“I see what you mean,” said Giovanni. “Oliver was a truly brilliant and gifted man. The ideas he was bringing to Grapevine would have helped revolutionize how people use PDAs.” He paused. “Or so I’m told. I, unfortunately, function at a relatively low technology level. The fax machine is about the most I can manage,” he added ruefully.
“But it sounds like there was a tremendous amount at stake,” said Theodosia. “Competition in business has been known to trigger volatile deeds. A fearful competitor, angry supplier, skittish investor... any one of them could have resented Oliver Dixon mightily.”
“Highly doubtful,” said Giovanni. “As you may or may not know, Booth Crowley was Grapevine’s major underwriter, and he’s known to have an impeccable reputation around here.”
“I’m sure he does,” said Theodosia, wondering if Giovanni had also witnessed Booth Crowley’s over-the-top display of anger yesterday. “However,” she continued, “that doesn’t mean someone didn’t have it in personally for Oliver Dixon.”
Giovanni’s face clouded. “I suppose you could be right,” he conceded.
“Too bad about the disturbance yesterday.”
“Pardon?” said Giovanni. He’d turned his gaze toward the painting he’d indicated had reminded him so much of Theodosia.
“At the funeral. The somewhat ugly scene between Booth Crowley and a fellow named Billy Manolo. Do you know him? Billy, I mean?”
“No, not really. Well, only by reputation. Fellow does odd jobs at the yacht club, I believe.”
“Do you think he could have had a grudge against Oliver Dixon?”
“I don’t see how he could have,” said Giovanni in a condescending tone. “I mean, the man was hired help. They didn’t exactly mix on the same social level.”
That’s precisely the reason why Billy Manolo might carry a grudge, Theodosia thought to herself.
Giovanni drew a deep breath, let it out, concentrated on trying to refocus his energy and his smile. “Shall I hold the painting for you?” he asked brightly.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Theodosia.
Chapter 16
“I’ve been watching the weather channel, and it looks like there’s a storm moving in,” said Jory Davis.
“There is,” agreed Theodosia. After five days in New York, Jory had finally phoned her. “It’s been raining all day, and everything just seems to be building in intensity. Something’s definitely brewing out in the mid-Atlantic. I spoke with Drayton earlier, and he’s worried sick that all the flowers will get blown about and smashed. Which means next week’s Garden Fest will be an absolute bust.”
Theodosia was cozied up in her apartment above the tea shop. Even though it was Friday evening, it was far too rainy and miserable to contemplate going out anywhere.
“I’m worried about my boat,” said Jory. “Eldon Cook, one of my sailing buddies, went over to the Isle of Palms a couple days ago and brought it back, so it’s moored at the yacht club now. But if there’s an even worse storm blowing in...”
“What can I do to help?” offered Theodosia. “Could you stop by my office and pick up the second set of keys? I know Eldon locked up the boat, so if you could take the keys to the yacht club and give them to Billy Manolo—”
“Billy Manolo?”
“Yeah,” said Jory, “he works there. He’s a kind of handyman.”
“I know who he is,” replied Theodosia. “I met him yesterday morning. Well, I didn’t actually meet him, I saw him. At Oliver Dixon’s funeral.”
“Of course,” said Jory. “I’d completely forgotten that the funeral was yesterday. How was it?”
“Sad,” said Theodosia. “But nicely done. A lot of his friends stood up and said some wonderful things about him.”
“That’s good,” said Jory. “Oliver deserved it.”
“So take the keys to Billy and have him do what?” continued Theodosia.
“Secure the boat, turn on the bilge pump. Probably check to make sure the sails are stored properly. Your basic hurricane preparedness.”
“You trust this guy to do this?”
“Yeah. Sure I do. It’s his job to do this kind of stuff.” Jory paused. “Is there some problem, Theo? Something I don’t know about?”
“No, of course not. Don’t worry about a thing,” said Theodosia. “I’ll take care of everything. How are things on your end? How are the depositions going?”
Jory sighed. “Slow.”
Theodosia hung up the phone and peered out her kitchen window as rain thudded heavily on the roof and sloshed noisily down drain spouts. She could barely make out the little garden apartment across the cobblestone alley where Haley lived, so strong was the downpour.
Shuddering, she buttoned the top button of her chenille sweater. Charleston was usually engulfed in warm weather by now, and everyone was enjoying a lovely, languid spring before the buildup of summer’s oppressive heat and humidity. But this was a whole different story: nasty weather and a chill Atlantic breeze that seemed to whip right through you.
The teakettle on the stove began its high-pitched, wavering whistle, and Theodosia quickly snatched it from the back burner. Pouring boiling water over a teaspoon of Darjeeling, she let it steep for three minutes in the tiny one-cup teapot. It was funny, she thought, the biggest enemies of tea were air, light, heat, and dampness. And, so often, Charleston’s climate offered up abundant helpings of all of these!
Theodosia retreated to her living room and stretched out on the couch. Earl Grey, already well into his evening nap, lifted his head a few inches, eyed her sleepily, and settled back down.
As Theodosia sipped her tea, she thought about Lizbeth Cantrell, the woman who had implored her for help just a few days ago.
She still didn’t know why she’d promised Lizbeth that she’d try to clear Ford Cantrell’s name. After all, she was the one who’d been suspicious of Ford in the first place.
She supposed it was the connection between Lizbeth Cantrell and her mother that had triggered her answer. The bittersweet flood of memories had been a strange, slightly mind-altering experience.
And, deep down, she knew that she also felt beholden to Lizbeth. In the South, with its curious code of honor, when you were beholden to someone, you helped them out when they needed you. No questions asked.
But what would she do if she couldn’t keep her promise to Lizbeth?
What if more investigating proved that Ford Cantrell really had tampered with that old pistol? Ford was, after all, the one with an extensive gun collection. So he had expertise when it came to antique weapons. And the man had recently turned his plantation into a hunting preserve. She wasn’t exactly sure what that proved, but it was the kind of thing that could carry nasty implications in court.
But Lizbeth had seemed utterly convinced of her brother’s innocence. Then again, Lizbeth was a believer in signs and portents. Like the wreath of coltsfoot. What was it supposed to symbolize again? Oh, yes, justice.
And exactly what justice had Lizbeth been making reference to? Theodosia wondered. Justice for her brother, Ford Cantrell? Or the type of justice that might have already been meted out against Oliver Dixon?
Theodosia stared at the bone china cup that held her tea. She had begun collecting individual coffee, tea, and demitasse cups long before she’d opened the tea shop. She’d found that when she set her table for a dinner party, it was fun to arrange it with mismatched pieces, pairing, for example, a Limoges plate with a Lilique cup and saucer.
Now the information she’d managed to collect so far on the people surrounding Oliver Dixon also seemed like mismatched pieces. But unlike the eclectic table settings her guests often raved over, none of these pieces seemed to fit together.
Theodosia stood, stretched, and tried to shake off the chill. She’d been avoiding turning on the heat—it seemed kind of silly to still be using heat in April—but her apartment felt like it was growing colder by the minute.