Gunpowder Green

Chapter 1

Theodosia Browning reached up and removed the tortoiseshell clip that held her auburn locks tightly in place. As if on cue, the brisk wind from Charleston Harbor lifted her hair, just as it did the graceful, undulating flags that flew from the masts of the yachts bobbing in the harbor.

It won’t be long now, Theodosia decided, shading her eyes against the brilliance of the midafternoon sun. Off in the distance, she could see dozens of sleek J-24s hurtling down the slot between Patriots Point and Fort Sumter. Masts straining, spinnakers billowing, the yachts and their four-man crews were fighting to capture every gust of wind, coaxing every bit of performance from their boats. Twenty minutes more, and the two hundred or so picnickers gathered here in White Point Gardens at the tip of Charleston’s historic peninsula would know the outcome of this year’s Isle of Palms Yacht Race.

Theodosia noted that most of the picnickers had drawn into cozy little circles of conversation, lulled by the warm April weather, sated by an abundance of food and drink. There had been a crazed hubbub when the sailboats from the competing yacht clubs took off, of course: cheering throngs, glasses held high in toasts, and loud boasts from both sailing teams. But once the flotilla of sailboats had zigzagged their way across Charleston Harbor and rounded the outermost marker buoy on their way toward the Isle of Palms, they were out of sight.

Which also meant out of mind.

The remaining yacht club members, with their abundance of friends, families, and well-wishers, most of whom lived in the elegant Georgian, Federal, and Victorian homes in the nearby historic district, had settled down to a merry romp in the verdant gardens that made Charleston’s Battery so utterly appealing.

As proprietor of the Indigo Tea Shop, located just a few short blocks away on Church Street, Theodosia had been invited to cater this “tea by the sea” for the Charleston Yacht Club, the host for this year’s race. She’d been pleased that Drayton Conneley and Haley Parker, her dear friends and employees, had displayed their usual over-thetop creativity in event and menu planning, and had enthusiastically jumped into the fray to lend a hand on this spectacularly beautiful Sunday afternoon.

Gulls wheeled gracefully overhead, and fat, pink clouds scudded across the horizon as Theodosia cinched her apron tighter about her slim waist and let her eyes rove across the two long tables that were draped with white linen tablecloths and laden with refreshments. Satisfied that everything was near perfect, Theodosia’s broad, intelligent face with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose finally assumed a look of repose.

Yes, it was perfect, Theodosia told herself. Wire baskets held golden breadsticks, while fresh cracked crab claws rested on platters of shaved ice. Smoked salmon on miniature bagels was garnished with cream cheese and candied ginger. And the chocolate-dipped strawberries with crème fraîche were...oh my... disappearing at an alarming rate.

Hoisting a silver pitcher, Theodosia poured out a stream of pungent yellow green iced tea into a glass filled with crushed ice. She took a sip and savored the brisk, thirst-quenching blend of Chinese gunpowder green tea and fresh mint.

Drayton Conneley, her assistant and master tea blender, had created the tea especially for this race-day picnic. The Chinese gunpowder green tea was aptly named since, once dried, the tiny leaves curled up into small, tight pellets resembling gunpowder, unfurling only when subjected to boiling water. The fresh mint had been plucked yesterday from her aunt Libby’s garden out in South Carolina’s low country.

Theodosia had decided to name the new tea White Point Green, a nod to the tea’s debut today in White Point Gardens. And judging from the number of pitchers that had already been consumed, this tea would definitely be packaged up and offered for sale in her tea shop.

“Your table reminds me of a still life by Cézanne: poetic, elegant, almost too beautiful to eat.” Delaine Dish, owner of the Cotton Duck Clothing Shop, hovered at Theodosia’s elbow. Her long, raven-colored hair was wound up in a Psyche knot atop her head, accenting her heart-shaped face.

Theodosia sighed inwardly. Cotton Duck was just a few doors down from the Indigo Tea Shop, and Delaine, though a kindhearted soul and true dynamo when it came to volunteering for civic and social events, was also the acknowledged neighborhood gossip.

“I mean it, Theodosia, this is an amazing bounty,” cooed Delaine. Ever the fashion plate, Delaine was turned out today in a robin’s egg blue silk blouse and elegant tapered cream slacks.

Theodosia wiped her hands on her apron and peeked down at Delaine’s feet. They were shod in dyed-to-match robin’s egg blue python flats. Of course Delaine would be coordinated, Theodosia decided. She was always coordinated.

