Gunpowder Green

Chapter 13

April heralds spring in Charleston. Flickers and catbirds warble and tweet, flitting among spreading live oaks, searching out twigs and moss for building nests. Days become warmer and more languid and, ever so gradually, the tempo of Charleston, never moving at breakneck speed anyway, begins to slow.

On this extraordinarily fine morning, the fresh Charleston air was ripe and redolent with the scent of magnolias, azaleas, and top notes of dogwood.

But no one took notice.

Instead, mourners walked in somber groups of twos and threes into the yawning double doors of Saint Philip’s Church. Overhead, the bells in the steeple clanged loudly.

There is no joy in those bells, thought Theodosia as she walked alongside Drayton. There were so many times when those bells had rung out in exaltation. Easter Sunday, Christmas Eve, weddings, christenings. There were times when they tolled respectfully. But today, the bells clanged mournfully, announcing to all in the surrounding historic district that one of God’s poor souls was being laid to rest.

Choosing seats toward the back of the church, Theodosia and Drayton sat quietly, observing the other mourners. Most seemed lost in their own private thoughts, as is so often the case when attending a funeral.

Marveling at the soaring interior of Saint Philip’s, Theodosia was reminded that it had been designed by the renowned architect Joseph Nyde. Nyde had greatly admired the neoclassical arches of Saint Martin-in-the-Fields church in London and had transferred those airy, sculptural designs to Saint Philip’s.

With a mixture of majesty and pathos, the opening notes from Mozart’s Requiem swelled from the pipe organ, and everyone shuffled to their feet. Then the funeral procession began.

Six men, all wearing black suits, white shirts, and black ties, and walking in perfect cadence, rolled Oliver Dixon’s bronze casket down the wide center aisle. A good ten steps behind the casket and its catafalque, head bowed, hands clasped tightly, Doe Belvedere Dixon, Oliver’s wife of nine weeks, solemnly followed her husband’s body. Oliver Dixon’s two grown sons, Brock and Quaid, followed directly behind her.

In her black, tailored suit and matching beret, her blond hair pulled back in a severe French twist, Doe looked heartbreakingly young.

“The girl looks fetching, absolutely fetching,” murmured Drayton as she passed by them. “How can a woman look so good at a funeral?”

“She’s young,” said Theodosia as the choir suddenly cut in, their voices rising in a litany of Latin verse, “and blessed with good skin.”

Reverend Jonathan, the church’s longtime pastor, stepped forward to deliver his eulogy. Then a half-dozen other men also took the podium. They spoke glowingly of Oliver Dixon’s accomplishments, of his service to the community, of his impeccable reputation.

As the service grew longer, Theodosia’s mind drifted.

Staring at the backs of Brock and Quaid, Oliver Dixon’s two sons, she wondered if their disqualification from the race was in any way related to this.

She recalled the strange walk-on scene Ford Cantrell had staged at the picnic. Wondered what his feelings would be today. Had he shown up here today? She ventured a look around. No, probably not.

Theodosia thought about the printouts she studied last night, the ones she’d hoped might be helpful. The final printout, the one where Oliver Dixon’s upper body was silhouetted against a somewhat stark background, seemed burned in her memory.

Theodosia shifted on the hard pew, crossed her legs.

Stark background.

Theodosia suddenly sat up straight, uncrossed her legs. What was that background, anyway? Rocks perhaps? Or wet sand? She searched her memory.

It had to be her tablecloth.

Her tablecloth. The idea came zooming at her like a Roman candle. And on the heels of that came the realization that whatever residue might still be left on the tablecloth—gunpowder, exploded bits of metal, or even blood—it could just offer up some semblance of a clue.

A clue. A genuine clue. Wouldn’t that be interesting?

As the final musical tribute came to a crashing conclusion, Theodosia managed to catch herself. She’d been about to break out in a smile, albeit one tinged with grim satisfaction.

Goodness, she thought, struggling to maintain decorum, I’ve got to be careful. People will think I’m an absolute ghoul. Smiling at a funeral!

“Let’s go,” Theodosia whispered to Drayton as she bounded to her feet.

“Yes, let’s do express our condolences,” said Drayton.

