Laura Childs: Gunpowder Green

“Sir.” Officer Tandy handed a pair of latex gloves to Tidwell.

Wordlessly, Tidwell accepted the gloves, then worked the tight rubber over his chubby hands. He leaned down and began collecting the remnants of the pistol.

As Theodosia watched him, her normally unlined brow suddenly puckered into a frown. “You’re going to have those pieces examined by a ballistics expert, aren’t you?” she asked.

Burt Tidwell’s hooded eyes blinked slowly, like a reptile contemplating its prey.

Tidwell dropped two pieces of the pistol into a plastic bag, handed the task off to Tandy, who hovered nearby. Then he hooked a large paw under Theodosia’s elbow and began leading her away. Theodosia was aware of pressure on her arm and the crunch of tiny white seashells underfoot. And two hundred sets of eyes watching her.

When they were a good forty paces from the shore and Oliver Dixon’s body, they stopped under a giant live oak tree and faced each other. Spanish moss waved in lacy, gray green banners above them. Warm, languid breezes off the bay caressed Theodosia’s face, reminding her it was still Sunday afternoon. But the day no longer felt glorious.

“Tell me.” Tidwell cocked an eye toward her. “Are you always filled with such suspicion and unbridled skepticism?”

“Of course not,” said Theodosia defensively. Lord, she thought, here we go again. Burt Tidwell has to be the most obstinate, obtuse cuss that ever roamed the face of this earth.

Last October, during the Lamplighter Tour, Tidwell had kept them all on pins and needles for weeks with his suspicions and vexing accusations when Bethany Shepherd, one of Haley’s friends who filled in occasionally at the tea shop, had come under scrutiny. Of course, Tidwell had been unapologetic, even after Theodosia had been the one to discover that it was Samantha Rabathan and not Bethany who had perpetrated the deadly deed.

That death in the garden of the Avis Melbourne Home had appeared accidental, too. Now Theodosia had learned to be a bit more skeptical and exercise a modicum of caution.

She also knew Tidwell could be an irritant or an ally. Today, she wasn’t sure which one he’d be. That coin was still up in the air.

“Miss Browning,” began Tidwell, “I have already spoken with one of the yacht club’s board members. He is an attorney of note and is of the opinion that this was simply an unfortunate accident.”

“Did he tell you where the pistol is usually kept?” pressed Theodosia.

“I presume at the yacht club,” replied Tidwell. His smile was the kind tolerant adults often reserve for children. “Where it has always been kept under lock and key.”

“Which club?” asked Theodosia.

There was a sharp intake of breath as Tidwell hesitated.

Aha, Theodosia thought to herself, he doesn’t know.

“There are two yacht clubs,” Theodosia informed Tidwell. She hesitated a moment before she continued. “And they are rivals.”

Teakettles chirped and hissed, and the aroma of freshly brewed teas permeated the air: a delicately fruited Nilgiri, a sweet Assam, and a spicy black Yunnan from southwest China. Sunlight streamed in through the antique panes, bathing the interior of the tea shop in warm light and lending a glow to the wooden floors and battered hickory tables that were, somehow, just the right backdrop for the dazzling array of teapots that ranged from Cordon Bleu white porcelain to fanciful hand-painted floral ceramics.

Haley had been up early as usual, working wonders in the oversized professional oven they’d managed to squeeze into the back of the shop. Now benne wafers, blueberry scones, and lemon and sour cream muffins cooled on wooden racks. When the tea shop’s double doors were propped open, as they so often were, Drayton swore the tantalizing aromas could be enjoyed up and down the entire length of Church Street.

By nine A.M., the day’s first customers, shopkeepers from Robillard Booksellers, Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, and other nearby businesses, had already stopped by for their cup of tea and breakfast sweet. All had pressed Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley for details on the terrible events of yesterday, shaking their heads with regret, murmuring about the dreadful turn of events, and wasn’t it a shame about the young widow, Doe.

Then there was a lull before the next wave of customers arrived. These were usually regulars from the historic district, who were wont to stop by for tea and a quiet perusal of the morning’s newspaper as well as tourists who arrived via horse-drawn carriages and colorful jitneys.

It was during this lull that Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley had gathered around one of the round tables to sip tea and rehash yesterday’s tragic events. They’d been joined by Miss Dimple, their elderly bookkeeper, who’d dropped by to pick up last week’s receipts.

“And the pistol just exploded?” asked Miss Dimple with awe as the story unfolded once more for her benefit.

“With a cataclysmic crash,” said Drayton. “Then the poor man simply collapsed. But then, what else would you expect? I’m sure he was killed instantly.”

“And nobody did anything,” added Haley, “except Theodosia. She ran over and checked the poor man out. Oh, and that nice antique dealer, Giovanni Loard, called the paramedics.”

“Good girl,” said Miss Dimple, glancing at Theodosia approvingly. “But you must still feel a bit shaken up.”

“A little,” admitted Theodosia. “It was a terrible accident.”

Miss Dimple leaned back in her chair and took a sip of Assam. “Are they sure it was an accident?” she asked.

Haley frowned and gave an involuntary shudder. “Miss Dimple,” she said, “you just gave me chills.”

“What makes you say that, Miss Dimple?” asked Theodosia.

“Well,” she said slowly, “it seems like they’ve been using that old pistol for as long as I can remember. When I was a little girl, back in the forties, my daddy used to take us down to White Point Gardens to watch sailboat races. Not just the Isle of Palms race, either. Lots of different races. They used that same old pistol back then, and there was never a problem. Not until now, anyway.”

“That’s what Burt Tidwell said, too,” remarked Theodosia. “But he said you could never tell about those old things. One day they just backfire.”

Mrs. Dimple smiled, apologetic that her idle speculation had caused Haley such consternation. “Well then, you see. An expert like that, he’s probably right.”

“I think Theodosia wants to solve another mystery,” piped up Haley.

“Haley,” Theodosia protested, “I’ve got better things to do than run around Charleston investigating what was undoubtedly an accidental death.”

Drayton peered over his half glasses owlishly and studied Theodosia. “Oh you do ,” he said. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

Theodosia’s bright eyes flashed. “I’m merely curious, as I’m sure you all are. It isn’t every day someone as prominent as Oliver Dixon dies right before our very eyes.”

“Before four hundred eyes,” added Haley. “If someone had murder in mind, it was cleverly done.”

“What do you mean?” asked Drayton.

“Too many witnesses is what she means,” said Theodosia. “With so many sets of eyes, you’ll get endless versions of the story, none of which will jibe.”

“Now it’s you girls who are giving me chills,” said Miss Dimple, who had set down her pencil and closed the black leather ledger she’d been peering into.

“But does that really track?” asked Drayton. “Oliver Dixon was fairly well liked, right? He wasn’t a scoundrel or a carpetbagger or anything like that.”