Dragonwell Dead

13

“Good heavens, Drayton,” squawked Delaine, “those Eternal Peace bouquets belong over here!” Delaine Dish, looking both fashionable and sedate in a black knit suit and patent leather stilettos gestured toward two wicker plant stands and grimaced unhappily. “These dusty little tables are absolutely ghastly,” she complained as she muscled them around and then repositioned them. “But I suppose there isn’t time to make a change.”

“Hardly,” said Drayton. He was dressed in a severely tailored double-breasted charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and black bow tie. His black shoes carried a high-gloss shine. Drayton could have gone anywhere in the world, Maxim’s in Paris, the Metropolitan Opera in New York, the Breakers in Palm Beach, and looked smashing. But, today, his sad and tired eyes testified to the fact that he was helping prepare for a funeral.

Delaine frowned and fidgeted with two large bouquets. “Oh well, I suppose the spill of Rubrum lilies, roses, and gladiolas will hide the really nasty parts.”

Theodosia stood in the nave of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist and watched as Drayton and Delaine put finishing touches on everything. The imposing Gothic church with its vaulted ceiling and elegant columns looked magnificent as always. Candles flickered, light streamed in through stained-glass windows, saints peered down benevo-lently from their lofty windows in the clerestory.

There was a reason Charleston had been dubbed the “holy city.” One hundred eighty-one church spires, steeples, crosses, and bell towers dominated its skyline. It was a fine procession of churches that represented a vast diversity of worshipers and served as a 300-year-old testament to the American ideals of religious freedom.

Theodosia squared her shoulders and stifled a yawn. She’d woken up early this morning. Around five o’clock, before the sun was even up. Unable to sleep any longer, she’d lain in bed fretting about her so-called investigation that seemed to be going nowhere. And dreading Mark’s funeral, fearful that Angie Congdon had reached her limits as to the amount of tragedy one person could endure. From the fire yesterday that had reduced the Featherbed House to ruins, to her husband’s funeral this morning—how much could she take?

But the human spirit is resilient, thought Theodosia. And the Lord only doles out as much as we can handle, right?

At the same time, Theodosia worried that there were now two separate investigations going on. Sheriff Billings’s homicide investigation and the Charleston Fire Department’s inquiry over yesterday’s fire.

Theodosia was nervous that between the questioning, suppositions, clues, and paperwork, the two camps might get their lines crossed. Or, worse yet, not communicate at all.

So first thing this morning, Theodosia had taken it upon herself to telephone Sheriff Billings. He’d already heard from the fire department, so that had been a step in the right direction. Maybe, Theodosia decided, if Mark’s death and yesterday’s fire were somehow connected, someone would come up with a solid motive. Or at least a theory.

“What do you think, Theodosia?” called Delaine.

She’d moved the bouquets a fourth time, trying, Theodosia supposed, to achieve some sort of thematic design.

“Nice,” called Theodosia. Her footsteps echoed in the great cathedral as she advanced down the aisle toward Delaine and Drayton. “Good.” What could she say? There wasn’t much of anything to say. It was a sad day and this was a funeral for Mark.

“I’m hoping Bobby Wayne arrives a little early,” said Drayton. “Then we can do a microphone test instead of putting him up there to do his eulogy cold. There’s nothing worse than being lulled by the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, then being jolted out of your pew by a buzz and an ugly hum from a bad PA system.”

Delaine reached into her black silk clutch and pulled out a pair of black gloves. “Bobby Wayne will be coming with the Loveday and Luxor contingent. At least that’s what he told me last night.”

“You two were together last night?” asked Theodosia.

Delaine hunched her shoulders and gave a tiny giggle. It sounded incongruous in the solemnity of the church. “Date night,” she whispered. “First we had dinner at Harbor Oaks over near the marina. Grilled grouper with huckleberry and orange chutney and the most glorious Pouilly-Fuissé. Then we sipped snifters of Armagnac brandy in their cigar room, after which we went on to the Gibbes Museum to hear a string quartet.” She waved one hand and her gloves fluttered airily. “It was a small charity function. Very chi-chi. Oh,” Delaine said, almost as an afterthought, “and when I got home I called Angie Congdon.”