They waited in line a good twenty minutes, watching as Doe Belvedere Dixon hugged, kissed, and clutched the hands of the various mourners. She seemed to converse with them in an easy, gracious manner, accepting all their kind words.

“Does she seem slightly vivacious to you?” asked Dray-ton, studying her carefully. “Do you have the feeling she’s a bit like Scarlett O’Hara, wearing rouge to her own husband’s funeral?”

“I think the poor girl was simply blessed with good looks,” said Theodosia. “She seems heartbroken.”

“You’re right,” amended Drayton. “I should be ashamed.”

“Should be,” whispered Theodosia and aimed an elbow toward Drayton’s ribs. She, too, had been watching Doe carefully, getting the feeling, more and more, that Doe might be wearing her mourning much the same as she would another beauty pageant title.

Finally, Theodosia and Drayton were at the head of the line, clasping hands with Brock and Quaid, Oliver Dixon’s two sons. “So sorry,” she and Drayton murmured to them in hushed tones. “You have our condolences.”

Then Theodosia was eye to eye with Doe.

Drayton’s right, she suddenly realized. The girl looked appropriately sad and subdued but, at the same time, she seemed to be playing a role. The role of grieving widow.

“My deepest sympathy,” said Theodosia as she grasped Doe’s hand.

“Thank you.” Doe’s eyes remained downcast, her long eyelashes swept dramatically against pink cheeks. Theodosia idly wondered if they were extensions. Eyelash extensions were a big thing these days. First had come hair, now eyelashes. These days, it seemed like a girl could improve on almost anything if she wanted to. And had enough money.

“As you may know,” said Theodosia, “I was the first to reach him.”

Doe’s eyes flicked up and stared directly into Theodosia’s eyes. Her gaze didn’t waver. “Thank you,” she whispered. “How very kind of you.”

Theodosia was aware of Drayton gently crowding her. It felt like he was beginning to radiate disapproval. She knew it was one thing to speculate on Doe’s veracity, another to push her a bit. Still, Theodosia persisted.

“Anyone would have done the same,” Theodosia assured her. “Such a terrible thing... the pistol...”

Doe had begun to look slightly perturbed. “Yes . . .” she stammered.

“After all, your husband was an avid hunter, was he not? He was extremely familiar with guns?”

“Yes, I suppose...as a member of the Chessen Hunt Club he... I’m sorry, I don’t see wha—”

“Shush,” said Theodosia, patting the girl’s hand. “If there’s anything Drayton or I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“That was expressing condolences?” hissed Drayton when they were out of earshot. “You just about browbeat the poor girl. She didn’t know what to think.” They walked a few steps farther. “I assume you were testing the water, so to speak? Trying to ascertain if Oliver Dixon knew anything about guns?”

“Drayton . . .” Theodosia grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of the stream of people passing by. “I think Oliver Dixon was set up.”

He pursed his lips and gazed at her with speculation. “Set up. You mean—”

“Someone caused that pistol to misfire,” Theodosia said excitedly.

“You know, I really don’t like where you’re going with this,” Drayton said irritably.

“Hear me out,” said Theodosia. If someone tampered with that pistol, and I’ve really come to believe that’s exactly what happened, then hard evidence might also exist. Like explosives or—”

“Hard evidence,” said Drayton with a quizzical frown. “Hard evidence where?”

“On the tablecloth,” said Theodosia.

Drayton just stared at her.

“One of my tablecloths was on the table that Oliver

Dixon fell onto. He tumbled onto the table, then slid down into a heap. Remember?” Drayton hesitated a moment, trying to fix the scene in his mind. “Yes, I do. You’re right,” he replied finally.

“So there could be particles of gunpowder or explosives or whatever still clinging to that tablecloth,” prompted Theodosia.

“Oh,” said Drayton. Then, “Oh, I see what you mean!”

“Now, if I could only figure out what happened to that darned tablecloth,” said Theodosia. “In all the hubbub and commotion, I’m not entirely sure where it ended up.” She stared out the open doors of the church toward the street.

“I have it,” said Drayton.

She whirled toward him in surprise. “You have it?”

“I’m almost certain I do. At least I have a vague recollection of untangling it and packing it up with the other things.”