Dipping an enormous ripe strawberry into a bowl of crème fraîche, Delaine stood with the luscious fruit poised inches from her mouth. “Did you ever think of switching to full-time catering, Theodosia?” she said as if the thought had just struck like a bolt from the blue. “Because you’d be brilliant at it.”

“Abandon my tea shop? No, thank you,” Theodosia declared fervently, for she had literally created the Indigo Tea Shop from the ground up. Starting with a somewhat dreary and abandoned little shop on Church Street, she had stripped away layers of grime and decades of ill-advised improvements such as cork tile, fluorescent lights, and linoleum. Somewhere along the way, Theodosia’s vision took hold with a vengeance, and she sketched and dreamed and haunted antique shops for just the right fixtures and accoutrements until the results yielded a gem of a shop. Now her little tea shop exuded an elegant, old-world charm. Pegged wooded floors highlighted exposed beams and brick walls. Antique tables and chairs, porcelain teapots, and copper teakettles added to the rich patina and keen sense of history.

Floor-to-ceiling wooden cubbyholes held tins and glass jars filled with loose teas. Coppery munnar from the southern tip of India, floral keeman from China’s Anhui province, a peaches and honey–flavored Formosan oolong. All the tea in China, as Drayton often remarked with pride. Plus teas from Japan, Tibet, Nepal, Turkey, Indonesia, and Africa. Even South Carolina was represented here with their marvelous, rich American Classic tea grown on the Charleston Tea Plantation, just twenty-five miles south on the subtropical island of Wadmalaw.

The tea shop had been Theodosia’s exit strategy from the cutthroat world of media and marketing. She’d spent fourteen years in client services, years that had taken their toll. She grew exhausted working for others and not for herself. Theodosia was determined never to climb aboard that merry-go-round again.

“I bet you’d make more money in catering,” cajoled Delaine. “Think of all the social tête-à-têtes that go on here in Charleston.”

“A foray into food service just isn’t for me,” said Theodosia. “I’ve got my hands full just running the tea shop. Plus our Web site is up, and Internet sales have been surprisingly brisk. Of course, Drayton is constantly blending new teas to add to our line, and he’s making plans to offer specialty tea events, too.”

“Pray tell, what are specialty tea events?” asked Delaine.

“Chamber music teas, bridal shower teas, mystery teas—”

“A mystery tea!” exclaimed Delaine. “What’s that?”

“Come and find out,” invited Theodosia. “Drayton’s got one planned for next Saturday evening.”

Theodosia knew that she and Delaine Dish were a breed apart. She had abandoned the fast track of competing for clients and was deliciously satisfied with the little oasis of calm her tea shop afforded her. Delaine, on the other hand, thrived on spotting new trends and employed sharklike techniques with customers. When a woman walked into Cotton Duck for a new blouse, Delaine had a knack for sending her home with a skirt, shoes, handbag, and jewelry, too. And if Delaine had really worked up a full head of steam that day, the woman’s purchase would probably include a couple of silk scarves.

“Hello, Drayton,” purred Delaine as Drayton Conneley, Theodosia’s right-hand man, approached, bearing a silver tray. “Aren’t you just full of surprises.”

Drayton Conneley arranged his face in a polite smile for Delaine, exchanging air kisses with her even as he raised an eyebrow at Theodosia.

“I was telling Delaine about your upcoming mystery tea,” explained Theodosia.

“Of course.” Drayton set his tray down and grasped Delaine’s hands in a friendly gesture. “You must come,” he urged her.

Theodosia smiled to herself. Drayton could schmooze with the best of them. But then again, he’d had years of experience. Drayton had worked as a tea trader in Amsterdam, where the world’s major tea auctions were held. He had been hospitality director at a very prestigious Charleston inn until she’d talked him into coming to work for her. And Drayton Conneley was currently on the board of directors for the Charleston Heritage Society.

Of course, what Drayton did best was conduct tea tastings, educating their guests on the many varieties of tea and their steeping times, helping them understand little tea nuances such as bake, oxidation, and fermentation.

As much as Theodosia knew the tea shop was her creation, she often felt that Drayton was the engine that drove it. And, at sixty-one years of age, he reveled in his role as elder statesman.

Delaine reached out and brushed her French-manicured fingertips across the lapels of Drayton’s sport coat. “Egyptian linen. Nice.” She threw an approving glance toward Theodosia. “You can always tell a gentleman by the way he’s turned out,” she drawled.

“Drayton’s straight from the pages of Town and Country,” Theodosia agreed wryly, knowing that Delaine’s affectations were beginning to set Drayton’s teeth on edge.

