Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

“Booth Crowley would say something like that?” asked Lizbeth.

Oh yes, thought Theodosia. The man would lie through his teeth if he thought it would gain him a centimeter’s advantage. Instead, Theodosia said, “There was a lot at stake. An investor might have an entirely different perspective.”

“And the issue of the pistol still hangs over my brother’s head,” said Lizbeth. “All because Ford’s an avid collector, because he knows guns....”

Yes, thought Theodosia, and gun collectors often know tricks. If Timothy Neville knew how to mastermind an exploding pistol, chances are, Ford Cantrell did, too.

“I had no right to involve you,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “I feel awful.” She sounded as though she were ready to break down sobbing.

“Lizbeth,” said Theodosia in as gentle a manner as she could, “you didn’t involve me. Truth be known, I involved myself. And, please, also know this....I intend to see this thing through to the bitter end. I will uncover some answers.”

“You’re going to keep investigating?” asked Lizbeth.

“Yes,” said Theodosia.

“In cooperation with the police?” asked Lizbeth.

“That depends on how cooperative the police are,” said Theodosia.

“Who’s Drayton talking to?” asked Theodosia as she slid behind the counter and poured herself a cup of lung ching.

“Don’t know,” said Haley. “The other line rang the minute you went in back to take your call. Whoever he’s on the line with has been doing all the talking, though.”

Drayton hung up the phone, looking sober.

“What’s with you?” asked Haley.

“I just had a very strange conversation with Gerard Huber, the manager of the Saint James Hotel,” said Dray-ton. Haley gave a low whistle. “That’s a pretty hoity-toity place. What the heck did they want with you?”

“They just offered me a job,” said Drayton unhappily.

“What?” exclaimed Haley.

“You heard me,” snapped Drayton. “Gerard Huber asked if I had any interest in coming to work there.”

“Doing what?” asked Haley.

Drayton turned a clouded face toward Theodosia. “Executive director of their food and wine service.” He reached a gnarled hand out, rested it gently atop Theodosia’s. “You know what this is all about, don’t you?” he asked.

“Change!” declared Haley boisterously. “This is what Madame Hildegarde predicted the night of the mystery tea!”

Theodosia shook her head slowly. “I’m afraid not, Haley. But what it does mean is that Booth Crowley has started to come after us.”

“Booth Crowley?” said Haley, scrunching her face into a quizzical frown. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He’s one of the owners of the Saint James Hotel,” said Drayton. “One of their silent partners, so to speak.”

“Oh,” said Haley, absorbing this latest information. “Did they offer you a lot of money?”

“Haley,” said Theodosia, “that’s Drayton’s—”

“It’s okay,” said Drayton as his gray eyes sought out Theodosia’s blue eyes. “They said they’d double what I was making now.”

Haley gave a low whistle. “Double the salary... imagine that.”

Drayton’s face settled into a look of indignation. “As if I could be bought. What absolute rubbish!”

Detective Burt Tidwell finally showed up midafternoon. Theodosia knew he would. He almost had to, given the fact that her earlier missive to him, her E-mail spelling out her roster of murder suspects, had undoubtedly prompted him into having a talk with Booth Crowley.

Tidwell grasped a floral teacup in his huge paw, took a delicate sip of amber-colored dimbulla tea. “Ah, Miss Browning,” he said as he settled back in his wooden chair, “such a civilized respite.” Tidwell took another sip and gazed placidly about the tearoom. “With such lovely environs as this, why do you continue to involve yourself in such unpleasantness?”

“You’re referring to Oliver Dixon’s death?” she said.

“That and your persistent penchant for investigating,” said Tidwell. “Why risk exposing yourself to unnecessary danger?”

“Do you think I’m in danger?” Theodosia asked with genuine curiosity. “Anyone who goes about asking probing questions will, sooner or later, find their popularity severely compromised,” said Tidwell.

What a maddening answer, thought Theodosia as she stared across the table at him. Tidwell is, once again, jousting with words. He’s trying to determine who I think should be at the very top of the list that I sent him.

“So you believe my questions have exposed a few sensitive areas?” said Theodosia.

Tidwell waited a long time to answer. “Yes,” he finally replied. “Although your Mr. Booth Crowley seems to be a tad hypersensitive.” Tidwell’s eyelids slid down over his slightly protruding eyes in the manner of one who is relaxed and ready to fall asleep. “Interesting man, Mr. Crowley. Did you know he can trace his ancestry back to John Wilkes Booth?”

Theodosia ignored Tidwell’s remark. It seemed like everyone in the South could trace their ancestry back to someone who was famous, infamous, or had played some sort of walk-on role in the course of the nation’s history. Her own mother had been a great-great-grandniece of Aaron Burr.

“How hard have you looked at Doe?” Theodosia asked him.

“Ah,” said Tidwell as his eyes snapped open like a window shade. “Doe Belvedere Dixon. Grieving widow, toast of the town, belle of the ball.”

“Don’t forget Magnolia Queen,” added Theodosia.

Tidwell pursed his lips delicately. “The girl did seem to collect beauty pageant crowns much the same way a Girl Scout does merit badges.”

“The question is,” said Theodosia, “was Oliver Dixon one of her merit badges?” “Miss Browning, you have a nasty habit of thinking the worst of people.” “As do you, Detective Tidwell,” said Theodosia, smiling at him.

“Touché,” said Tidwell. “Here’s what I will share with you, Miss Browning. According to a recent study conducted by our wise friends at the Justice Department, forty percent of so-called family murders are committed by a spouse.”

“Do you think this was a family murder?”

“Hard to say,” said Tidwell.

“Was there life insurance?” asked Theodosia.

“There was considerable life insurance as well as accidental death insurance.”

“Accidental death,” said Theodosia. “Interesting.” She thought for a moment. “Did anything turn up during Oliver Dixon’s autopsy?”

Tidwell lifted one furry eyebrow, and a knowing smile spread across his chubby, bland face. “Your line of reasoning follows that if Oliver Dixon suffered from an incurable disease, the possibility exists that he might have staged his own accidental death?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to do it,” said Theodosia.

“Nor the last,” agreed Tidwell. “But no, I studied the medical examiner’s report with great care, I assure you. Aside from a small degree of hardening of the arteries and the onset of osteoarthritis in his hands, Oliver Dixon was in relatively good health for a man of sixty-six.”

Theodosia reached for the teapot and poured them each another half cup of tea. “Would you tell me about your visit with Booth Crowley?” she asked.

“I think not,” he said.

“But you find him a suspicious figure in all of this?” she said. “I once told you that I regard everyone as a suspect.” “And I once told you that cannot be efficient.” “If efficiency is what you seek, I suggest you cease and