Free Gunpowder Green by Laura Childs Page B

Neville shrugged imperceptibly.
    â€œWell, it might interest you,” said Theodosia out of frustration, “that I have discovered a few clues of my own on the Heritage Society’s Web site.”
    Timothy just stared at her.
    â€œThat’s right,” Theodosia continued. “Thanks to old newspaper clippings that reside on your Web site, I’ve discovered a few things about the Dixon-Cantrell feud.”
    â€œGood for you,” said Timothy. He hadn’t meant to sound flippant and harsh, but it came out that way. He knew he was a crusty old man, prone to caustic remarks and pronouncements, and he regretted his sarcastic tone instantly.
    But his words cut Theodosia to the quick and made her spin on her heel.
    It’s definitely time to leave, she decided. Timothy Neville is not going to give me one iota of cooperation.
    She had already retreated through the doorway when Timothy began to speak. “Miss Browning, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you might possibly have the right church but are looking in the wrong pew.” His words, meant to appease, tumbled out in a rush. He’d also spoken so softly that Theodosia was barely able to register all his words. It had been like listening to a faulty record or tape and catching only fragments.
    â€œWhat?” Theodosia asked, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.
    But Timothy Neville had turned back to his painting.

CHAPTER 8

    â€œ DID YOU FIND out what you wanted?” Drayton asked. After Theodosia returned to the tea shop, he had waited the better part of an hour before approaching her. She’d retired to her office immediately, and he’d heard her tapping away on her laptop computer. Probably working on some marketing ideas. Between the shop and the Web site and the specialty teas and her new idea for tea bath products, Theodosia was awfully busy. And a little distracted, too. “You were gone long enough,” Drayton added.
    Theodosia leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly. “The meeting with Timothy didn’t last all that long. But I was so darned upset afterward that I had to take a cooldown stroll behind Saint Philip’s.”
    The cemetery behind Saint Philip’s was one of those hidden places in Charleston, a spot not too many tourists found their way to. Filled with fountains and sculpture and fascinating old tombstones, it was a quiet, restful place where one could usually find solace.
    â€œTimothy said something to upset you?” asked Drayton. He knew Timothy was old and crusty, but he also knew the man could be handled. Of course, you had to use kid gloves.
    â€œTimothy Neville hates me,” declared Theodosia. “I’m sure of it. He gave me that hard-eyed, calculating look that just seems to pierce right through you. I know all of you folks on the board at the Heritage Society think he does a masterful job, raising money and helping save old buildings by securing landmark status for them, but I don’t see him as anything but rude and dismissive.” She put her elbows on her desk and dropped her chin in her hands. “That’s it,” she said. “It’s as simple as that. He hates me.”
    â€œTheodosia, I think you’re being paranoid,” said Drayton.
    â€œI’m not. He really is an abominable little man.”
    â€œWho can also be quite charming,” argued Drayton. “Besides, if Timothy hated you, he wouldn’t have invited you to his Garden Fest party.”
    Charleston’s annual Garden Fest started next week, a weeklong event where more than three dozen backyard gardens in the historic district were open for public viewing. Many would-be garden enthusiasts had been working on their gardens for years, adding fountains and cultivating prize flowers in an attempt to get on the venue. But it was a select number that were chosen every year. And it was a great honor. Of course, Timothy Neville’s courtyard