Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

desist from your amateur sleuthing,” Tidwell told her. “Since the modus operandi of an investigator is dependent on tedious fact-finding and repetitive questions.”

Theodosia decided to try another approach. “Your talking to Booth Crowley indicates you may have shifted your focus away from Ford Cantrell.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Tidwell.

“No, but your actions indicate that,” said Theodosia.

“Why do I have the nagging feeling that you’re trying to clear Ford Cantrell?” asked Tidwell.

Theodosia sighed. What harm would it do to tell Tidwell, even if he was closemouthed with her? “If you must know, I told his sister I’d do everything in my power to help her.”

“Why?” asked Tidwell.

“It’s personal,” said Theodosia, standing up. “It turns out we go back a long way together. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Detective . . .” And she hurried over to where Drayton was folding napkins.

Tidwell continued to sit at the table, sipping tea, enjoying the aromatic smells and the bubble and hiss surround-sound that enveloped him like a warm cocoon. He lived alone, police work filled his days and most of his nights, so it wasn’t often that he was able to be part of an environment that felt so pleasant and relaxed.

So the Browning woman had made some sort of promise to Lizbeth Cantrell, Tidwell mused to himself. That was unfortunate, because he still had doubts as to Ford Cantrell’s complete innocence. And it especially didn’t look good that Billy Manolo was involved.

Or, at least he thought Billy Manolo was involved.

He’d instructed the patrol cars in Billy Manolo’s neighborhood to keep tabs on the hotheaded young man. Most of the time, when Billy went out at night, it was to drink a couple beers at a desultory little bar called the Boll Weevil. But on two separate occasions, and rather late at night, they’d observed Billy’s old Chevy pickup heading out the 165 toward the low country. And the low country was where Ford Cantrell lived.

Had Billy Manolo somehow aligned himself with Ford Cantrell? Tidwell wondered.

Possibly.

Of course, he was still questioning personnel from the now-defunct Grapevine, but he’d heard his share of stories about disagreements between Oliver Dixon and Ford Cantrell. So Ford could have had motive. And Billy could have done the dirty work.

Tidwell had studied the shots that the Post and Courier ’s photographer had taken that day in White Point Gardens. That lovely Sunday afternoon when he’d been home in his postage stamp–sized backyard, trying to coax some life from the tulip bulbs he’d planted last fall.

They’d all been watching the sailboat race, the whole cast and crew. Oliver Dixon, Doe Belvedere Dixon, Ford Cantrell, Billy Manolo, and Booth Crowley. And Theodosia Browning.

Tidwell took a final sip of tea, pushed his chair back, and stood, economical movements for a man so large. Removing a five-dollar bill from his wallet, he laid it gently on the table. Theodosia had never charged him for tea, yet he felt paying for it was the honorable thing to do. He knew the young girl Haley probably didn’t like him, but she was always polite and took great pains to serve him properly. In a world gone mad with indifference, that counted for something.

“Miss Dimple, you’re doing the bookkeeping for a couple other shops on Church Street, aren’t you?” asked Theodosia. Theodosia knew she was, but it seemed like a good way to kick off the conversation she wanted to have.

It was late afternoon, and the last customers had just left. Miss Dimple had her ledgers spread out on one of the tables and was slowly going through the last few of the day’s receipts.

Miss Dimple beamed. “Indeed I am. Monday mornings I tally the weekend receipts for the Chowder Hound, and Tuesday afternoons I’m at Pinckney’s Gift Shop. Once in a while I even work behind the cash register. It’s so pleasant to be around all that Irish linen and crystal.”

“Have you heard any rumors about Doe Belvedere Dixon? How she’s doing, what she’s doing?” asked Theodosia.

Miss Dimple placed the tip of her Ticonderoga number-two yellow pencil between her lips and thought for a moment. “I heard she was selling off some of her art and collectibles. But, then, you already know about that.”

“Right,” volunteered Haley, who had been unpacking Chinese blue and white teapots from a newly arrived shipment. “Giovanni Loard brought in that Edgefield pot last week.”

“I did hear something about her changing her name,” said Miss Dimple.

“Changing her name?” asked Drayton. He’d obviously been listening, too, as he double-checked the order forms for some covered tea mugs that had caught his eye in a supplier’s catalog.

“Yes,” said Miss Dimple, her memory coming back to her now. “Word is out that Doe is going back to being just Doe Belvedere.”

“You know why I think she’s doing it?” asked Haley. “Because Doe Dixon sounds like an exotic dancer.”

“Nonsense,” said Drayton, a smile playing at his lips. “You determine your exotic dancer name by combining your pet’s name with your mother’s maiden name.”

“Oh, my God!” screamed Haley. “Then mine would be Lulu Rendell!”

“See?” said Drayton.

“You two!” said Miss Dimple, shaking with laughter.

Wynton Marsalis played on the CD player, and she was deep into Pearl Buck’s Pavilion of Women when Professor Morrow called. “Miss Browning,” he said in his somewhat distracted manner, “I hope I’ve not phoned too late.” Theodosia glanced at the baroque brass clock that sat on the pine mantel, saw that it was just half past eight.

“Not at all, Professor Morrow,” she said, sliding a bookmark between the pages and closing her book. Her heart seemed to thump an extra beat in anticipation of his news. “I’m delighted you called. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to hearing from you,” she told him.

“Good, good,” he said. “Took me longer than I thought. But then, everything takes longer these days, doesn’t it? I’m teaching a two-week interim course this June, and Kiplinger, our department head, just now suggested I develop an online syllabus. So of course I had to scramble—”

“What’s the course?” asked Theodosia, trying to be polite.

“Herbaceous perennials,” said Professor Morrow.

“Simple to teach, not a lot to prepare, and students always seem to like it.”

“Great,” said Theodosia. “I really want to thank you for taking time to do this soil analysis.

“Right,” said Professor Morrow, “the analysis.”

Theodosia had a mental picture of Professor Morrow adjusting his glasses and thumbing through his notes, ready to deliver a short lecture to her.

“I ran a standard micronutrient test, measured levels of sulfur, iron, manganese, copper, zinc, and boron. As far as pH level goes, I’d have to say your dirt came from an area where the soil was quite acidic.”

“What kind of plants grow in acidic soil?” asked Theodosia.

“Are we talking flowers or shrubs?” asked Professor Morrow.

Theodosia made an educated guess. “Flowers.” In her mind’s eye, she could imagine someone stepping out into his garden, shoving the point of a trowel into soft, black dirt, then scooping that dirt into a plastic bag to carry to the yacht club.

“Flowers,” said Professor Morrow, weighing the possibilities. “Then you’re talking something like verbena, marigold, calliopsis, or nicotiana. Of course, those varieties are all annuals. In perennials, you’d be looking at baptisia, coreopsis, platycodon, or silene.”