On the other hand, maybe the person hadn’t been in his right mind. Last night’s peeper could have been angry, worried, or just frantically curious about someone who’d been attending the mystery tea.
Theodosia frowned and, just above her eyebrows, tiny lines creased her fair skin. Then she made a hard right, jouncing onto County Road 6, and her facial muscles relaxed. She was suddenly engulfed in a tangle of forest, a multihued tapestry of green.
Years ago, more than 150 thousand low-country acres had served as prime rice-growing country, producing the creamy short-grain rice that had been Carolina gold. Fields had alternately been flooded and drained as seasons changed and the cycle of planting, growing, and harvesting took place. Remnants of old rice dikes and canals were still visible in some places, green humps and gentle indentations overgrown now by creeping vines of Carolina jessamine and enormous hedges of azaleas.
Many of these rice fields had also reverted to swampland, providing ideal habitat for ducks, pheasants, and herons. And over the years, hurricanes and behemoth storm surges, the most recent wrought by Hurricane Hugo in 1989, had forged new courses in many of the low-country creeks and streams.
As a child visiting her aunt Libby, Theodosia had explored many of the low-country’s tiny waterways in a bateau, or flat-bottomed boat. Poling her way along, she had often dabbled a fishing line into the water and, when luck was with her, returned home with a nice redfish or jack crevalle.
“Aunt Libby!” Theodosia waved wildly at the small, silver-haired woman who stood on the crest of the hill gazing toward a sparkling pond.
“You’ve brought the good weather with you,” said Libby Revelle as she greeted her niece. “And none too soon. Hello there, Earl Gray.” She reached down and patted the dog, who spun excitedly in circles. “Come to tree my poor possums?”
Libby Revelle, who loved all manner of beast and bird, spent much of her time feeding wild birds and setting out cracklins and pecan meal for the raccoons, foxes, possums, and rabbits that lived in the swamps and pine forests around her old plantation, Cane Ridge. Of course, when Earl Grey paid a visit, the critters she had so patiently coaxed and cajoled suddenly went into hiding and all her goodwill gestures went up in smoke.
Theodosia put her arm around Libby as they started toward the main house. Theodosia’s father, Macalester Browning, had grown up here at Cane Ridge, and her parents had lived here when they were first married.
Built in 1835 near Horlbeck Creek, Cane Ridge had been a flourishing rice plantation in its day. Now it was an elegant woodland retreat. With its steeply pitched roof and fanciful peaks and gables, the main house had always reminded Theodosia of a Hansel and Gretel cottage, although the style was technically known as Gothic Revival.
“Tell me the news,” coaxed Libby as they settled into creaking, oversized wicker chairs and looked out toward the woods from the broad piazza that stretched around three sides of the house. “How are Drayton and Haley?” Libby asked. “And did you ever decide to hire that sweet little bookkeeper?”
“Drayton and Haley are fine,” said Theodosia. “Like oil and water sometimes, but they’re delightful and caring and keep things humming. Our new bookkeeper, Miss Dimple, is an absolute whiz. What a load off my mind since she’s been handling payables and receivables. Why did I ever think I could handle the books myself?”
“Because, my dear, you believe you are capable of handling just about anything. In most cases, you can, but when it comes to the business of accounting, I think that’s best left to an expert.”
Theodosia smiled to herself. When her mother passed away, Aunt Libby, newly widowed, had stepped in and helped with so many things in the realm of child rearing. One of those was homework. Theodosia had excelled in subjects such as English and composition and history but had foundered at math. Algebra was gut-wrenching, geometry a foreign puzzle. Libby had seen her consternation and struggle with numbers and encouraged her gently. But Theodosia had never really gained complete mastery in that area.
“You heard about Oliver Dixon,” said Theodosia.
“I’ve heard about Oliver Dixon from the horse’s mouth,” said Libby.
“What do you mean?”
“Lizbeth Cantrell stopped by this past week,” said Libby. “Told me that her brother was being questioned, asked lots of questions about you.”
“I figured as much,” said Theodosia.
“Did she ask you to help?” asked Libby.
Theodosia sighed. “Yes.”
“Are you going to?”
“I told her I’d try. I’m not sure there’s much I can do, though,” said Theodosia.
Libby leaned forward in her chair and grasped Theodosia’s hands. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “You have a relationship with the investigating officer.”
“You mean Tidwell?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it a relationship,” said Theodosia, who considered their standoffish treatment of each other as bordering on adversarial.
“Then call it a nodding acquaintance,” said Libby. “But you are in a position to affect and impact his thinking.”
“I suppose so,” said Theodosia, not quite convinced.
Libby smiled. “Good.” She released Theodosia’s hands and sat back in her chair. “Then do what you do best. Nose about, ask questions, trust in your instincts. You’re good at solving mysteries, Theodosia. We all know that.”
“And if Ford Cantrell really is guilty?” asked Theodosia.
“Then he’s guilty,” said Libby. “But at least you tried. At least you put forth your best efforts. I know Lizbeth would appreciate that.”
Theodosia stared toward the pond. With the sun a great golden orb in the sky now, it caught each gentle ripple and cast diamonds across the water. Around the edge of the pond, bright green fronds of saw grass waved gently in breezes that carried just a hint of salt.
Theodosia shifted her gaze to the left of the pond, to the small family cemetery. Dogwoods were beginning to bloom, and crape myrtle poked over the crumbling stone wall that surrounded the small plot. Her mother and father both rested here, under the ancient live oak that spread its sheltering branches above them. Her mother had died when she was eight, her father when she was twenty. The sorrow she had once felt had long been replaced by gentle sadness, tempered with warm memories that would always be there, always live on.
“Lizbeth Cantrell was around when Mother was so sick, wasn’t she?” said Theodosia.
“Indeed she was,” said Libby.
“I’d forgotten a lot of that, but now it’s coming back to me.”
They sat and watched as Earl Grey emerged from the woods, plunked himself down in a sunny spot, and set about chewing at a clutch of cockleburs that clung stubbornly to his left shoulder. There was no need for the two of them to talk. Over the years, they’d said it all. They were all the other had; there were no other relatives. They knew in their hearts how important they were to each other and cherished that knowledge. Their kind of love didn’t require words.
Finally, Libby pushed herself up from her chair. At seventy-two, she still had a lithe figure and proud carriage, still walked with a bounce in her step.
“I think it’s time we thought about lunch. Margaret Rose baked cranberry bread yesterday, and I threw together some chicken salad earlier. Why not fix trays and eat out here where we can enjoy the view? It’ll be ever so much nicer.”
Theodosia hit the wooden bridge on Rutledge Road much too hard, almost jouncing her and Earl Grey out of their seats.
“Sorry, fella,” she murmured as the dog looked up with questioning eyes. Earl Grey had played and chased and worried critters for the better part of three hours and then fallen asleep on the backseat, which Theodosia had laid flat for this second part of their trip.