“So where is the tablecloth now?”

“Probably still in the trunk of my car. I was going to drop all the dirty linens at Chase’s Laundry yesterday, then I got busy with the Heritage Society. I received a call that someone had brought in this old, wooden joggling board... you know, they were used for crossing ditches on rice plantations? They’re so terribly rare now and I—”

“Drayton...”

“Yes?”

“I’m so glad you have your priorities straight,” Theodosia said as they strolled out into the sunlight. “Because you very nicely preserved what could amount to evidence.”

Suddenly, Theodosia’s smile froze on her face and she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh rats. That’s Burt Tidwell over there.”

Drayton frowned. “Why do you suppose he’s here?”

“Why do you think?” she said, squinting across the way at him.

“Investigating?” squeaked Drayton. “Looking for suspects?”

“Same as us,” said Theodosia. She bit her lip, debating whether or not she should go over and talk to him.

“Well, are you going to talk to him?” Drayton asked finally.

She hesitated a moment, then made up her mind. “Why not? Let’s both waltz over there and see if we can push his buttons before he starts to push ours.”

“All right,” agreed Drayton. “But nothing about the—”

Theodosia held an index finger to her lips. “Mum’s the word,” she cautioned.

They strolled over to where a bank of memorial wreaths was displayed. Theodosia decided that Oliver Dixon must have been extremely well liked and respected to have garnered a church full of flower arrangements as well as a huge assortment of memorial wreaths that had spilled outside.

Burt Tidwell was studying one of the wreaths. “Look at this,” he said to them. “Wild grape vine entwined with lilies, the flower symbolizing resurrection. So very touching.” Tidwell inclined his head slightly. He’d captured Theodosia in his peripheral vision; now his eyes bore into her. “Miss Browning, how do. And here’s Mr. Conneley, too.”

“Hello,” said Drayton pleasantly.

“You took Ford Cantrell in for questioning,” said Theodosia without preamble.

Tidwell favored her with a faint smile. “My dear Miss Browning, you seem somewhat surprised. I thought you’d be absolutely delighted that I followed up on your so-called tip.” Tidwell pronounced the word tip as though he were discussing odiferous compost in a garden.

Theodosia turned her attention to the memorial wreaths as Burt Tidwell rocked back on his heels, enormously pleased with himself. Here was a lovely floral wreath from the Heritage Society, she noted. And here was...Well, wasn’t this one a surprise!

“You might also be interested to know,” Tidwell prattled on, “that we discovered Ford Cantrell has a rather extensive gun collection. And that our Mr. Cantrell has recently turned his old plantation into a sort of hunting preserve.”

Tidwell suddenly had her attention once again. “What kind of hunting?” Theodosia asked.

“He claims to be appealing to all manner of wealthy sportsmen, promising prizes of deer, turkey, quail, and wild boar,” answered Tidwell.

“My aunt Libby has lived out that way for the better part of half a century,” said Theodosia, “and the wildest critters she’s ever encountered have been possum and porcupines.” She paused. “And once, when I was a kid, we ran across a dead alligator. But I don’t suppose that really counts.”

“No one ever characterized Ford Cantrell as being an honest man,” said Tidwell.

“Or hunters as being terribly bright,” added Theodosia with a wry smile.

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by loud voices.

“What are you doing here?” came an angry scream.

Theodosia, Drayton, Burt Tidwell, and about forty other people turned to watch the beginnings of a shouting match on the lawn of Saint Philip’s.

“Who on earth is that?” asked Theodosia. She didn’t know his name, but she recognized the angry man with the flopping white hair, florid complexion, and hand-tailored pinstripe suit as the very same man from the yacht race. The commodore in the tight jacket swathed in gold braid.

“That’s Booth Crowley,” Tidwell told her.

“That’s Booth Crowley?” said Theodosia, stunned. Booth Crowley had been the one who’d been beckoning to Oliver Dixon that fateful Sunday. Booth Crowley had handed him the pistol.

And just look at who he’s yelling at, she thought. Billy Manolo, the worker from the yacht club who asked to borrow the tablecloth. Wasn’t this a strange little tableau?

