Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

“And so pretty with your ring,” giggled Delaine, noting the cluster of peridots that sparkled on Theodosia’s hand. “Is that a family heirloom?”

“My grandmother’s,” replied Theodosia.

“Inherited jewelry,” murmured Delaine, “always the best kind.” She turned glittering eyes on Drayton. “No strings attached. Unlike a gift from a gentleman.”

“Delaine, any gentleman worth his salt would be quite content to lavish gifts upon you, nary a string attached.”

“Oh, Drayton,” she cooed.

Drayton bowed slightly. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to head out to the garden. Timothy has asked me to do a short, impromptu talk on the style merits of the windswept bonsai.”

“Such a gentleman,” said Delaine. She smiled at Theodosia with a slightly glassy-eyed look, and Theodosia knew Delaine was wearing her tinted contact lenses tonight. She was terribly nearsighted and, at the same time, loved to enhance and sometimes change the color of her eyes.

“Delaine,” Theodosia began, feeling a tiny stab of guilt at what she was about to set into motion. “You know I’ve been asking more than a few questions about Oliver Dixon’s death....”

Delaine blinked and moved closer to her. “Has something new turned up?” she asked.

“In a way, yes,” said Theodosia. “I probably shouldn’t—”

“Oh, you can tell me, dear,” said Delaine. She put a hand on Theodosia’s arm, pulled her protectively away from the throes of the crowd. “I’m as concerned about all this as you are.”

“The thing of it is,” said Theodosia, “I’ve stumbled upon the most amazing clue.”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Delaine.

“Remember the linen tablecloth?”

Delaine’s face remained a blank.

“The one that Oliver Dixon sort of fell onto during the...uh... accident?”

Remembrance suddenly dawned for Delaine. “Oh, of course. The tablecloth. ”

“Well, I had it analyzed.”

“You mean like in a crime lab?” asked Delaine. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation.

“No, a private analysis. But by an expert.”

“How fascinating,” said Delaine, her face lighting up with excitement, “tell me more.”

“One of the theories about that old pistol exploding was that someone meant for it to explode. Someone packed it chock-full of gunpowder and dirt.”

“How awful,” said Delaine, but her face held a smile of anticipation.

“The analysis I had done broke that dirt down into specific compounds. In theory, if we can match the dirt from the weapon with the dirt in someone’s garden, we’d have Oliver Dixon’s killer.”

Delaine’s mouth opened and closed several times. “That’s amazing,” she finally managed. “Astonishing, really.”

“Isn’t it?” said Theodosia.

“When are you going to do this matching of dirt?” asked Delaine.

“We’re working on it right now,” said Theodosia.

“So you could know tonight ?”

“In theory . . . yes,” said Theodosia.

“Do the police know? That Detective Tidwell fellow?”

“All in good time,” said Theodosia.

Delaine let loose a little shiver. “I’m getting goose bumps. This is just like one of those true-crime TV shows. On-the-spot investigating... very exciting.”

Theodosia stared across the room into the crowd. She could see Booth Crowley standing at the bar. He had just gotten a martini or a gimlet or something in a stemmed glass with a twist of lemon and was staring glumly at his

wife, a small, sturdy woman with hair teased into a blond bubble.

At the opposite end of the room, Ford Cantrell had just walked in with his sister and was glancing nervously toward the bar, probably hoping he could get three fingers of bourbon instead of a glass of champagne and wondering why on earth Lizbeth had seen fit to drag him to this stuffy party where he was probably highly unwelcome.

Across the wide center hallway, Theodosia could see Doe Belvedere Dixon reclining on a brocade fainting couch in Timothy’s vast library. Doe was dressed in a sleek cranberry-red pantsuit and was gossiping and talking animatedly with three other young women. Giggling like a schoolgirl, not a decorous widow.

Scanning the rest of the crowd, Theodosia hoped Billy Manolo had gotten the message she’d left him and would also put in an appearance some time this evening.

Theodosia knew that any one of them could have overpacked that pistol. Any one of them could be a cold, calculating killer. And tonight was the night to set a trap and see who stumbled in.

The hiss of the oxyacetylene torch was like a viper, angry and menacing. It was exactly how Billy Manolo felt tonight as he wielded his welding equipment.

He was angry. Angry and more than a little resentful. First of all, he was supposed to have this stupid gate finished by tomorrow morning. He’d been following a classical French design and using mortise joinery, and the project seemed to be taking forever. Marianne Petigru had made it perfectly clear to him that if he missed one more deadline, he could forget about getting any more work from Popple Hill. But Marianne was a snotty, rich bitch, he told himself, who could go stick her head in a bucket of swamp water for all he cared.

At the same time, he genuinely liked working on these projects. They were good jobs, substantial jobs, and they usually involved design challenges. It also didn’t hurt that he was able to earn several hundred bucks a crack.

And, face it, he told himself, there was no way in hell he could ever parlaz vous with those rich folks by himself and convince them to hire a guy like him to create wrought-iron gates, fence panels, and stair rails for their fancy houses. Hell, if he were a rich guy, he wouldn’t hire a guy like himself!

The other problem that gnawed at him was the fact that he was supposed to have gone out on another job tonight. And if he wasn’t along to practically hold the hands of those dumb yahoos, they’d sure as hell get lost. Because not one of those good old boys was smart enough to find his backside in the hall of mirrors at high noon. That was for sure.

But everything had changed when he received that stupid message from Booth Crowley. Old jump-when-I-sayso Crowley wanted him to meet him tonight at some guy’s house. What was that all about? Had the plan changed completely? Was he no longer honchoing their little clandestine operation?

Billy reached down with a leather-gloved hand and shut off the valve for the gas. He let the blue white flame die before his eyes before he tipped his helmet back.

Eight o’clock, the note had said. Eight o’clock. He guessed he’d better not cross a guy like Booth Crowley. Crowley was one important dude around Charleston, and Billy knew firsthand that he could also be a pretty nasty dude. Right now, he regretted ever getting involved with Booth Crowley.

Billy Manolo carefully laid his equipment on the battered cutting table. He shut off the lights in the garage, pulled down the door, and locked it.

As he picked his way across the yard, he told himself he had barely enough time for a quick shower.

“Did you get the samples?” Drayton asked quietly.

Triumphantly, Haley laid three plastic Baggies full of dirt on the table next to Drayton’s bonsai trees. “I did just as you said,” Haley told him. “Used the litmus paper first in a half-dozen places. Then, when I found what seemed like a fairly close match for the soil’s pH level, I collected a sample.”

“Good girl,” breathed Drayton as he pulled two little plastic petri dishes out of the duffel bag that held his bonsai tools and copper wire. “You’re sure nobody noticed the light from your flashlight?”