“Theo, are there any more cucumber and lobster salad sandwiches?” asked Drayton as he rummaged through the wicker picnic hampers and coolers that had been stuck under the tables. “Oh, never mind, here they are.” Drayton pulled out a fresh tray of the tiny, artfully prepared sandwiches. “We’ve been getting requests. And”—he paused, the first real look of genuine pleasure on his face—“would you believe it, Lolly Lauder just located an artisan from Savannah who assures her he can restore the molded wooden cornices on her portico and still preserve their integrity!”

Drayton adjusted his bow tie, smiled perfunctorily at the two women, then sped off, eager to exchange architectural gossip. He looked, Theodosia thought to herself, all the world like the perpetually hurried and harried White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

Besides tea and gardening, Drayton’s mission in life was historical preservation, and he enjoyed nothing better than to share tales of tuck pointing and tabby walls with his friends and neighbors who lived in the elegant old mansions that lined Charleston’s Battery. Drayton himself lived in a tiny but historically accurate Civil War–era home just blocks from White Point Gardens.

“Do you see who’s sitting over there?” asked Delaine in a low voice. Her violet eyes were fairly glimmering, her perfectly waxed brows arched expectantly.

Theodosia had been busy refilling tea pitchers and arranging more strawberries on the platter. “Delaine,” she said, struggling to keep her sense of humor, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been working, not socializing.”

“No need to get snippy, dear. Just look over my shoulder and to your left. No, a little more left. There. Do you see them? That’s Doe Belvedere and Oliver Dixon.”

“That’s Doe Belvedere?” exclaimed Theodosia. “My goodness, the girl can’t be more than twenty-five.”

The Belvedere-Dixon wedding had been the talk of Charleston a couple months ago. Doe Belvedere and Oliver Dixon had staged a lavish wedding in the courtyard garden of the splendidly Victorian Kentshire Mansion. They had utterly dazzled guests with their horse-drawn carriages, champagne and caviar, and strolling musicians costumed like eighteenth-century French courtiers. Afterward, the newlyweds had dashed off to Morocco for a three-week honeymoon, leaving all of Charleston to relive the details of their sumptuous wedding in the society pages of the Charleston Post and Courier. Aside from those grainy black and white photos, this was the first time Theodosia had laid eyes on the happy couple.

“She’s twenty-five,” purred Delaine. “And Oliver Dixon is sixty-six.”

“Really,” said Theodosia.

“But honey,” continued Delaine, “Oliver Dixon supposedly has piles of money. Did you read where he’s about to launch a new high-tech company? Something to do with those handheld wireless gizmos that let you make phone calls or get on the Internet. That’s probably what kept him in the running for Doe, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure she loves him very much,” said Theodosia generously.

Delaine gazed speculatively at the couple. “Yes, but money does give a man a certain, shall we say, patina.”

“Who are you two whispering about?” asked Haley as she came up behind Theodosia and Delaine. Haley Parker was Theodosia’s shop clerk and baker extraordinaire. At twenty-four, Haley was a self-proclaimed perpetual night school student and caustic wit. She was also the youthful sprite who ran the small kitchen at the rear of the Indigo Tea Shop with the precision and unquestioned authority of a Prussian general, turning out mouthwatering baked goods that drew customers in by the carload. Haley carefully supervised the choice of flour, sugar, cream, and eggs, and often went down to Charleston’s open-air market herself to select only the finest apples, currants, sourwood honey, and fig syrup from local growers. And her unflagging high standards always paid off. Haley’s peach tarts and apple butter scones were in constant demand. The poppy seed stuffing she infused in her lighter-than-air profiteroles was to die for.

“We were discussing Doe Belvedere,” said Delaine conspiratorially. “You know, she just married Oliver Dixon.”

Haley squinted in the direction of the pretty young woman with the flowing blond hair who sat chatting animatedly with well-wishers, even as she grasped the hand of her new husband.

“So that’s Doe Belvedere,” exclaimed Haley. She narrowed her eyes, studying the girl. “I’ve certainly heard enough about her. I mean, she’s virtually a legend on the University of Charleston campus. Doe Belvedere was homecoming queen, prom queen, and magnolia princess all in one year. Talk about popular,” sniffed Haley.

“That’s nothing,” said Delaine. “Doe was Miss South Carolina three years ago.”

“Sure beats Miss Grits or Miss She-Crab,” said Haley with a wicked laugh.