“Where’s Angie staying?” asked Theodosia. When she, Drayton, and Haley finally left late yesterday, Angie hadn’t figured out what her plans would be.

“She’s holed up with her sister, Gwyn, down the street at the Bogard Inn,” said Delaine. “I guess everyone down there really had to hustle. Most of the folks flying in from out of town for the funeral today had planned to stay at the Featherbed House.”

“A dreadfully sad change of plans, eh?” said Drayton coming up behind them.

“Afraid so,” said Delaine. She spun on her stilettos and surveyed the interior of the church. “But everything here looks wonderful. If we just move the Remembrance memorial wreath over to this side and, oh . . . I almost forgot about the Timeless Tribute casket spray. Don’t you think we should . . .”

“Wait for the casket to arrive,” said a somber Drayton.

As mourners filed in, filling the front pews and then spilling into the middle and back sections of the church, Theodosia and Drayton slipped into seats on the side aisle. Finally, a cousin of Angie Congdon, a tall man with a sad basset hound face, stepped up to the front of the church and gave a knowing nod to the organist. The opening tones of Mozart’s Requiem suddenly thundered in the vast recess of the church. Then, six pallbearers in dark suits wheeled the casket down the aisle. When they arrived at the front of the church, they seesawed it back and forth for a moment, then positioned it horizontally.

Twisting around in her seat, Theodosia studied the people who were already seated. Lots of people from the historic district had shown up, friends and neighbors who knew and cared for Angie and Mark. And there was Leah Shalimar, looking sedate in a navy suit, seated just behind Bobby Wayne. And way in the back of the church, Harlan Noble sat folded up like a praying mantis.

Then Angie walked in, looking small and tentative within her protective contingent of relatives. Once everyone had taken their seats, Delaine approached the large mahogany casket and placed a spray of long-tailed purple-pink Machu Picchu orchids on top. Then she took her seat with the rest of the mourners.

It was a traditional service, filled with fine words that should have brought great comfort and solace. But Theodosia found little consolation. Like most everyone close to her, she was convinced that Mark’s death had been a wrongful death. And that justice was still waiting to be served. Swiveling in her seat once again, she surreptitiously scanned the crowd, wondering if anyone among them had come here today with a guilt-laden heart.

No, everyone looks very solemn and sad.

Drayton’s shoulder gently touched hers. “Bobby Wayne,” he said in a low murmur.

Slowly, as though moving with great effort, Bobby Wayne Loveday took his place at the podium. He had been Mark’s friend and employer. And lately, Angie’s confidant and shoulder to cry on. It seemed fitting that Bobby Wayne deliver the final eulogy.

Bobby Wayne spoke eloquently, but with a warmth and down-home charm. He praised Mark, whom he called a dear and kind man, and wept openly when he spoke about Angie and Mark’s marriage of twenty years. His words were heartfelt and touching.

Bobby Wayne finished up by reciting the poem “If Death Is Kind,” by Sara Teasdale.

“Perfect,” breathed Theodosia.

“Magnificent choice,” whispered Drayton, pulling out a hanky to wipe his red-rimmed eyes.

The organ sounded a single note, then broke into the hymn “Abide with Me,” as Bobby Wayne walked solemnly back to his seat. Theodosia’s moist eyes followed him as he slid into a pew next to Delaine and fumbled for her hand.

Theodosia had been completely wowed by Bobby Wayne’s choice of poems. The Teasdale poem was short, poignant, and contained some amazingly appropriate phrasing. References to honeysuckle, resounding beaches, and the gentle thunder of the sea seemed like tailor-made descriptors of Charleston!

As the final organ hymn concluded, a short blessing was bestowed on Mark Congdon’s casket. Then Drayton rose from his seat and walked to the front of the cathedral.

“As you know,” began Drayton, in an oratorical style that had been honed from dozens of lectures given at the Heritage Society, “we have invited all of you to place a flower on Mark’s casket in tribute to his great passion for orchids and gardening. As the pallbearers wheel him out, please feel free to come to the center aisle and place your flower gently atop the casket. Then we shall all proceed to Magnolia Cemetery for brief prayers and the final interment.”

