House was one of the peninsula’s premier bed-and-breakfasts. It featured elegantly furnished rooms with canopied beds, cypress paneling, and twelve-foot-high hand-molded plaster ceilings. And, of course, mounds of featherbeds just as the name promised. A second-story open-air bridge spanned the backyard garden and transported delighted visitors from the main house to a treetop dining room in the renovated hay loft of the carriage house.
In the cozy lobby, filled with every manner of ceramic goose, plush goose, and needlepoint goose, Theodosia stopped to chat with owners Angie and Mark Congdon. They were a husband and wife team who had both been commodity brokers in Chicago and fled the Windy City for a more temperate climate and slower pace.
Saint Philip’s Episcopal was the church for whom Church Street was named. It was a neoclassical edifice that had been drawing communicants for almost 200 years. When the bells in the tall, elegant spire chimed on Sunday mornings, the entire historic district knew that the Reverend Jonathan’s service was about to begin.
Theodosia stepped through a wrought iron archway into the private garden and burial ground.
“Good morning!” a voice boomed.
Theodosia halted in her tracks and looked around. She finally spotted Reverend Jonathan, a small, wiry man with short silver hair, on his hands and knees underneath a small oak tree.
“This tree didn’t fare well in the last big storm,” said Reverend Jonathan as he pulled a metal cable tight around a wooden stake. “I thought if I shored it up, it might have a chance to catch up with its big brothers.”
The “big brothers” Reverend Jonathan referred to were the two enormous live oaks that sat to either side of the parish house.
“You’ve worked wonders here,” said Theodosia. Under Reverend Jonathan’s watchful eye, the garden and historic burial ground had evolved from a manicured lawn with a few shrubs and memorial plaques to a hidden oasis filled with a delightful profusion of seasonal plants, flowering shrubs, stepping stones, and decorative statuary.
Reverend Jonathan straightened up and gazed about with pride. “I love getting my hands dirty. But I have to admit there’s always something needs fixing. Next big project is some restoration work on our beloved church’s interior arches.”
Even though he had well over 1,500 communicants to minister to, dozens of committees to juggle, and fund- raising to tend to, Reverend Jonathan was a tireless worker. He always seemed to find time for hands-on gardening and maintenance of the historic church.
“That’s the thing about these grande dame buildings.” He grinned. “Patch, patch, patch.”
“Mm,” said Theodosia as she handed Reverend Jonathan his canisters of tea. “I know the feeling.”
On her return trip to the Indigo Tea Shop, Theodosia’s thoughts turned once again to Hughes Barron’s death. Although she felt saddened that a human life had ended, it prickled her that the investigators seemed to be overlooking the obvious. If someone had been sitting at that far table with Hughes Barron, wouldn’t
On a hunch, Theodosia jogged over toward Meeting Street, where Samantha Rabathan lived. Samantha had been the chairperson for last night’s event, she reasoned. Maybe Sam would have a list of attendees. That might be a logical place to start.
As luck would have it, Samantha was outside, bustling about on her enormous veranda, tending to the heroic abundance of plant life that flourished in her many containers and flower boxes. A divorcée for almost ten years, Samantha’s only avocation seemed to be gardening. If Reverend Jonathan was the patron saint of trees and shrubs, Samantha was the guardian angel of flowers.
Samantha changed her flower boxes seasonally, so they might contain flowering bulbs, English daisies, clouds of wisteria, or miniature shrubs. Her trellises, usually hidden under mounds of perfect pink climbing roses, were legendary. Her backyard garden, with roses, star jasmine, begonias, and verbena clustered about a sparkling little pool, and tangled vines creeping up a backdrop of crumbling brick, was a must-see on the annual Garden Club Tour. And Samantha’s elegant floral arrangements always garnered blue as well as purple ribbons at the annual Charleston Flower Show.
“Samantha!” Theodosia waved from the street.
“Hello,” Samantha called back.
She was wearing her Mr. Green Jeans garb today, Theodosia noted. Green coveralls, green gloves, green floppy cotton hat, to go with her green thumb.
Most people in the neighborhood regarded Samantha as a bit of a hothouse plant herself. A delicate tropical flower with fine yellow hair and alabaster skin who shunned the sun. Close friends knew she was merely trying to prolong her facelift.
“How are you feeling today?” asked Theodosia. She shaded her eyes and gazed up at the porch with its trellises of ivy and trumpet vine and window boxes with overflowing ramparts of crape myrtle and althaea.
Samantha grinned sheepishly and fanned a gloved hand in front of her face. “Fine, really fine. Just too much excitement last night. I can’t believe I actually fainted over that poor man. How embarrassing. Oh, well, at least it proves I’m a true Southern lady. Got the vapors. All so very
“Samantha...” began Theodosia.
But Samantha gushed on. “What a gentleman Drayton was to come to my aid. I must remember to thank him.” She aimed her pruning shears toward a pot of cascading plumbago, snipped decisively, and laid a riot of bright blue flowers in her wicker basket. “I know. I shall put together one of my special bouquets. Drayton is a man of culture and refinement. He will appreciate the gesture.”
“I’m certain he will, Samantha,” said Theodosia. “Theodosia.” Samantha peered down from her veranda. “The sun is almost overhead. Do take care.”
Theodosia ignored her warning. “Samantha, is there any way to connect people’s names with the Lamplighter Tour tickets that were purchased?”
Samantha considered Theodosia’s question. “You’re asking me if we wrote down guests’ names?”
“Did you?” asked Theodosia hopefully.
Samantha shook her head slowly from side to side. “No, we just sold the tickets and collected the money. Nobody has ever bothered to keep track of who bought what or how many. Usually our biggest concern is trying to outsell the Tradd Street tour. You know, they have an awful lot of volunteers out pounding the streets. This year they even placed printed posters in some of the B and Bs!”
Theodosia put a hand to her head and smoothed back her hair. This was what she’d been afraid of. No record keeping, just volunteers selling tickets wherever they could.
“But you know,” added Samantha, venturing toward the sunlight, “if we offered a drawing or door prize in conjunction with the Lamplighter Tour, that would be an extra incentive to buy a ticket! And then, of course, we’d have to record people’s names and addresses and phone numbers, that sort of thing.” She wrinkled her nose in delicious anticipation. “A drawing! Isn’t that a marvelous idea? I can’t wait to propose it for next year’s Lamplighter Tour.”
Samantha snipped a few more stems of plumbago, then smiled brightly at Theodosia. “Theodosia, would
Chapter 7
Cane Ridge plantation was built in 1835 on Horlbeck Creek. It included a fanciful Gothic Revival cottage replete with soaring peaks and gables, steeply pitched shingled roof, and broad piazza extending around three sides. Set high on a vantage point overlooking a quiet pond and marshland, it had been a flourishing rice plantation in its day, with acres of flat, low fields that stretched out to meet piney forests.
Theodosia’s father, Macalester Browning, and her Aunt Libby had grown up at Cane Ridge, and Theodosia had spent countless summers there. She always returned to Cane Ridge when her heart was troubled or she was in need of clearing her head.
