Gunpowder Green by Laura Childs

gray.
    â€œDo you have a moment?” the woman asked in a low voice.
    â€œPardon?” 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.”
    â€œYes, hello,” said Theodosia, completely taken aback.
    â€œI saw your name on the marketing committee list,” announced Lizbeth Cantrell as she stuck out her hand. “I was just here for a meeting, too. I’m on the ticket committee.”
    Theodosia accepted Lizbeth Cantrell’s hand as she studied her. What is this all about? she wondered. Had Lizbeth Cantrell somehow gotten wind of the fact that she’d done a little investigating into the Dixon-Cantrell feud? No, couldn’t be. That would lead back to Tidwell, and Tidwell would never divulge a source of information. You’d have to handcuff the man and beat it out of him. Then what did Lizbeth Cantrell want?
    As Lizbeth Cantrell shuffled her feet and ducked her head, Theodosia realized the woman had to be at least six feet tall. Long-boned and angular, she had a face that seemed all cheekbone and jaw.
    â€œCan we talk privately?” Lizbeth Cantrell asked.
    â€œOf course,” agreed Theodosia, finding herself all the more curious about this casual encounter that had no doubt been staged.
    When they’d retreated to one of the conference rooms and pulled the double doors closed behind them, Theodosia studied Lizbeth Cantrell. All the qualities that made her brother, Ford Cantrell, tall and good-looking seemed to work against Lizbeth Cantrell. She was obviously older than her brother and appeared far more subdued and faded, as though her red hair had somehow leached all color and emotion from her.
    Truth be known, Lizbeth Cantrell was a woman who was both plain and plainspoken, at her happiest when she was whelping a litter of puppies or crashing through the woods atop a good horse.
    â€œYou’re a smart woman,” began Lizbeth Cantrell. “A businesswoman. That makes you a breed apart from a lot of ladies.”
    â€œThank you . . . I think,” said Theodosia. “But what do—”
    Lizbeth Cantrell held up a hand. “This isn’t easy for me,” she said. “I’m not used to asking for help.”
    â€œYou want my help?” said Theodosia. This conversation was getting stranger by the minute, she decided.
    â€œI know you were at White Point Gardens last Sunday when Oliver Dixon was shot,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “And I also hear that you know how to track down a murderer.”
    â€œI think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” said Theodosia.
    â€œNo, I don’t,” said Lizbeth Cantrell firmly. “Your aunt Libby told me all about you. Last fall, the police thought maybe the girl who worked in your tea shop was responsible for the death of that man at the Lamplighter Tour. But you stood behind her. You figured it all out.”
    Realization was not dawning quickly for Theodosia. “My aunt Libby told you . . . ? Excuse me, exactly what are you asking me to do?”
    â€œI want you to help clear my brother’s name,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “He didn’t tamper with that old pistol. Folks just think he might have because he acts so crazy most of the time. And because he collects guns and likes to hunt. But I know Ford is a good man, an honest man. He’s no killer.”
    Let’s not be so hasty, thought Theodosia. It was, after all, Ford and Lizbeth’s great-great-grandfather, Jeb Cantrell, who shot Stuart Dixon to death back in 1892 and set the Dixon-Cantrell feud in motion.
    On the other hand, even though Ford Cantrell had looked awfully suspicious at first, Theodosia wasn’t so sure blame should be laid entirely at his feet. Doe was fast earning a place on her list of suspects, too. And Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and