“I think the poor girl was simply blessed with good looks,” said Theodosia. “She seems heartbroken.”
“You’re right,” amended Drayton. “I should be ashamed.”
“Should be,” whispered Theodosia and aimed an elbow toward Drayton’s ribs. She, too, had been watching Doe carefully, getting the feeling, more and more, that Doe might be wearing her mourning much the same as she would another beauty pageant title.
Finally, Theodosia and Drayton were at the head of the line, clasping hands with Brock and Quaid, Oliver Dixon’s two sons. “So sorry,” she and Drayton murmured to them in hushed tones. “You have our condolences.”
Then Theodosia was eye to eye with Doe.
Drayton’s right, she suddenly realized. The girl looked appropriately sad and subdued but, at the same time, she seemed to be playing a role. The role of grieving widow.
“My deepest sympathy,” said Theodosia as she grasped Doe’s hand.
“Thank you.” Doe’s eyes remained downcast, her long eyelashes swept dramatically against pink cheeks. Theodosia idly wondered if they were extensions. Eyelash extensions were a big thing these days. First had come hair, now eyelashes. These days, it seemed like a girl could improve on almost anything if she wanted to. And had enough money.
“As you may know,” said Theodosia, “I was the first to reach him.”
Doe’s eyes flicked up and stared directly into Theodosia’s eyes. Her gaze didn’t waver. “Thank you,” she whispered. “How very kind of you.”
Theodosia was aware of Drayton gently crowding her. It felt like he was beginning to radiate disapproval. She knew it was one thing to speculate on Doe’s veracity, another to push her a bit. Still, Theodosia persisted.
“Anyone would have done the same,” Theodosia assured her. “Such a terrible thing... the pistol...”
Doe had begun to look slightly perturbed. “Yes . . .” she stammered.
“After all, your husband was an avid hunter, was he not? He was extremely familiar with guns?”
“Yes, I suppose...as a member of the Chessen Hunt Club he... I’m sorry, I don’t see wha—”
“Shush,” said Theodosia, patting the girl’s hand. “If there’s anything Drayton or I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“That was expressing condolences?” hissed Drayton when they were out of earshot. “You just about browbeat the poor girl. She didn’t know what to think.” They walked a few steps farther. “I assume you were testing the water, so to speak? Trying to ascertain if Oliver Dixon knew anything about guns?”
“Drayton . . .” Theodosia grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of the stream of people passing by. “I think Oliver Dixon was set up.”
He pursed his lips and gazed at her with speculation. “Set up. You mean—”
“Someone caused that pistol to misfire,” Theodosia said excitedly.
“You know, I really don’t like where you’re going with this,” Drayton said irritably.
“Hear me out,” said Theodosia. If someone tampered with that pistol, and I’ve really come to believe that’s exactly what happened, then hard evidence might also exist. Like explosives or—”
“Hard evidence,” said Drayton with a quizzical frown. “Hard evidence where?”
“On the tablecloth,” said Theodosia.
Drayton just stared at her.
“One of my tablecloths was on the table that Oliver
Dixon fell onto. He tumbled onto the table, then slid down into a heap. Remember?” Drayton hesitated a moment, trying to fix the scene in his mind. “Yes, I do. You’re right,” he replied finally.
“So there could be particles of gunpowder or explosives or whatever still clinging to that tablecloth,” prompted Theodosia.
“Oh,” said Drayton. Then, “Oh, I see what you mean!”
“Now, if I could only figure out what happened to that darned tablecloth,” said Theodosia. “In all the hubbub and commotion, I’m not entirely sure where it ended up.” She stared out the open doors of the church toward the street.
“I have it,” said Drayton.
She whirled toward him in surprise. “You have it?”
“I’m almost certain I do. At least I have a vague recollection of untangling it and packing it up with the other things.”
“So where is the tablecloth now?”
“Probably still in the trunk of my car. I was going to drop all the dirty linens at Chase’s Laundry yesterday, then I got busy with the Heritage Society. I received a call that someone had brought in this old, wooden joggling board... you know, they were used for crossing ditches on rice plantations? They’re so terribly rare now and I—”
“Drayton...”
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad you have your priorities straight,” Theodosia said as they strolled out into the sunlight. “Because you very nicely preserved what could amount to evidence.”
Suddenly, Theodosia’s smile froze on her face and she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh rats. That’s Burt Tidwell over there.”
Drayton frowned. “Why do you suppose he’s here?”
“Why do you think?” she said, squinting across the way at him.
“Investigating?” squeaked Drayton. “Looking for suspects?”
“Same as us,” said Theodosia. She bit her lip, debating whether or not she should go over and talk to him.
“Well, are you going to talk to him?” Drayton asked finally.
She hesitated a moment, then made up her mind. “Why not? Let’s both waltz over there and see if we can push his buttons before he starts to push ours.”
“All right,” agreed Drayton. “But nothing about the—”
Theodosia held an index finger to her lips. “Mum’s the word,” she cautioned.
They strolled over to where a bank of memorial wreaths was displayed. Theodosia decided that Oliver Dixon must have been extremely well liked and respected to have garnered a church full of flower arrangements as well as a huge assortment of memorial wreaths that had spilled outside.
Burt Tidwell was studying one of the wreaths. “Look at this,” he said to them. “Wild grape vine entwined with lilies, the flower symbolizing resurrection. So very touching.” Tidwell inclined his head slightly. He’d captured Theodosia in his peripheral vision; now his eyes bore into her. “Miss Browning, how do. And here’s Mr. Conneley, too.”
“Hello,” said Drayton pleasantly.
“You took Ford Cantrell in for questioning,” said Theodosia without preamble.
Tidwell favored her with a faint smile. “My dear Miss Browning, you seem somewhat surprised. I thought you’d be absolutely delighted that I followed up on your so-called tip.” Tidwell pronounced the word tip as though he were discussing odiferous compost in a garden.
Theodosia turned her attention to the memorial wreaths as Burt Tidwell rocked back on his heels, enormously pleased with himself. Here was a lovely floral wreath from the Heritage Society, she noted. And here was...Well, wasn’t this one a surprise!
“You might also be interested to know,” Tidwell prattled on, “that we discovered Ford Cantrell has a rather extensive gun collection. And that our Mr. Cantrell has recently turned his old plantation into a sort of hunting preserve.”
Tidwell suddenly had her attention once again. “What kind of hunting?” Theodosia asked.
“He claims to be appealing to all manner of wealthy sportsmen, promising prizes of deer, turkey, quail, and wild boar,” answered Tidwell.
“My aunt Libby has lived out that way for the better part of half a century,” said Theodosia, “and the wildest critters she’s ever encountered have been possum and porcupines.” She paused. “And once, when I was a kid, we ran across a dead alligator. But I don’t suppose that really counts.”
“No one ever characterized Ford Cantrell as being an honest man,” said Tidwell.