“You got that right,” said Delaine with a straight face.

“As I recall,” said Haley, “Doe Belvedere was offered a contract to model in New York.”

“With the Eileen Ford Agency,” said Delaine with delight. “But she passed on it. For him.”

“I guess Oliver Dixon is one lucky guy, huh?” said Haley in a dubious tone.

“Oliver is supposed to be filthy rich,” drawled Delaine. “How else could he afford that enormous house on Arch-dale Street?” Delaine nodded in the direction of Oliver Dixon’s yellow-brick mansion. “I bet Timothy Neville positively had a cat when Oliver Dixon bought a mansion bigger than his, then built on another huge wing!”

Haley squinted at Doe and Oliver. “Think they’re planning a family?” she asked.

“Haley!” said Theodosia.

“Hey, I was just wondering,” shrugged Haley with a mischievous look.

“Genteel women do not wonder about such things in public,” teased Theodosia as Haley’s blush spread across her freckled cheeks.

“Who told you I was a genteel woman?” quipped Haley, with typical youthful bravado.

“Your mother,” said Theodosia.

“Oh.” Tears sprang quickly to Haley’s eyes, for her mother had passed away just two years ago. “You’re right. Sometimes I’m a little too . . .” Haley fumbled for the correct word. “. . . forthright... for my own good.”

“We love you just the way you are, dear.” Theodosia put an arm around Haley’s slim shoulders. Although Theodosia was only thirty-five herself, she often felt very protective of her young employee. Haley was prone to plunging ahead, often before formulating a clear plan. A case in point, she’d already shifted her college major four times.

“Come along,” urged Delaine, “I’ll introduce you. Maybe that roving photographer from the Post and Courier will even snap your picture.” She reached out and grabbed Haley’s hand.

“Okay,” Haley agreed and scampered off with Delaine.

Well, I’m not going to stand here like a bump on a log, decided Theodosia. She picked up a plate of tiny, crustless sandwiches and was about to set off into the crowd, when a man’s voice called to her.

“Say there, ma’am?”

Theodosia whirled about, finally glancing down toward the shore. One of the workers, a young man with dark, curly hair, the same one who’d helped set chairs up earlier, was struggling with a metal folding table. One end of the table seemed fine, but the legs on the other end were locked in place. “Do you have . . .” the man gave the table a disgusted kick. “. . . another of those cloths?”

Theodosia set her tray down, wandered a few steps closer to him. “You mean a tablecloth?”

“Yeah,” he said, swiping an arm across his brow. “I’m supposed to set up the trophies and stuff here.”

Theodosia walked back to her picnic hampers and snatched up the extra tablecloth she’d tucked in with her catering gear, just in case.

Wandering back down the bank, she saw that the worker had finally stabilized the table amid the sand and rocks. “This should do nicely,” she said, unfurling the white linen tablecloth, letting the wind do most of the work. It settled gently atop the metal table.

“It’s a warm day,” said Theodosia. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea, Mr....?”

“Billy,” said the man. “Billy Manolo. I work over at the yacht club.” He gestured toward a faraway cluster of bobbing masts barely visible down the shoreline. “I better not; lots to do yet.” And off he strode.

Grabbing her tray of sandwiches again, Theodosia wandered among the picnickers, offering seconds. The day was a stunner, and White Point Gardens never looked as beautiful as it did this time of year. Magnolia, crape myrtle, and begonias bloomed riotously, and palmettos swayed gracefully, caressed by the Atlantic’s warm breezes. In the early days, when Charleston had been known as Charles Town, pirates had been strung up here on roughly built gallows, and wars had been played out on these grounds. Now hundreds of couples came here to get married, and thousands more came to stroll the peaceful grounds that seemed to provide nourishment for the soul.

“This kingdom by the sea,” Theodosia murmured to herself, recalling the famous line from Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee,” which had so aptly and romantically described the city of Charleston.

For Charleston truly was a kingdom. No fewer than 180 church spires, steeples, and turrets pierced her sky. Across from White Point Gardens, crowding up against The Battery, shoulder to elegant shoulder, was a veritable parade of enormous, grande dame homes. Like wedding cakes, they were draped and ornamented with cornices, balustrades, frets, and finials. Most were painted in pastel colors of salmon pink, alabaster white, and pale blue; a romantic, French palette. Behind these homes lay another twenty-three-block tapestry of historic homes and shops, Charleston’s architectural preserve, complete with cobbled streets, wrought-iron gates, and sequestered gardens.

