“Where’s Angie staying?” asked Theodosia. When she, Drayton, and Haley finally left late yesterday, Angie hadn’t figured out what her plans would be.
“She’s holed up with her sister, Gwyn, down the street at the Bogard Inn,” said Delaine. “I guess everyone down there really had to hustle. Most of the folks flying in from out of town for the funeral today had planned to stay at the Featherbed House.”
“A dreadfully sad change of plans, eh?” said Drayton coming up behind them.
“Afraid so,” said Delaine. She spun on her stilettos and surveyed the interior of the church. “But everything here looks wonderful. If we just move the Remembrance memorial wreath over to this side and, oh . . . I almost forgot about the Timeless Tribute casket spray. Don’t you think we should . . .”
“Wait for the casket to arrive,” said a somber Drayton.
As mourners filed in, filling the front pews and then spilling into the middle and back sections of the church, Theodosia and Drayton slipped into seats on the side aisle. Finally, a cousin of Angie Congdon, a tall man with a sad basset hound face, stepped up to the front of the church and gave a knowing nod to the organist. The opening tones of Mozart’s Requiem suddenly thundered in the vast recess of the church. Then, six pallbearers in dark suits wheeled the casket down the aisle. When they arrived at the front of the church, they seesawed it back and forth for a moment, then positioned it horizontally.
Twisting around in her seat, Theodosia studied the people who were already seated. Lots of people from the historic district had shown up, friends and neighbors who knew and cared for Angie and Mark. And there was Leah Shalimar, looking sedate in a navy suit, seated just behind Bobby Wayne. And way in the back of the church, Harlan Noble sat folded up like a praying mantis.
Then Angie walked in, looking small and tentative within her protective contingent of relatives. Once everyone had taken their seats, Delaine approached the large mahogany casket and placed a spray of long-tailed purple-pink Machu Picchu orchids on top. Then she took her seat with the rest of the mourners.
It was a traditional service, filled with fine words that should have brought great comfort and solace. But Theodosia found little consolation. Like most everyone close to her, she was convinced that Mark’s death had been a wrongful death. And that justice was still waiting to be served. Swiveling in her seat once again, she surreptitiously scanned the crowd, wondering if anyone among them had come here today with a guilt-laden heart.
No, everyone looks very solemn and sad.
Drayton’s shoulder gently touched hers. “Bobby Wayne,” he said in a low murmur.
Slowly, as though moving with great effort, Bobby Wayne Loveday took his place at the podium. He had been Mark’s friend and employer. And lately, Angie’s confidant and shoulder to cry on. It seemed fitting that Bobby Wayne deliver the final eulogy.
Bobby Wayne spoke eloquently, but with a warmth and down-home charm. He praised Mark, whom he called a dear and kind man, and wept openly when he spoke about Angie and Mark’s marriage of twenty years. His words were heartfelt and touching.
Bobby Wayne finished up by reciting the poem “If Death Is Kind,” by Sara Teasdale.
“Perfect,” breathed Theodosia.
“Magnificent choice,” whispered Drayton, pulling out a hanky to wipe his red-rimmed eyes.
The organ sounded a single note, then broke into the hymn “Abide with Me,” as Bobby Wayne walked solemnly back to his seat. Theodosia’s moist eyes followed him as he slid into a pew next to Delaine and fumbled for her hand.
Theodosia had been completely wowed by Bobby Wayne’s choice of poems. The Teasdale poem was short, poignant, and contained some amazingly appropriate phrasing. References to honeysuckle, resounding beaches, and the gentle thunder of the sea seemed like tailor-made descriptors of Charleston!
As the final organ hymn concluded, a short blessing was bestowed on Mark Congdon’s casket. Then Drayton rose from his seat and walked to the front of the cathedral.
“As you know,” began Drayton, in an oratorical style that had been honed from dozens of lectures given at the Heritage Society, “we have invited all of you to place a flower on Mark’s casket in tribute to his great passion for orchids and gardening. As the pallbearers wheel him out, please feel free to come to the center aisle and place your flower gently atop the casket. Then we shall all proceed to Magnolia Cemetery for brief prayers and the final interment.”
Theodosia watched as Drayton placed a spray of fire orchids atop Mark’s casket. There were at least two dozen flowers on the vine-like stem, yellow-orange blossoms dappled with bright orange spots.
Then the six pallbearers snapped to attention and took their place alongside Mark’s casket. They wheeled it around, hesitated, then slowly made their way down the center aisle. A gentle rustle ran through the crowd and then arms were suddenly outstretched. Lilies, single roses, magnolias, stems of dogwood, and every kind of flower imaginable were placed on top of Mark’s casket.
Theodosia smiled through a veil of tears. It was as though the heavens had opened and flowers were raining down.
She watched as the casket, now a veritable bower of flowers, slowly approached the doors at the back of the church. Then, a small figure rose unsteadily, hesitated, then placed a flower and ribbon-entwined wreath on Mark’s coffin.
Fayne Hamilton! thought Theodosia. And she looks extremely distraught.
“Fayne,” murmured Theodosia to Drayton.
He frowned, not understanding.
“Mark’s secretary,” she whispered. “The notes.”
“Ohhh,” murmured Drayton, finally understanding. The two of them stood, waiting until most of the mourners had retreated from the cathedral, then walked toward the altar to collect the flowers.
“She put a wreath on Mark’s casket,” said Theodosia. “And, I must say, she looked very upset.”
“Who was upset?” asked Bobby Wayne, as he bent and, with a loud grunt, hefted one of the floral bouquets under Delaine’s careful direction.
“Fayne Hamilton,” said Theodosia.
Bobby Wayne peered at Theodosia through a jungle of orchids and vines. “You mean our Fayne? Mark’s secretary?”
Theodosia nodded.
“Poor girl.” Bobby Wayne sighed. “She’s been awfully upset. Even called in sick yesterday.”
A worried frown flickered across Theodosia’s face. “Yes, poor girl,” she murmured.
Theodosia caught up with Fayne Hamilton half a block from the cathedral. She waved at the girl, called her name, dodged through throngs of mourners who milled about on the wide sidewalk.
But when Fayne finally succumbed to Theodosia’s en-treaties, she seemed quite unwilling to talk. “Oh, hello,” was all Fayne said.