“Hey buddy, cool your jets,” Billy Manolo cautioned. Lean, dark-complected, and a head taller than Booth Crowley, Billy stood poised on the balls of his feet, glowering back and looking as dangerous as a jungle cat.

Still, Booth Crowley persisted in his tirade.

“Is there some reason you’re here?” Booth Crowley thundered. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough problems?”

“Hey man, you’re crazy.” Billy Manolo curled his lip scornfully and waved one hand dismissively at Booth Crowley. “Take it easy, or you’ll put yourself into cardiac arrest.”

Indeed, thought Theodosia. Judging from Booth Crowley’s beet-red face and frantic antics, it looked as though he might go into cardiac arrest at any moment. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone quite so worked up. Booth Crowley was putting on a rather amazing show. And in front of the church at that.

“Do you know the fellow Crowley’s yelling at?” asked Drayton, mildly amused by the whole spectacle.

“That’s Billy Manolo,” replied Theodosia.

Drayton’s eyebrows shot sky high. “You do know him?”

“Met him,” said Theodosia. “He apparently works at the yacht club, taking care of the boats and doing odd jobs, I guess.”

The three of them watched Billy Manolo stalk off while Booth Crowley continued to rage at no one in particular.

“So that’s the Booth Crowley who’s a major donor to the symphony and the art museum and the hospital,” commented Drayton. “He doesn’t look like a mover and a shaker. Well, maybe shaking mad.”

“Ssh, Drayton, he’s heading this way,” cautioned Theodosia.

Booth Crowley looked like a furnace that had been stoked too high. He strode across the green lawn purposefully, both arms pumping furiously at his sides, his nostrils flared, his mouth gaping for air.

“You...Tidwell,” Booth Crowley hollered. “A word with you.”

Tidwell stood silently, a look of benign amusement on his jowly face.

Booth Crowley came puffing over to Tidwell. “I want you to keep an eye on that one.” Booth Crowley gestured wildly at the empty street behind him. “Billy Manolo. Works at the yacht club. Things have been missing. Manager had to dress him down last week, threatened to fire him if things don’t improve. Boy is a hoodlum. No good.”

Theodosia stifled a grin and wondered if Booth Crowley’s sentence structures were always this staccato and devoid of nouns and prepositions. A strange man. With a strange way of talking, too.

Drayton put a hand on Theodosia’s arm and began to steer her away from Tidwell and Booth Crowley. Crowley had eased back on the throttle a bit but was still sputtering. Tidwell was nodding mildly, listening to him but not really favoring Booth Crowley with his complete and undivided attention.

“Exit, stage left,” Drayton murmured under his breath.

“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But first . . .” Theodosia turned her focus on the bank of memorial wreaths she’d been studying earlier. Where is that wreath? she wondered. There was one composed of only greenery and purple leaves that had caught her eye earlier. Ah, here it is. She reached out and plucked a cluster of leaves from it even as Drayton propelled her away from one of the strangest memorial services she’d ever witnessed.

“What are you up to with that?” he asked.

Theodosia fingered the snippet of leaves. “They’re from the wreath that was sent by Lizbeth Cantrell.”

“Good Lord, you’re not serious. She sent a wreath and her brother is the prime murder suspect?”

“I promised to help her,” said Theodosia.

Drayton peered at her. “You did?” He shook his head. “You never fail to amaze me.”

“Do you know what this is? The greenery, I mean.”

Drayton pulled his half glasses from his jacket pocket and slid them onto his nose. “Coltsfoot,” he declared. “I’m awfully sure it’s coltsfoot.”

“What a strange thing to use for a memorial wreath. It’s not all that attractive,” Theodosia mused. “Maybe that’s why Lizbeth chose it. She was making a statement. Or anti-statement.”

“It’s more likely she chose it for the symbolism,” said Drayton.

Now it was Theodosia’s turn to give Drayton a strange look. “What symbolism might that be?”

“Coltsfoot represents justice,” said Drayton.

“Justice,” repeated Theodosia, now highly intrigued by Lizbeth Cantrell’s use of symbolism.

“It seems to me that more and more people are paying attention to certain symbols or talismans,” said Drayton. “I think it’s a symptom of unsettled times.”

“I think you may be right,” said Theodosia.