Dragonwell Dead

“The orchids?” Harlan Noble asked. His dark eyes glowed while his face was as white as a sheet. “The orchids are ruined?”

“Everything’s ruined,” snapped Theodosia. She wondered how Harlan Noble could worry about orchids at a time like this, when Angie’s only means of survival has just gone up in smoke!

“Give it a rest, will you, Harlan?” said Drayton, sounding more than a little cross. “And kindly move back.”

Theodosia dropped the empty tray to her side and scanned the huge crowd that was still gathered. There were lots of familiar faces among the people who’d come to gaze in awe at the ruined Featherbed House. Neighbors, people who worked at the Heritage Society down the street, shop-keepers from around the historic district.

Why, there’s Leah Shalimar, thought Theodosia, giving a little start as she spotted her in the crowd. She must have still been in the neighborhood.

And way over on the sidelines stood Fayne Hamilton.

Theodosia gave a sharp intake of breath. She’d completely forgotten about Fayne.

Could she have had a hand in this? Theodosia suddenly wondered as tendrils of suspicion crept into her mind. The love notes to Mark, the fact that Fayne had been in this exact vicinity when the fire started, and the mumblings about arson would seem to make Fayne a prime suspect.

Theodosia decided she’d better have a little chat with the fire captain once he was finished talking to Angie.

What was it fire investigators said about arsonists? Theodosia wondered to herself. Oh yes . . . that arsonists often show up to view their own handiwork.

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-Fuisse. 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