“You’re the tea shop lady, aren’t you?” A rich, baritone voice interrupted Theodosia’s reverie.

Theodosia turned with a smile and found herself staring into alert, dark brown eyes set in smooth, olive skin. A neatly clipped mustache draped over full, sensuous lips.

“You have the advantage, sir,” she said, then realized immediately that she sounded far more formal than she’d intended.

But the man wasn’t a bit put off and swept his Panama straw hat off his head in a gallant gesture that was pure Rhett Butler. “Giovanni Loard, at your service, ma’am.”

The name sounded faintly familiar to Theodosia as she stood gazing at this interesting man who smiled broadly back at her, even as he dug hastily in the pocket of his navy blazer for a business card.

Theodosia accepted his card, squinted at tiny, old English type. “Loard Antiquarian Shop. Oh, of course,” she said as comprehension suddenly dawned. “Down on King Street.”

“In the antiques district,” Giovanni Loard added helpfully.

“Drayton Conneley raved about your shop,” she told him enthusiastically. “He said you had the finest collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century paintings in all of Charleston. Wonderful estate jewelry, too. I keep meaning to get down there but never seem to find the time,” Theodosia lamented. “I’ve got this one wall—”

“That’s begging for a truly great painting!” finished Giovanni Loard.

“Exactly,” agreed Theodosia.

“Then, dear lady, you simply must make time,” Giovanni admonished. “Or better yet, come open a second tea shop in our neighborhood. It would be a most welcome addition.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got the first one under control yet,” Theodosia admitted, “but it’s a fun idea to entertain.” Theodosia smiled up at Giovanni Loard, amused by this colorful, slightly quirky fellow and suddenly found him gazing in the direction of Doe and Oliver Dixon.

“My cousin,” Giovanni Loard offered by way of explanation. “The groom.”

“Oliver Dixon is your cousin?” asked Theodosia.

“Actually, second cousin,” said Giovanni. “Oliver is my mother’s first cousin.”

Theodosia maintained her smile even as her eyes began to glaze over. In Charleston, especially in the historic district, it often seemed that everyone was related to everyone else. People literally went on for hours explaining the tangled web of second cousins, great-great-grandparents, and grandaunts.

Thankfully, Giovanni Loard didn’t launch into a dissertation on his lineage. Instead, he gently plucked the tray of sandwiches from Theodosia’s hands.

“Allow me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m sure you have other items to attend to.” And Giovanni wandered off into the crowd, an impromptu waiter.

So surprised was Theodosia that she stood rooted to the spot, blinking after him.

“At sixes and sevens?” said Drayton’s voice in her ear. She whirled to find him clutching two empty pitchers in one hand, a tray bearing a single, lonely sandwich balanced in the other. He gazed at her quizzically.

“That antique dealer you told me about, Giovanni Loard?” Theodosia gestured after Giovanni. “He offered to help. Nobody ever offers to help.”

Drayton peered through the crowd. “Remarkable. Do you know that the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta has rated South Carolinians as having the most sedentary lifestyle in the country?”

“Hey,” said Haley as she joined them, “I’m about ready for a sedentary lifestyle. My feet are tired, and I think I just got my first sunburn of the year. But first things first. Who was that cute guy, anyway?”

“Giovanni Loard,” said Theodosia. “He runs an antique shop down on King Street.”

They watched Giovanni pick his way through the crowd, dispensing sandwiches, talking animatedly with guests. “Personable chap, isn’t he?” remarked Drayton.

Giovanni wound his way to Doe and Oliver Dixon’s table, where Delaine was still seated, and offered sandwiches all around.

Suddenly, a man with flaming red hair swaggered up behind him. Although Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley were far enough away that they couldn’t hear the exact words spoken, they could obviously see that the red-haired man was angry. Very angry. Oliver Dixon whirled about to confront him, and now both men were talking excitedly. A low murmur ran through the crowd.

“The guy with the red hair,” said Haley. “What’s his problem?”

“Don’t know,” said Theodosia.

“Do you know who he is?” asked Drayton as he pursed his lips and peered speculatively at the two men whose argument appeared to escalate by the second. “That’s Ford Cantrell,” said Theodosia. She knew him, knew of him, anyway. Ford Cantrell was from the low country, that vast area of woods, old rice plantations, and swampland just south of Charleston. He was a farmer by trade, although his ancestors would have been called plantation owners.

“He’s been drinking,” hissed Drayton. “Have you ever seen anyone drunk at an afternoon tea?”

