Free Gunpowder Green by Laura Childs

Tidwell’s words could be spare and pared down when he wanted them to be.
    â€œDo you know much about antique pistols?” she asked him.
    He looked thoughtful. “Not really. Obviously, our ballistics people are taking a look at it, but their forte, as one might imagine, really lies in modern weapons.”
    But I know an expert, thought Theodosia. And I just might take a chance on talking to him.
    Tidwell seemed to contemplate helping himself to a third pastry, then thought better of it. “Ah well.” He struggled to his feet, brushed a fine sheen of granulated sugar from his jacket lapels. “Time to be off. Thank you for your kind invitation and the lovely tea.”
    And he was out the door, just like that.
    Theodosia gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the back of the tea shop. “Drayton,” she called over her shoulder, “is Timothy Neville in town? The symphony was invited to perform in Savannah. Do you know if he’s back?”
    â€œHe’s back.” Drayton popped his head through the curtains. “I spoke with Timothy yesterday.”
    â€œOh,” was all Theodosia said. Contemplating a visit with Timothy Neville and actually talking to Timothy Neville were two different things.
    â€œDo you think he still hates me for suspecting him of poisoning that real estate developer?” she asked.
    â€œNonsense,” said Drayton. “Timothy Neville doesn’t hate you; he hates everyone. Timothy has always been an equal-opportunity curmudgeon. Don’t give his ill humor a second thought.”

CHAPTER 7

    TIMOTHY NEVILLE WAS going to celebrate his eightieth birthday next month. But he wasn’t about to spill the beans to the wags in the historic district. No sir, his DOB had long been a hot topic of conversation, and he wasn’t going to spoil the fun now. Some folks put him at eighty-five; others kindly deducted ten years.
    What did it matter?
    He was in excellent physical condition except for a touch of arthritis in his hands. And that came from playing the violin these many years and bothered him only when the temperature dipped below fifty degrees.
    Fact was, he had outlived two of his doctors. Now he rarely even bothered with doctors. He had Henry, his butler, take his blood pressure twice a day, and he swallowed a regimen of supplements that included ginkgo biloba, coenzyme 10, choline, and vitamins B 1 , B 6 , C, and E.
    True, he had made a few concessions in his diet, switching from predominantly red meat to fish and from bourbon to wine. He still smoked an Arturo Fuente cigar occasionally but, more and more, that was becoming a rare treat.
    Genetics. Timothy Neville chalked it all up to genetics. His mother had lived to ninety and had taken to her bed only on the day prior to her death. Her ancestors, most of whom dated back to the original Huguenots who fled religious persecution in France during the mid-1600s, had been a determined and hardy lot. They had endured the hardships of an ocean voyage, worked tirelessly to help colonize Charles Town, fought off the greedy English crown, then managed to survive the War Between the States. Today, his ancestors were numbered among the founding fathers of Charleston and considered social aristocracy.
    Timothy Neville smiled to himself as he studied the landscape painting he held in his hands. It had been painted in the late thirties by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, a watercolorist famed for her moody renditions of low-country rice plantations. The piece had sustained some damage. One corner had been gnawed by insects, and a brown splotch of water damage shot through the sky. The painting hadn’t been preserved in acid-free paper, either, so it was slightly faded. It would take considerable conservation skills to restore the little watercolor, but the piece was well worth it. Huger Smiths were few and far between these days, and most people who held one in their possession preferred to sell