Theodosia watched as Drayton placed a spray of fire orchids atop Mark’s casket. There were at least two dozen flowers on the vine-like stem, yellow-orange blossoms dappled with bright orange spots.

Then the six pallbearers snapped to attention and took their place alongside Mark’s casket. They wheeled it around, hesitated, then slowly made their way down the center aisle. A gentle rustle ran through the crowd and then arms were suddenly outstretched. Lilies, single roses, magnolias, stems of dogwood, and every kind of flower imaginable were placed on top of Mark’s casket.

Theodosia smiled through a veil of tears. It was as though the heavens had opened and flowers were raining down.

She watched as the casket, now a veritable bower of flowers, slowly approached the doors at the back of the church. Then, a small figure rose unsteadily, hesitated, then placed a flower and ribbon-entwined wreath on Mark’s coffin.

Fayne Hamilton! thought Theodosia. And she looks extremely distraught.

“Fayne,” murmured Theodosia to Drayton.

He frowned, not understanding.

“Mark’s secretary,” she whispered. “The notes.”

“Ohhh,” murmured Drayton, finally understanding. The two of them stood, waiting until most of the mourners had retreated from the cathedral, then walked toward the altar to collect the flowers.

“She put a wreath on Mark’s casket,” said Theodosia. “And, I must say, she looked very upset.”

“Who was upset?” asked Bobby Wayne, as he bent and, with a loud grunt, hefted one of the floral bouquets under Delaine’s careful direction.

“Fayne Hamilton,” said Theodosia.

Bobby Wayne peered at Theodosia through a jungle of orchids and vines. “You mean our Fayne? Mark’s secretary?”

Theodosia nodded.

“Poor girl.” Bobby Wayne sighed. “She’s been awfully upset. Even called in sick yesterday.”

A worried frown flickered across Theodosia’s face. “Yes, poor girl,” she murmured.

Theodosia caught up with Fayne Hamilton half a block from the cathedral. She waved at the girl, called her name, dodged through throngs of mourners who milled about on the wide sidewalk.

But when Fayne finally succumbed to Theodosia’s en-treaties, she seemed quite unwilling to talk. “Oh, hello,” was all Fayne said.

Theodosia was not one to be put off or even mince words. “Fayne,” Theodosia began, “I have to ask. Were you at the Featherbed House yesterday?”

Fayne shifted from one foot to the other, looking nervous. “No,” she replied.

“Fayne,” said Theodosia, shaking her head in consternation. “You strike me as a fairly straightforward person, an honest person. So this is not the time to twist words. Because I saw you. I saw you walking down Murray Street.”

“Technically,” said Fayne, “I wasn’t really there. I was going to go there, but I changed my mind.”

“Why were you going there?” asked Theodosia. Although she had a fairly good idea, she wanted to hear it from Fayne herself.

Fayne looked uneasy. “I wanted to talk to Mrs. Congdon.”

“About . . . ?” prompted Theodosia.

“None of your business,” snapped Fayne, suddenly mustering a modicum of anger and outrage. “I don’t have to say a word to you.”

“No, you don’t,” replied Theodosia. “But the fire marshal might be interested in asking you a number of questions. And I can pretty much guarantee he’s not going to be nearly as polite as I am.”

Fayne’s gaze bordered on hostile now and her brown eyes fairly snapped with anger. “What are you talking about?”

“The fire,” said Theodosia. She took a step closer to Fayne, daring her to answer. “Did you have anything to do with that fire?”

Fayne’s anger seemed to suddenly crumble. Her eyes filled with tears, her chin quivered. “Of course not. How could you even think I had something to do with that?”

“You have no idea what happened?” pressed Theodosia.

“No,” wailed Fayne.

Theodosia stared at Fayne, trying to detect any degree of deception in the girl’s demeanor. But her emotions appeared genuine. Fayne just seemed unhappy. Supremely unhappy.

“The fire marshal still might want to talk to you as a witness,” said Theodosia.

