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
“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 bag 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.
Tidwell’s bullet-shaped head swiveled on his broad shoulders until he was staring straight at Theodosia. His lower lip drooped, and his bushy eyebrows spread across his domed forehead like an errant caterpillar. Only his hooded eyes, clear and sharp, reflecting keen intelligence, registered recognition.
“You,” he finally growled.
“You’ll have to step back, miss.” A uniformed officer with a name tag that read Tandy grabbed Theodosia by the elbow and began to apply pressure, attempting to pull her back. He was instantly halted by Tidwell’s angry gaze.
“Leave her alone,” Tidwell growled. His voice rumbled from his ample stomach like a boiler starting up.
Startled, Officer Tandy released Theodosia’s arm and stepped back. “Yes sir,” he said politely.
Tidwell eyed Theodosia. He took in her wet skirt and slippers, registered her obvious distress. “Probably not to the hospital,” Tidwell said quietly as he watched one of the paramedics begin to pull a sheet up over Oliver Dixon’s body. “This poor devil is most assuredly dead.”
Once again, Theodosia took in the mud and bloodstains. Then her eyes strayed to something she hadn’t noticed before. Pieces of the exploded pistol lay scattered about. An embossed grip sat on wet sand a few feet from where they were standing. Another piece of twisted gray metal was nestled in a crack between two nearby rocks.
“But then, you knew that, didn’t you?” Tidwell gazed at her pleasantly. “The paramedics said you were first on the scene. They said you were the first one to reach him.” Tidwell had a maddening way of phrasing questions as statements.
“Yes, I guess I was,” said Theodosia. It suddenly occurred to her that she might be experiencing a mild case of shock. It wasn’t every day that someone was killed right before her very eyes.
“I believe I am correct in stating that the unfortunate Mr. Dixon was killed instantly when the pistol misfired,” said Tidwell. He gazed across Charleston Harbor, his eyes seeming to search for something on the distant shore. “Hell of a thing, these old pistols,” he murmured. “Thing works fine for years, decades it would seem in this case. Then one day...
“Sir.” Officer Tandy handed a pair of latex gloves to Tidwell.
Wordlessly, Tidwell accepted the gloves, then worked the tight rubber over his chubby hands. He leaned down and began collecting the remnants of the pistol.
As Theodosia watched him, her normally unlined brow suddenly puckered into a frown. “You’re going to have those pieces examined by a ballistics expert, aren’t you?” she asked.
Burt Tidwell’s hooded eyes blinked slowly, like a reptile contemplating its prey.
Tidwell dropped two pieces of the pistol into a plastic bag, handed the task off to Tandy, who hovered nearby. Then he hooked a large paw under Theodosia’s elbow and began leading her away. Theodosia was aware of pressure on her arm and the crunch of tiny white seashells underfoot. And two hundred sets of eyes watching her.
When they were a good forty paces from the shore and Oliver Dixon’s body, they stopped under a giant live oak tree and faced each other. Spanish moss waved in lacy, gray green banners above them. Warm, languid breezes off the bay caressed Theodosia’s face, reminding her it was still Sunday afternoon. But the day no longer felt glorious.
“Tell me.” Tidwell cocked an eye toward her. “Are you always filled with such suspicion and unbridled skepticism?”
“Of course not,” said Theodosia defensively.
Last October, during the Lamplighter Tour, Tidwell had kept them all on pins and needles for weeks with his suspicions and vexing accusations when Bethany Shepherd, one of Haley’s friends who filled in occasionally at the tea shop, had come under scrutiny. Of course, Tidwell had been unapologetic, even after Theodosia had been the one to discover that it was Samantha Rabathan and not Bethany who had perpetrated the deadly deed.
That death in the garden of the Avis Melbourne Home had appeared accidental, too. Now Theodosia had learned to be a bit more skeptical and exercise a modicum of caution.
She also knew Tidwell could be an irritant or an ally. Today, she wasn’t sure which one he’d be. That coin was still up in the air.
“Miss Browning,” began Tidwell, “I have already spoken with one of the yacht club’s board members. He is an attorney of note and is of the opinion that this was simply an unfortunate accident.”
“Did he tell you where the pistol is usually kept?” pressed Theodosia.
“I presume at the yacht club,” replied Tidwell. His smile was the kind tolerant adults often reserve for children. “Where it has always been kept under lock and key.”
“Which club?” asked Theodosia.
There was a sharp intake of breath as Tidwell hesitated.
