Gunpowder Green atsm-2 Page 2

  “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 stagge
ring, 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.

  Chapter 2

  Drayton staggered toward Theodosia and grabbed her arm roughly. “No one’s doing anything!” he said in a choked whisper.

  Theodosia gazed about as the ghastly scene seemed to reveal itself in slow motion. Drayton was right. Everyone was just standing there. Picnickers who had been in such high spirits moments earlier seemed frozen in place. Most of the crowd gaped openly at Oliver Dixon’s splayed-out body; a few grimaced and covered their eyes.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Theodosia was aware of a woman collapsed on the ground. She considered the possibility that the young wife, Doe, had fainted and figured her hunch was correct.

  Theodosia found her voice. “Someone call 911!” she yelled. Her words rang out loud and commanding.

  Giovanni Loard was suddenly next to her, frantically punching buttons on his cell phone. He barked into it, a harsh, urgent request for the operator to dispatch an ambulance and medical team to White Point Gardens.

  Frustrated, feeling the need to do something, anything, Theodosia rushed over to where Oliver Dixon’s body lay. Staring down, she inadvertently flinched at the sight of silver hair flecked with drops of blood. The poor man had pitched face forward onto the table, then slithered down. And, while his head now rested on the sandy shore, the lower half of his body was partially submerged. Water lapped insistently, gently rocking him back and forth in the surf.

  Seconds later, Theodosia pulled herself together. Bending down, she gently touched her index and middle fingers to the side of Oliver Dixon’s throat. There was nothing. No throb of a pulse, no breath sounds.

  “The ambulance is on its way. What else can we do?” Giovanni Loard had joined her again. His breath was coming in short gasps; he was pale and seemed on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “Nothing,” replied Theodosia as she stared at the bright crimson stain on Oliver Dixon’s mortally wounded head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

  What seemed like an eternity was really only three minutes, according to Drayton’s ancient Piaget watch, before screams from the ambulance erupted just blocks away.

  “Theodosia, come over here.”

  “What?” Theodosia looked up into Drayton’s lined countenance. He bore the sad look of a betrayed bloodhound.

  “Come over here while they tend to him,” Drayton urged.

  She was suddenly aware that her feet were cold, and her long, silk skirt had somehow gotten wet and now trailed sadly. Drayton pulled her away from Oliver Dixon’s body as a team of paramedics pushed past them, kicking the table out of their way. White blankets fluttered, and Theodosia heard the clatter of the metal gurney against rock. It made an ugly, scraping sound.

  Drayton led her to one of the chairs and forced her to sit down. Minutes earlier, carefree revelers had sat here, she thought to herself. People had been enjoying iced tea and hors d’oeuvres—her iced tea and hors d’oeuvres. The crowd began to disperse and mill around. People spoke in hushed tones, but still no one seemed to know quite what to do.

  Delaine wandered over and collapsed in a chair across from Theodosia. Her teeth were chattering, and her hair swung down in untidy tendrils. Eyes the size of saucers, she stared at Theodosia. “My God,” she moaned, “did you see that poor man’s face?”

  “Hush,” snapped Drayton. “Of course she saw it. We all did.”

  Theodosia turned away from Delaine and gazed toward the rocky shore where Oliver Dixon’s body still lay. The paramedics had arrived with a bustle, looking very official and snappy in their bright blue uniforms. They’d brought oxygen canisters, defibrillating equipment, IV needles, and bags of saline. Though they’d been working on Oliver Dixon for some time now, Theodosia knew there wasn’t a single thing the paramedics could pull out of their ba
g of tricks that would make a whit of difference. The situation was completely out of their hands. Oliver Dixon was with his maker now.

  Of course, the Charleston police had also arrived on the heels of the paramedics. Squealing tires had bumped up and over curbs, chewing across soft turf and leaving tire treads in their wake. In many spots, grass and newly sprouted flowers had been completely torn up.

  Theodosia put her head in her hands and tried to shut out the low buzz of the crowd as the police began asking questions. She rubbed her eyes hard, then looked back at the minor furor that was still taking place over Oliver Dixon’s body. One of the paramedics, the husky one, had inserted a tube down the poor man’s throat and was pumping a plastic bag furiously.

  Two men, obviously police, detached themselves from a cluster of onlookers and joined the paramedics.

  Theodosia squinted, trying to protect her eyes from the glare of sun on water, and tried to sort out what exactly was going on between the paramedics and the police. When one of the policemen turned sideways, Theodosia realized with a start that she recognized that ample silhouette.

  It was Burt Tidwell.

  Theodosia sighed. Burt Tidwell had to be one of the most arrogant, cantankerous detectives on the entire Charleston police force. She’d run up against Tidwell last fall when a guest at one of the Lamplighter Tours had been poisoned. He’d been the investigating detective, obtuse in his questioning, brash in his demeanor.

  At the same time, Tidwell was a star player. He was the Tiger Woods of detectives.

  Theodosia watched as Tidwell took command of the scene. His physical presence loomed large, his manner was beyond take-charge, veering toward overbearing. The paramedics, finally resigned to the fact that all their heroic efforts were in vain, quit what they were doing and stepped back. It was no longer their show. Now it was Tidwell’s.

  Finally, Theodosia could stand it no more.

  “Where will you be taking him?” Theodosia plucked at the sleeve of Tidwell’s tweed jacket. It was just like Tidwell to be wearing wool on the first really hot day. On the other hand, Tidwell wasn’t the kind of man who concerned himself with matters of fashion. His was a more focused existence. Two things seemed to hold Tidwell’s interest; crime and food. And not necessarily in that order.