Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

“Last fall we had an extra pair of hands,” said Haley. “But now that Bethany’s moved to Columbia, who else could we shanghai? Miss Dimple?”

“Now she’s a sport,” said Drayton. “I bet she wouldn’t complain half as much as you did.”

“Drayton, don’t you dare ask poor Miss Dimple to package tea,” laughed Theodosia.

“One more thing,” said Drayton, closing his book and getting up. “New packaging.” He reached around to the back of the counter and pulled out a shiny, dark blue box with a rounded top that folded over. “Indigo blue boxes,” said Drayton.

“They’re the exact same color as the gift paper we use!” Theodosia squealed with delight. “Aren’t you clever. Where did you find them?”

“Supplier in San Francisco,” said Drayton. “We can have Gallagher’s package the tea in our regular foil bags, then pop those bags into the blue boxes. From there we just need to add a label. I took the liberty of getting samples of gold foil labels from our printer. All you have to do is pick a label style and a typeface,” said Drayton. “Then it’s a done deal.”

“Easy enough,” said Theodosia.

“Don’t look now,” said Haley under her breath, “but that boorish cop just came in. Wonder what he wants?”

“I invited him,” said Theodosia.

“You invited him?” Haley was stunned.

“Run and put together a nice pastry sampler, will you, Haley? And Drayton, could you do a fresh pot of tea? Maybe that Dunsandle Estate?”

“Of course, Theo,” agreed Drayton. Then he turned to Haley. “Are you rooted to the floor, dear girl? Kindly fetch the pastries Theodosia requested.”

“Okay,” Haley agreed grudgingly. “But you know I can’t stand that guy. He almost drove Bethany to a nervous breakdown with all his questions and nasty innuendos. He’s a bully, pure and simple.”

“He’s a detective first grade,” corrected Drayton under his breath. “Now the pastries, please?”

“Right,” said Haley.

“Detective Tidwell,” Theodosia greeted him warmly. “Sit here by the window.”

“Nice to see you again, Miss Browning,” said Tidwell as he lowered his bulk into a wooden captain’s chair. “Good of you to drop me a note, even if it was of the electronic version.”

He gave a cheery smile that Theodosia knew contained very little cheer. Tidwell’s chitchat and tiny pleasantries were opening salvos that could be a steel-jawed trap for the unsuspecting.

“I wanted to talk to you about Oliver Dixon,” said Theodosia.

“You mean Oliver Dixon’s death,” corrected Burt Tidwell.

“Since you put it that way, yes,” agreed Theodosia.

She sat quietly as Haley placed teacups, plates, knives, and spoons in front of each of them, then Drayton followed with a steaming pot of tea. Theodosia poured some of the sweet elixir into Tidwell’s cup and smiled with quiet satisfaction as his nose twitched. Then Haley delivered her plate of baked goods, and Tidwell brightened considerably.

“Oh my, this is lovely,” he said as he scooped a raspberry scone onto his plate. “Is there, perchance, some jelly to accompany this sweet?”

But Haley was already back at the table with a plate of butter, pitcher of clotted cream, and various jars of jelly.

“Detective Tidwell,” began Theodosia, “have you learned anything more about the pistol that killed Oliver Dixon?”

Tidwell sliced a sliver of butter and applied it to his pastry.

“Some,” he said. “The pistol was American made, manufactured in the mid-1800s to Army specifications, and used as a side arm by officers. Stock is curly maple and there’s an acorn design on the trigger guard. Graceful lines but a crude weapon. It was really only effective at close range.”

But effective enough to mortally wound Oliver Dixon, Theodosia thought to herself.

“By the way,” Tidwell said, “the pistol was kept at Oliver Dixon’s yacht club. In friendly territory. So it’s doubtful anyone would have tampered with it.”

“Who loaded the pistol?” asked Theodosia.

“Fellow by the name of Bob Brewster. Been doing it for years. Apparently, you take a pinch of gunpowder and twist it inside a little piece of paper. Not unlike a tea bag,” Tidwell told her. “Then you place the little packet in the barrel. Brewster’s just sick about it, by the way.”

“But Oliver Dixon could have had an enemy there,” said Theodosia.

Tidwell stroked his ample chin. “Most people I’ve spoken with were highly complimentary of Oliver Dixon. He was a past commodore and had contributed a considerable amount of funds for the betterment of the place. He paid to have the boat piers reinforced and a clubhouse fireplace installed.” Tidwell pulled a spiral notebook from his breast pocket and glanced at it. It was the same kind of notebook children purchased from the five-and-dime store. “Oh, and Oliver Dixon underwrote a sailing program last summer for inner-city youth. Kids Can Sail, or something like that.”

“Dixon was known for his philanthropy?” asked Theodosia.

“And for being an all-around good guy,” replied Tidwell. He smiled at her, then helped himself to an almond scone. “Lovely,” he muttered under his breath.

He’s not given me an ounce of useful information, thought Theodosia. But then, did I really think he would? She sighed inwardly. Conversations with Tidwell were always of the cat-and-mouse variety.

“You realize,” she began, “there is a long-standing feud between the Dixons and the Cantrells.” She watched him as her words sank in. He gave her nothing.

“The feud dates back to the 1880s,” she said. “The heads of the two families fought a duel to the death.”

“Mm-hm.” Tidwell took another bite from his pastry, but Theodosia knew she had his attention.

“Sometime during the thirties, Oliver Dixon’s aunt ran off with a Cantrell. Apparently, the two families have been openly hostile toward each other ever since.”

“So you suspect young Ford Cantrell?” Tidwell’s bright eyes were riveted on her.

“If I had a suspect in mind,” Theodosia said slowly, “that would imply I believed a criminal act had been committed. And I have no proof of that.”

“Aha,” said Tidwell, “so this conversation is simply neighborly gossip.”

Theodosia stared at him unhappily.

Seeing her displeasure, Tidwell’s eyes lost their merriment, and he suddenly turned serious. “Yes, I have heard rumblings about this so-called Dixon-Cantrell feud. Although you seem to have gained the upper hand as far as specific details.”

Though large in girth, Tidwell’s words could be spare and pared down when he wanted them to be. “Do you know much about antique pistols?” she asked him.

He looked thoughtful. “Not really. Obviously, our ballistics people are taking a look at it, but their forte, as one might imagine, really lies in modern weapons.”

But I know an expert, thought Theodosia. And I just might take a chance on talking to him.

Tidwell seemed to contemplate helping himself to a third pastry, then thought better of it. “Ah well.” He struggled to his feet, brushed a fine sheen of granulated sugar from his jacket lapels. “Time to be off. Thank you for your kind invitation and the lovely tea.”

And he was out the door, just like that.

Theodosia gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the back of the tea shop. “Drayton,” she called over her shoulder, “is Timothy Neville in town? The symphony was invited to perform in Savannah. Do you know if he’s back?”

“He’s back.” Drayton popped his head through the curtains. “I spoke with Timothy yesterday.”