Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

“Positive. The yacht club was a cinch, ’cause nobody was there. And when I went into the two backyards, I only turned the flashlight on for a moment when I had to read the litmus paper. And then I cupped my hands around it.”

“Sounds like an excellent cat burglar technique,” said Drayton.

But Haley was still riding high from her little adventure. “Doe’s yard was easy,” she chattered on. “Nobody home at all. But I had to scale a pretty good-sized fence in order to get into Booth Crowley’s backyard. I had a couple hairy moments that definitely brought out my inner athlete.” She paused. “You’re going to test the soil samples right now?”

“That’s the general idea,” said Drayton as his fingers fluttered busily, measuring out spoonfuls of soil from each bag and dumping them into their own petri dishes.

“So we’ll know right away?” asked Haley.

Drayton slid the three petri dishes out of sight, behind a large, brown, glazed bonsai pot that held a miniature grove of tamarack trees. “Haley,” he said, “ everyone will know right away if you persist in asking these questions.”

“I thought that was the general idea,” she said. Drayton smiled tolerantly. “All in good time, dear girl, all in good time.”

Lights blazed, conversation grew louder, the string quartet that Timothy Neville had brought in, fellow symphony members, played a lively rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons . Theodosia moved from room to room, dropping a hint here, a sly reference there. She was following in Delaine’s wake, so all she really had to do was toss out an innuendo for good measure. It was surprisingly simple. And since this was a party where conversation groups constantly shifted and re-formed, it was easy to mix and mingle and get the rumor mill bubbling.

In one of two front flanking parlors, Theodosia ran into their genial host.

“Enjoying yourself, Miss Browning?” Timothy pulled himself away from a group of people that was heatedly discussing the pros and cons of faux finishes and peered at her hawkishly.

“Lovely evening, Mr. Neville,” she said.

“I noticed you’ve been flitting about,” Timothy said, pulling his lips back to reveal small, square teeth, “and chatting merrily with my guests. The old marketing instinct dies hard, eh? Fun to be a spin doctor again.” His voice carried a faint trace of sarcasm, but his eyes danced with merriment. Then Timothy leaned toward her and asked quietly, “Drayton working his alchemy with the soil testing?”

“Should be,” she said, taking a sip of champagne, feeling slightly conspiratorial.

“Why not scoot out and check for results then. If it’s a go, we’ll launch part two of your little plan.”

Theodosia was suddenly captivated by Timothy’s quixotic spirit. “Why, Mr. Neville, I do believe you’re rather enjoying this,” she told him.

“It’s a game, Miss Browning, a fascinating game. Truth be known, Drayton didn’t have to twist my arm much to get me to play along. But”—Timothy Neville suddenly sobered—“at the same time, Oliver Dixon was a decent man and a friend. He was a generous benefactor to the Heritage Society and lent support to several other worthwhile charities here in Charleston. It was a terrible fate that befell him, and if someone was responsible for masterminding such a frightful, premeditated act, that person should be made to pay. If the police haven’t figured something out by now, I see no reason why the fates shouldn’t intercede. Or at least receive a helpful prod from us.” Timothy paused, removed a spotless white handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, and blotted his brow gently. “Now, when you have an answer, Miss Browning, be sure to tell Henry immediately. He’s the one charged with rounding up the troops for my little spectacle here tonight.” Timothy reached for a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, held it up to Theodosia in a toast. “Henry is also who most of my guests fear more than me.” He chuckled.

“Drayton, Timothy wants to know if you have any results yet,” Theodosia asked somewhat breathlessly. She’d hurried from one end of Timothy’s house to the other, then fairly flown down the back staircase into Timothy’s elegant garden.

How delightful it is out here, she thought suddenly as she felt the gentle sway of palm trees and bamboo around her, caught the moonlight as it shimmered on the long reflecting pool. How cool and quiet after the closeness and social chaos inside.

But Drayton was peering at her with a glum expression. “I’ve got results, but not the kind you want to hear about,” he said, a warning tone in his voice.

Theodosia was instantly on the alert. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that none of our soil samples match with what Professor Morrow took off your tablecloth,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, obviously irritated.

Theodosia stared at Drayton and saw his vexation and frustration. Haley, who stood poised with a Japanese teapot in her hand, suddenly looked ready to cry.

“I did it just the way you told me to, Drayton,” Haley said.

He held up a hand. “I’m not questioning your methodology. The preliminary matches looked good. It’s just that...”

“What is it?” asked Theodosia.

“When we run a full analysis,” said Drayton, “we come up empty.”

“So Doe, Booth Crowley, and Billy Manolo are all innocent?” said Haley.

“Innocent of using soil from their own backyards,” said Theodosia. “Or the yacht club, in Billy’s case.” She was bitterly disappointed as well. At the same time, she’d known this whole soil business had been a long shot.

“So that’s it?” asked Haley. “We’ve come this far just to hit a dead end?”

“Not quite,” said Theodosia. “The soil samples were really only the lure. Now it’s time to have Timothy dangle the bait.”

Billy Manolo heard the laughter and conversation from half a block away. It drifted like silver strands out the open windows and doors of Timothy Neville’s enormous home and seemed to rise into the blue black sky.

Billy stopped for a moment and stared upward, half expecting to see something tangible in the night sky above him. Then he shook his head and resumed walking toward the big house on Archdale Street. Foolishness, he told himself. Just plain foolishness.

Henry met him at the door before he had a chance to knock or ring the bell.

“Mr. Manolo?” Henry asked in his dry, raspy voice.

Billy stared at him. The old guy in the red and white monkey suit had to be ninety years old. He also looked like somebody out of an old movie. A silent movie at that.

“Yeah, I’m Billy Manolo,” he answered, his curiosity ratcheting up a couple notches. “Is there some kind of problem?”

“Not in the least,” smiled Henry. “Fact is, we’ve been expecting you.”

“Is that so?” Billy eyed Henry warily as he stepped into the foyer and glanced hurriedly around. “Looks like you all have a party going on.”

“Indeed,” said Henry.

“This is quite a place. You could park a 747 in this hallway.”

“Thank you,” said Henry. “I shall convey your rather astute observation to Mr. Neville, I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

“Booth Crowley around?” Billy asked. “I got some weird message to meet him here.”

“Yes, that was nicely arranged, wasn’t it,” said Henry.

“Huh?” asked Billy sharply.

“If you’ll follow me to the music salon, sir,” beckoned Henry. “It’s time we get started.”

The thatch of white hair atop Booth Crowley’s head bristled like a porcupine displaying its quills. Then his small, watery gray eyes focused on Billy Manolo, dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, swaggering down the center of the Oriental runner that ran the length of the hallway. Strangely enough, he followed in the wake of Timothy’s man, Henry.