That hope spun dizzyingly in her head as Theodosia decided to shift her attention to the Dun & Bradstreet report that had arrived so speedily this afternoon. There were just four pages, but they contained what looked like a good assessment of Grapevine: a rundown on its products and the company’s growth potential. Just as Haley had mentioned a few days ago, Grapevine had started production on a number of different expansion modules for PDAs. Although competition was stiff in this area, the report seemed to indicate that Grapevine had done its homework and was about to launch a very viable product.
Theodosia finally took a break when the oven timer buzzed. Ambling out into the kitchen, she slid her hand into a padded mitt and pulled the popovers from the oven. They were perfect. Golden brown and heroically puffed. Haley’s recipes were the best. They always turned out.
After pouring the lentil soup into a mug, Theodosia carried everything back to the dining room table on a tray, sliding the printouts out of the way before she set her food down. Earl Grey was immediately at her elbow, giving a gentle nudge, lobbying for a bite of popover.
“Leftovers when I’m finished,” she told him, and he assumed that worried look dogs often get.
Theodosia had finished her soup and was plowing through the printouts a second time, when she stopped to study the single photo of Oliver Dixon lying facedown, half in, half out of the water.
The photographer must have snapped the shot just moments before she reached down to check for a pulse, because the tip of her right hand was slightly visible. They hadn’t printed that photo in the paper because it was, undoubtedly, too gruesome, but they’d retained it in their collection of shots from that day.
Closing her eyes, Theodosia tried to recall her impression of that single, defining moment. She had a strong, visceral recollection of the hot, pungent aroma of exploded gunpowder, chill water lapping at her ankles, and a sense of unreality, of feeling numb, as she stared at Oliver Dixon’s still body.
What had Tidwell told her about loading the old pistol? Theodosia searched her memory. Oh yes, Tidwell had said you put a pinch of gunpowder on a little piece of paper and twist it. Kind of like creating a miniature tea bag.
Theodosia held the magnifying glass to the printout. It was extremely grainy and hard to discern any real detail. She could just make out the back of poor Oliver Dixon’s head, dark against a lighter background.
Theodosia sighed. There just didn’t seem to be anything here.
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?”