“But I didn’t see anything,” protested Fayne. “Really, I didn’t. My being there was just a bad . . .” She struggled to find the right word. “. . . coincidence.”

“Are you going back to work today?” Theodosia asked her.

Fayne bobbed her head and brushed at her eyes. “Yes. Probably.”

“Okay,” said Theodosia. She wasn’t sure what to do now. Obviously the girl was upset, but Theodosia didn’t think she was lying. Was pretty sure she wasn’t. “I appreciate your talking to me,” she added.

Fayne gave a tight nod.

Theodosia had turned and was heading back to St. John’s when Fayne called after her, “Did she read the notes?”

“Pardon?” said Theodosia, stopping in her tracks. She was, perhaps, ten or twelve feet away from Fayne.

“Did Mrs. Congdon see the notes?”

Theodosia stared back at a somewhat confrontational Fayne Hamilton. “Not yet,” she said.

“You have them, don’t you?” said Fayne. “I know you do.” Fayne gave an involuntary shudder, as though the day had suddenly turned cool. “Are you going to tell her?” Now there was a slight challenge in her eyes.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” said Theodosia.

The graveside service at Magnolia Cemetery was more of the same. Prayers, hymns, floral arrangements, final tributes. Finally, when that twenty-minute service concluded, Theodosia got in line at the tail end of the mourners who were filing past Angie, offering their last words of comfort. Teddy Vickers, looking serious in a dark suit, was right in front of Theodosia. Drayton, Delaine, and Bobby Wayne were directly behind her.

As the line gradually shuffled forward, Theodosia was struck by how monumentally beautiful Magnolia Cemetery was. It was an old cemetery that had borne the ages.

Established in the 1850s, Magnolia Cemetery served as the final resting place for Civil War veterans, prominent southern politicians and planters, a few bootleggers, and ordinary folk, too. Crumbling brick tombs, wrought-iron crosses, and elaborate stone monuments were set against a dramatic backdrop of gnarled live oaks shrouded with moss.

So taken was Theodosia by an intriguing vista of marble obelisks and a hidden lagoon, that she barely paid any attention to the conversation going on between Teddy Vickers and Angie.

But Theodosia’s ears perked up when she suddenly heard the words reasonable offer.

What? she wondered. What’s Teddy saying to Angie? Theodosia took a step forward and tried not to appear as though she was eavesdropping. Even though she really was.

“Why do you keep pestering me about this, today of all days?” questioned Angie. Her voice was low and hoarse and she was visibly quivering, obviously deeply upset by Teddy’s words.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” responded Teddy as he shifted about nervously.

Angie shook her head and swiped at her eyes with a linen hanky. “This is all too much,” she murmured.

“My apologies,” said Teddy, sounding downright unapologetic but still trying to keep the conversation between the two of them. “But I thought this might afford you some relief. Help you escape the pain of making so many difficult decisions.”

“But this would be the toughest decision of them all,” responded Angie. Her shoulders slumped, her voice dropped low and cracked.

“Fine,” came Teddy Vickers’s cool reply. “But please understand, my offer is good only for the next forty-eight hours. After that . . .” Teddy shook his head and stomped off.

“Angie,” said Theodosia, stepping forward to put an arm around her friend. “Are you all right?” Actually, she thought Angie looked like she was on the point of collapse.

“I’m in shock,” whispered Angie.

“Of course you are,” said Drayton, coming forward to join them. “It’s been an awfully trying day.” He cleared his throat, trying to smile but managing only a nervous tick. “Really, a trying week.”

“No,” said Angie, shaking her head as if to clear away cobwebs. “This is something totally new. Something completely unexpected.”

“Oh dear,” murmured Drayton.

“What is it, honey?” asked Theodosia, as Delaine and Bobby Wayne, realizing something important was taking place, clustered about, too.

“On the way to the cemetery . . .” began Angie, her hands flailing helplessly.

“Yes?” said Bobby Wayne.

“In the limousine . . .” stammered Angie. “And then again just now . . .”

They all stared at her, waiting for her to finish.

“Teddy Vickers made an offer to buy the Featherbed House!”