Laura Childs: Gunpowder Green

Theodosia slid her teacup across the table, allowing Drayton to pour her a second cup of Nilgiri. “Delaine was saying something about Oliver Dixon launching a high-tech company,” she said.

“Oh, I read about that in the business section,” said Haley.

“Since when do you read the business section?” demanded Drayton.

“Since I decided to pursue an MBA,” said Haley. “I want to run my own business someday. Like Theodosia.” She smiled companionably at Theodosia.

“Haley, I think you’re already a whiz at business,” said Theodosia. “But tell us about this new company of Oliver Dixon’s. And don’t interrupt, Drayton.”

“Yes, dear.” Drayton hunched his shoulders forward, assuming a henpecked attitude, and they all giggled.

“Oliver Dixon had just swung a pile of venture capital money to launch a new company called Grapevine,” said Haley. “You know, as in ‘heard it on the grapevine.’ Anyway, Grapevine is set to manufacture expansion modules for PDAs.”

“Pray tell, what is a PDA?” asked Drayton.

“Personal digital assistant,” explained Haley. She reached into her apron pocket and produced a palm-sized gizmo that looked like a cross between a cell phone and a miniature computer screen. “See, I’ve got one. Mine’s a Palm Pilot. I keep notes and phone numbers and recipes and stuff on it. It even interfaces with my computer at home. According to Business Week , PDAs are the hottest thing. The world is going wireless, and PDAs are the newest techie trend.”

“I don’t like to hear that,” shuddered Drayton. He was a self-proclaimed Luddite who strove to avoid all things technological. Drayton lived in a 160-year-old house that had once been owned by a Civil War surgeon, and he prided himself on maintaining his home in a historically accurate fashion. Drayton may have bowed to convention by having a telephone installed, but he drew the line at cable TV.

“Anyway,” said Haley, “Oliver Dixon received his venture capital from a guy by the name of Booth Crowley. Grapevine was going to produce revolutionary new pager and remote modules that would make certain PDAs even more versatile.”

“Oh my,” said Miss Dimple. She was suddenly following the conversation with great interest.

“What?” asked Theodosia.

“Booth Crowley is a very astute businessman,” said Miss Dimple. “Apparently he doesn’t let a penny escape his grasp unless he’s got a carefully worded contract that his lawyers have put under a microscope. Mr. Dauphine, God rest his soul, was on the Arts Association committee with Booth Crowley and told me the man was extremely mindful of how funds were dispersed.”

Mr. Dauphine had been Miss Dimple’s longtime employer. He had owned the Peregrine Building next door and had passed away last fall, while they were in the middle of trying to solve the mystery of the poisoning at the Lamplighter Tour.

Theodosia nodded. She’d heard about Booth Crowley. Certainly nothing bad, but his business dealings bordered on legendary. He was a very powerful man in Charleston. Besides heading Cherry Tree Investments, one of Charleston’s premier venture capital firms, Booth Crowley sat on the board of directors of the Charleston Symphony Orchestra, the Gibbes Museum of Art, and Charleston Memorial Hospital. He was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

The bell over the door tinkled merrily, and a dozen people suddenly poured into the shop. Haley and Drayton instantly popped up from their seats and swept toward them, intent on getting their visitors seated, settled, and served. Theodosia watched with keen approval as Haley adroitly addressed the group.

“How many? Three of you?” Haley asked. “Why don’t you ladies take this nice table by the window. There’s lots of sunshine today.”

Drayton was just as charming. “Party of five?” he asked. “You’ll like this round table over here. I could even put several teapots on the lazy Susan and do a tea tasting, if you’d like. Now, I’ll be just two shakes, and then I’ll be back with tea and some complimentary biscuits.”

And the rest of the day was off and running at the Indigo Tea Shop.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday, dear.” Miss Dimple put a plump hand on Theodosia’s arm.

“Thank you, Miss Dimple. I’m so glad you’ve been able to help out here at the tea shop. Now that Bethany’s got a job at the museum in Columbia, we’ve been woefully shorthanded.”

“It’s you who deserves the thanks,” said Miss Dimple. “Not everyone would take a chance on a creaky old bookkeeper. Seems like the trend these days is to hire young.”

“Trends don’t concern us here at the tea shop,” said Theodosia warmly. “People do.”

“Bless you, dear,” said Miss Dimple. And she toddled out the door, a barely five-foot-tall, plump little elf of a woman who was still sharp as a tack when it came to tabulating a column of numbers.

“Theodosia.” Drayton had a teapot filled with jasmine tea in one hand and a teapot of Ceylon silver tips in the other. “As soon as we get our customers taken care of, I need to speak with you.”

Theodosia glanced out over the tables. Their customers had already settled in and were munching benne wafers and casting admiring glances at the shelves that held cozy displays of tea tins, jellies, china teapots, and tea candles.

“What’s up?” she asked.

He cocked his head to one side and gave a conspiratorial roll of his eyes. “The mystery tea,” he told her in a quavering, theatrical voice.

Theodosia grinned. Drayton was certainly in his element planning all his special-event teas. But this mystery tea had really seemed to capture his imagination. It would appear that Drayton, the straitlaced history buff and Heritage Society parliamentarian, had a playful side, after all.

Anyway, Theodosia decided, Drayton certainly had an astute business side. His mystery tea was already shaping up as a success. Counting the two calls they’d received earlier this morning, they now had twelve confirmed reservations for Saturday night. And Drayton had audaciously put a price of forty-five dollars per person on the event.

“Okay, Drayton,” she said, “I’ll be in my office.”

Theodosia disappeared behind the panels of heavy green velvet that separated the tea shop from the back area, where the tiny kitchen and her even tinier office were located.

Sitting at her antique wooden desk, thumbing through a catalog from Woods & Winston, one of her suppliers, Theodosia had a hard time keeping her mind on carafes and French tea presses. Her thoughts kept returning to yesterday afternoon, to Oliver Dixon’s demise and to her subsequent conversation with Burt Tidwell.

She had taunted Tidwell a bit with her crack about rival yacht clubs. She’d been testing him, trying to ascertain what his suspicions had been, for she knew for a fact that, Burt Tidwell being Burt Tidwell, he’d certainly harbor a few thoughts of his own.

But had she really thought that members from one yacht club would plot against another? No, not really. She knew the Charleston Yacht Club and the Compass Key Yacht Club competed against each other all the time. And relations had always been friendly between the clubs. Besides the Isle of Palms race, they also ran the Intercoastal Regatta and some kind of event in fall that was curiously dubbed the Bourbon Cup.

What she was interested in knowing more about was Oliver Dixon and his new start-up company, Grapevine.

Then there was the obviously intoxicated Ford Cantrell, who had staged a somewhat ugly scene in front of Oliver Dixon and Giovanni Loard. What had that been about?

Haley had mentioned something earlier about her looking for a mystery to solve. Perhaps she had found her mystery.