“How did you hear about Ford Cantrell?” asked Theodosia.
“Oh, honey, the news is all up and down Church Street. Monica Fischer told me this morning when she stopped by the shop. Then I ran into Dundy Baldwin on the street. Anyway, that Cantrell boy embarrassed us all at the picnic, picking an argument with Oliver Dixon and that handsome cousin of his.”
“Do you know what they were arguing about?” asked Theodosia.
“I don’t know,” said Delaine, waving a hand dismissively, “some silly thing. Fishing, I think. Did you know that Ford Cantrell’s great-uncle ran off with Oliver Dixon’s aunt a long time ago?” Delaine arched her eyebrows with disapproval. “People still talk about that.”
“Do they really?” asked Drayton. “It’s been an awfully long time, and Charleston has had some rousing good scandals since then.”
Delaine leaned forward in anticipation. “Has something else happened I should know about?”
“One fruit and cheese plate, madam.” Haley placed a pink and white bone china plate piled with slices of Camembert, cheddar cheese, grapes, and apple slices in front of Delaine. “Oh, and I was checking E-mails before and printed out this stuff for you,” Haley continued. She thrust a handful of sheets at Theodosia. “I think they’re for you. Some kind of financial profile on Grapevine?” She gave Theodosia a questioning glance.
“Grapevine?” piped up Delaine. “Isn’t that the company Oliver Dixon started? Whatever would you want with financial information? Are you planning a little merger and acquisition we don’t know about, Theodosia?”
“Try this tea, Delaine,” offered Drayton. “It’s a lovely Darjeeling.”
“Why, thank you, Drayton.” Delaine favored him with a dazzling smile as he carefully served her, then she speared a small piece of cheese on her plate and nibbled it delicately. “Oh, this Camembert is heavenly, simply melts in your mouth. I don’t even want to think about butterfat content!”
“Theodosia, I am so sorry,” said Haley. She shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and her face betrayed her anguish. “Mentioning that E-mail in front of Delaine like that...I just didn’t think!”
“It’s not your fault. You were just trying to be helpful,” said Theodosia as she slid a stack of papers into her attaché case. She wasn’t pleased about the incident either, but what could she do? Haley was usually very careful and discreet. This had been a slipup. It was just too bad the slipup had occurred in front of Delaine Dish.
On the other hand, Drayton had rushed in to distract Delaine by offering her a cup of Darjeeling. Maybe he had been successful. She’d just have to wait and see.
“I feel like such a jerk,” said Haley.
“Don’t,” said Theodosia. “It could’ve happened to any one of us.”
“You really think so? No, you’re just saying that.”
“Haley,” said Theodosia. “Enough. Don’t make yourself crazy over this.”
“I was trying to save you some time by printing out E-mails, and I’d just been skimming this article,” replied Haley. She held up a section of the Charleston Post and Courier for Theodosia to see.
“Which article is that?”
“Well, it’s not really an article,” amended Haley. “It’s mostly photos from the picnic last Sunday. The Oliver Dixon thing has been in the forefront the last couple of days, so I guess the Post and Courier just now got around to covering the sailboat race. It’s more society gabbing than news. Who was there, what friends were visiting from out of town, that kind of thing.”
Theodosia took the page from Haley and scanned the article. Haley was right; it was soft news, society fluff. “That’s right,” said Theodosia, “they had one of their photographers there to cover the picnic, didn’t they?”
“Yes. Seemed like he took gobs of pictures. Course, they only printed but three of them.”
Theodosia stared at Haley intently. “I sure wish I could take a look at the rest of those photos.”
“You do?”
Theodosia put a hand to her cheek and stroked it absently, thinking. “The photos might, you know, chronicle what happened,” she said slowly. “From what Tidwell says, nobody seemed to see anything out of the ordinary. And nobody’s completely sure how many people handled the pistol once it was removed from its rosewood box.”
Haley was suddenly grinning like a little elf. “Let me try to make up for my little faux pas,” she exclaimed. “Let me see if I can get my friend Jimmy Cardavan to get us a look at the photos. He’s a copy intern there.”
“Really?” asked Theodosia. “How would we do that? Go down there? I have to run out to a Spoleto marketing meeting right now, but maybe we could swing by afterward.”
Haley’s grin stretched wider. “I’ve got a better idea. Let me E-mail Jimmy and see if he’s got access to the Post and Courier’s intranet. If so, he can pull the photos up from their site and send them to us in a pdf format. That way you could look at the photos on your computer and print the ones that interest you. That is, if one or another does interest you.”
“Haley, you’re a genius,” declared Theodosia.
Chapter 11
Spoleto Festival USA was Charleston’s big arts festival, an annual gala event highlighting dance, opera, theater, music, art, and even literary presentations. Beginning each Memorial Day, Spoleto ran for an action-packed two weeks, launching an invasion of visiting directors, dance troupes, and theater companies that comingled with Charleston’s already-strong arts scene and created a rich fusion of performance, visual, and literary arts.
Theodosia had served on Spoleto’s marketing committee for six years. Originally, she’d been “volunteered” by her boss, but after the first year had found the experience so rewarding and enjoyable that she’d stayed on, even after she left the advertising agency.
This year, she’d produced a fast-paced thirty-second TV commercial, using snippets of footage from past events set to a jazz track. Then she negotiated favorable rates with the five commercial TV stations in Charleston, some of the TV stations in Columbia and Greenville, and those in Savannah and Augusta, Georgia, as well. The idea being that Spoleto’s appeal would extend to arts-minded folk in neighboring cities and states as well as those in Charleston.
Now, as Theodosia meandered the broad corridors of the Gibbes Museum of Art, she decided to treat herself to a side trip into a couple of the smaller galleries. She’d arrived about ten minutes early and was, after all, heading in the general direction of the conference room where the marketing committee was scheduled to meet.
In the Asian Gallery, Theodosia studied the exquisite collection of Japanese wood-block prints. Many were by revered masters such as Hiroshige and Hokusai, but there were contemporary prints, too, by new masters such as Mitsuaki and Eiichi. These were artists who played with color, technique, and style, and sought to push the boundaries of Japanese printmaking. Fascinating, she thought, what a lovely, hazy feel they had, almost like twilight in the low country.
Glancing at her watch, Theodosia saw it was almost three o’clock. Hustling out of the Asian Gallery, she turned right and headed down the main corridor. At the entrance to the museum’s administrative offices, she paused to shut off her cell phone, a small courtesy that she wished more people would observe. When she glanced up, a woman was staring at her, a woman with washed-out blue eyes and a frizzle of red hair shot with strands of gray.
“Do you have a moment?” the woman asked in a low voice.
“Pardon?” Theodosia stared quizzically at the woman.
The woman cocked her head to one side. “I’m Lizbeth Cantrell,” she announced bluntly. “And you’re Theodosia Browning.”