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.
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?
“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,
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
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,
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,
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
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.
