Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

“Damn that boy,” Booth Crowley muttered under his breath, immediately tuning out the two women who’d been making a polite pitch to him concerning funding for their beloved Opera Society’s production of Turandot .

Their eyebrows shot immediately skyward. Swearing was not unknown to them, but neither was it customary for a man to display such rudeness in a social situation like this. The eyes of the volunteer coordinator flashed an immediate signal of those of the board member: Uncouth. Not much of a gentleman.

But committing a social faux pas was the furthest thing from Booth Crowley’s mind right now. His was a personality hot-wired for anger, one that accelerated from rational behavior to utter rage with no stops in between, no chance for a safety valve.

Booth Crowley bulled his way across the room. Leading with his barrel of a chest, he shoved himself between Henry and Billy in an attempt to physically block Billy’s way.

“Get the hell away from here,” Booth Crowley snarled. His lips curled sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbed wildly above his floral bow tie. Several people standing nearby paused to watch what seemed to be an ugly spectacle about to unfold.

Billy gazed at Booth Crowley in disbelief and decided the old fart had to be bipolar or whatever the current pop psycho term was. First Booth had left him a note that was practically a presidential mandate to meet him here tonight. Now the crazy fool was trying to toss him out! What an idiot, thought Billy as he shook his head tiredly. But then, everything felt nuts these days, like the world was crashing down around him.

The high tinkle of a bell cut through the raw tension and the sudden buzz of excitement.

“Everyone is kindly requested to convene in the music salon, please.” Henry’s normally papery voice had suddenly increased by twenty decibels, ringing out strong and clear and authoritative. He sounded like a courtier announcing the arrival of the queen to parliament.

“You old fool,” spat Billy to Booth Crowley as the two men were suddenly jostled, then engulfed as bodies flowed past them.

Party guests pushed toward the music room, flushed with excitement, their spirits buoyed by the free flow of the excellent Roederer Cristal Champagne. Billy Manolo and Booth Crowley could do nothing but let themselves be carried along with the crowd. The most they could manage were furious scowls at each other.

Out on the patio, Drayton, Theodosia, and Haley also heard the high, melodious tinkle of Henry’s bell.

Theodosia turned bright eyes to Drayton. “This is it,” she whispered excitedly. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Is somebody going to tell me what’s really going on?” complained Haley. “I feel like I’m the last person on earth to—”

Drayton grabbed her by the hand and pulled her forward. “Come on then. Timothy’s going to do his little speech. In about two minutes, you’ll see exactly what we’re up to!”

The three of them scampered up the back staircase into Timothy’s house and pushed down the main hallway with the rest of the crowd. Once inside the vast music salon, they jockeyed for position.

Standing center stage, in front of an enormous marble fireplace, Timothy Neville waited as the crowd continued to pour into the room and gather around him. High above him, set incongruously against gold brocade wallpaper, hung a scowling portrait of one of his Huguenot ancestors.

It was a full minute before all the murmurs, coughs, and whispers quieted down. Finally, Timothy looked over toward Henry, who nodded slightly at him. Timothy gazed serenely out into the crowd, found Drayton and Theodosia, but did not acknowledge them. Then he pulled himself into his usual ramrod posture and began.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he greeted the crowd in a ringing, impassioned voice. “It’s always an honor to host a party for a delightful crowd such as this.”

There was exuberant applause and several shouts of “Hear! Hear!”

Again, Timothy waited for the noise to die down. “Our Garden Fest event continues to grow each year,” he told them. “This year alone we’ve added six additional garden venues to our program. That gives us a grand total of thirty-eight private gardens in our beloved historic district that will be open, over the next three days, for the public’s sublime viewing pleasure.”

More applause.

“On a more personal note,” continued Timothy, “I sincerely regret that the garden of my friend and neighbor, Oliver Dixon, will no longer be included on the Garden Fest roster. As you all know, we lost Oliver recently, and the memory of his accident still haunts us.”

With those few words, Timothy had suddenly gained the complete and rapt attention of the crowd.

“Oliver Dixon was a generous contributor to the Heritage Society,” said Timothy. “And more than a few years ago, when I was a younger and far nimbler fellow, I sailed against Oliver Dixon in several of the yacht club’s regattas: the Isle of Palms race, the Catfish Cup, the Patriots Point Regatta. Oliver was a true gentleman and a fine competitor. I know in my heart that he would not wish the yacht club’s reputation or any of its long-standing traditions to be tarnished by what was truly a senseless accident.”

Timothy paused, much the same way a minister would when asking for a moment of silence. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, sensing something big was about to happen.

“To celebrate Oliver Dixon’s vast contributions and help continue the yacht club’s time-honored customs, I am making a special donation in his memory.”

The inimitable Henry now strode forth, bearing in his arms a large wooden box. Turning to face the crowd, Henry paused for a moment, then slowly lifted the lid.

Catching the gleam from the overhead chandelier, a silver pistol glinted from its cradle of plush red velvet.

There was a hush at first, an initial shock, as a visceral reaction swept through the crowd. They were surprised, slightly stunned. Then a smattering of applause broke out among several of the men standing near the front. The applause began to build steadily until, finally, almost everyone had politely joined in.

“You were right,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia, “it was a shocker.”

But Theodosia had turned to face the crowd, and her eyes were busily scanning faces.

She caught the look of initial shock, then supreme unhappiness that spread across Doe’s young face.

Ford Cantrell, pressed up against the back wall, retained a mild smile that seemed to barely waver. But Theodosia had caught a spark of something else behind Ford’s carefully arranged public face: curiosity. Ford Cantrell had taken in the entire scenario and was trying to figure out exactly what was going on, what con was being run.

Booth Crowley’s sullen countenance bobbed among the crowd like an angry balloon. He had applauded perfunctorily but seemed nervous and distracted. His wife, Beatrix, at his side, maintained the look of mild bemusement she’d worn all night.

And Billy Manolo, looking like an angry rebel in his black T-shirt among a sea of dinner jackets and tuxedos, kept an insolent smirk on his face.

“What kind of pistol is it?” asked a young man at the front of the crowd. His eyes shone brightly, and he seemed pleased with himself for asking such a bold question.

Timothy’s grin was both terrifying and curiously satisfying. “A Scottish regimental pistol. Manufactured by Isaac Bissell of Birmingham, England. See the engraved RHR? Stands for Royal Highland Regiment.”

Delaine stood nearby, fanning herself nervously. “Is it loaded?” she asked with a mixture of alarm and fascination.

“Of course,” said Timothy, hefting the weapon in one hand and pointing it toward the ceiling. “The cartridge is a traditional hand-rolled cartridge, loose powder and a round ball wrapped in thin, brown paper. It was crafted in the British tradition by Lucas Clay, one of the foremost munitions experts in the South today.” Timothy held the pistol aloft for a moment, then put it reverently back in its box.