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?”