Theodosia’s eyes flickered back to the hotheaded, swaggering Ford Cantrell. He had one hand stuck out in front of him as he spoke angrily to Oliver Dixon. Then he gave Oliver Dixon a rough shove and stalked off.

“Yes,” she finally answered. “I have.”

Now another excited voice rose from a small group of onlookers gathered down by the shore. “Here they come!”

Two hundred people jumped from their chairs en masse and began pushing toward the water.

No, thought Theodosia. Make that one hundred ninety-nine. Ford Cantrell was hustling off in the opposite direction. She watched as he veered around a group of Civil War cannons, then set off toward the bandstand. Ford Cantrell appeared to be walking steadily, not staggering, but the back of his neck glowed red. A been-drinking-toomuch red, not an out-in-the-sun red.

Why had the seemingly mild-mannered Oliver Dixon been embroiled in an argument with Ford Cantrell? An argument that looked like it could have erupted into a knockdown-drag-out fight? What got those two men so fired up? wondered Theodosia.

“Theodosia, come on,” called Haley. “The sailboats are heading for the final markers!”

Theodosia shook off her consternation with Ford Cantrell and turned her attention to Charleston Harbor. She could see that a half-dozen boats had managed to gain a commanding lead and were bearing down on the two red buoys that pitched wildly back and forth in the billowing waves.

Somewhere out there, Jory Davis was skippering his J-24, Theodosia told herself. Jory was an attorney with her father’s old firm, Ligget, Hume, Hartwell, and she’d been dating him off and on for the past few months. She hoped his yacht, Rubicon, was one of the handful of boats jockeying for finishing-line position.

Theodosia strode across the newly greened grass, picking up dropped napkins and flatware as she went. When she finally caught up with the crowd, they were packed into a tight knot near what was left of the old seawall that had been pummeled by Hurricane Hugo back in 1989. The onlookers were whistling and cheering as the sailboats fought their way through the strong crosscurrents that marked the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper rivers.

Theodosia cleared the half-dozen empty platters from the long buffet table and glanced toward the sailboats again. Once this race ended, and it looked like it would end soon, folks would wander over to the Charleston Yacht Club for cold beer, fried catfish, or she-crab soup. Some would retire to private courtyard gardens in the historic district for mint juleps and, later, enjoy elegantly prepared dinners on bone china. Her task here was almost done.

“Oliver, over here!” An officious-looking man with a shock of white hair and a too-tight white commodore’s blazer trimmed in gold braid waved broadly to Oliver Dixon. He took the wooden box that had been tucked carefully under one arm and laid it on the table Billy Manolo had set up down at the shore. Then the man motioned to Oliver Dixon again. “C’mon, Oliver,” he urged insistently.

Theodosia paused in her cleanup to watch as the highly excited commodore opened a rather lovely rosewood box and gently removed a pistol. It was old, she decided, antique, with brass fittings that glinted in the sun and a long, curved barrel. How nice, she thought, that Oliver Dixon was being given the honor of officiating at the finish line.

All the yachts had rounded the markers now, and two yachts had pushed out in front, gaining a substantial lead. One of the leaders flew a white mainsail that read Topper; the other had a blue and white striped sail printed with the numbers N-271. Neck and neck, they bore down toward the finishing-line buoy.

More cheers rose from the crowd. The wind had risen and was driving the two boats furiously toward the finish line.

Thirty feet to Theodosia’s left, Oliver Dixon stood poised on the rocky shore, next to the table. His fine silver hair riffled in the wind, his eyes were fixed on the boat with the blue and white striped sail, N-271. That yacht seemed to have gained a slight advantage over Topper as it skimmed across the waves.

Now everyone on shore could see the crews working madly to fine-tune the trim of their sails even as they hung out over the sides, using body weight to balance their craft.

The two lead boats were closing in, N-271, the boat with the blue and white striped sail, still enjoying its small lead. So close were they now that Theodosia could even see the faces of the crew members pulled into grimaces, betraying their hard work and exhilaration.

Oliver Dixon stood at the ready, poised to fire the pistol as the winner hurtled across the finish line.

Theodosia picked up a silver pitcher and was about to empty it, when the finish-line gun sounded with a tremendous explosion.

A sudden hush swept through the crowd, as though someone had pulled the plug.

Then a single, anguished cry pierced the stillness. Beginning as a sob, Doe Belvedere Dixon’s voice rose in a horrified scream as blood poured forth from Oliver Dixon’s head, and she watched helplessly as her husband of nine weeks crumpled to the ground.