herself, had implied the same thing to Tidwell yesterday.

“Apparently, the pistol just exploded,” said Theodosia.

“Wow,” breathed Jory Davis. “Talk about a bad day at Black Rock for the Dixons.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her radar suddenly perking up.

“Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and Quaid, were supposed to be in the race with us, but they got disqualified.”

“Why was that?” asked Theodosia.

“They had an illegal rudder on their boat. They’re claiming that Billy Manolo, the guy who does maintenance on some of the boats at the yacht club, tampered with it. Frankly, I think those guys probably sanded the rudder down themselves in an attempt to streamline it. Anyway,” continued Jory, “I don’t want to trash those guys after their father just died so tragically.”

“No, of course not,” murmured Theodosia.

“And I didn’t want to call you last night and risk waking you up. Especially in light of the kind of day you probably had. I understand you were the first person to reach Oliver Dixon’s body.”

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s pretty tough, kiddo. You doing okay?”

“I think so,” said Theodosia. “I can’t help thinking about Doe, however. I mean, they’d only been married something like nine weeks.”

“It’s a tragedy,” said Jory. “I saw Doe and Oliver together at Emilio’s Restaurant a week or so ago, and they were absolutely gaga over each other. Of course, the saving grace in all this is that Doe is still young. She’ll be a lot more resilient and able to bounce back.”

“Bounce back,” repeated Theodosia absently. “Yes.”

“But, listen,” Jory continued, “I didn’t call to rehash this misfortune. People have probably been stopping by the tea shop all morning to do that. I really called to tell you I’m flying to New York this afternoon.”

“New York!” Theodosia exclaimed. She’d been hoping she could get together with Jory Davis and coax a little information from him. Being a longtime yacht club member, he’d undoubtedly have an inside track. And with his keen lawyer’s perception, he might just notice if something seemed a little out of alignment. He could also fill her in on that historic old pistol they supposedly kept under lock and key at the yacht club clubhouse. Well, all that might have to wait.

“Our firm is representing some fast-food franchises who really got hosed by the parent corporation,” he said. “I’ve got to depose witnesses, then file papers for a class action suit. Listen, I’ll be staying at the Waldorf. If you need me for anything, anything at all, just leave a message at the desk, okay?”

“Okay. Good luck.” Theodosia hung up the phone, feeling slightly out of sorts. Gazing at the wall that faced her desk, her eyes scanned the montage of framed photos, opera programs, tea labels, and other memorabilia that hung there.

There was a photo of Earl Grey taken when she’d first found him, all ribs and scruffy fur. There was her dad posed jauntily on his sailboat. That had been taken just a year before he passed away. Another photo, one of her favorites, showed her mom and dad at Cane Ridge Plantation. That photo had been taken back in the early sixties, right after they’d gotten married. They looked so young and hopeful and so very much in love, with their arms entwined around each other. Six years after that photo had been taken, she had been born. Her mother had lived only eight more years.

Heaving a giant sigh, Theodosia told herself not to feel sad but to feel lucky. She had known unconditional love and support from her parents. Her parents’ ultimate gift to her had been to fix firmly in her mind the notion that she could accomplish anything she set her mind to.

And she had.

Stop being a goose, she scolded herself, just because Jory Davis is taking off for New York. You can always give him a buzz. He said as much, didn’t he? And you’ve got lots of other friends and plenty of pressing business to keep you busy.

Haley had accused her of wanting to solve another mystery. Is that true? she wondered. Is that why she felt so unsettled and restless? And did she really believe Oliver Dixon’s death had been anything other than a terrible, unfortunate accident?

Theodosia let the idea tumble around in her brain as she reached for one of the catalogs and slowly thumbed through it, contemplating all manner of teapots and trivets.