“I’ll run and help her,” said Drayton.
Thanks in part to Drayton’s persuasiveness and Haley’s welcome offerings, the police allowed Haley to back her little blue hatchback up on the curb and set up a makeshift commissary. Within minutes, firefighters with soot-stained faces clustered around, gratefully accepting glasses of ice-cold sweet tea and helping themselves to scones and muffins. There was nothing more they could do now except hang tough and make sure there were no flare-ups from the red-hot cinders and ashes.
“Do you know how it started?” Theodosia asked one of the firefighters. He shook his head, unwilling to meet her gaze. A sick feeling was beginning to grow in the pit of her stomach. She searched the crowd, spotted a firefighter wearing a badge, figured he must be a captain or lieutenant or something like that.
Theodosia grabbed a tray of scones and edged her way toward him. He was on his cell phone, muttering excitedly. As she pressed forward, she distinctly heard the words flash point and arson.
Arson? she thought. Meaning someone deliberately set this fire? Dear lord, no.
As she stood watching him, the man with the badge punched a button on his phone and stared over at her. “Are you Angie Congdon?” he asked.
“She’s over there,” indicated Theodosia.
“Thanks.” He moved off and Theodosia watched as he went over and introduced himself to Angie, put a hand gently on her shoulder, then lead her away to talk.
Theodosia passed out the rest of the scones, then headed back to Haley’s car. Remarkably, Harlan Noble was standing there. But he looked grim.
“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-Fuissé. 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.”