“Or hunters as being terribly bright,” added Theodosia with a wry smile.
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by loud voices.
“What are you doing here?” came an angry scream.
Theodosia, Drayton, Burt Tidwell, and about forty other people turned to watch the beginnings of a shouting match on the lawn of Saint Philip’s.
“Who on earth is that?” asked Theodosia. She didn’t know his name, but she recognized the angry man with the flopping white hair, florid complexion, and hand-tailored pinstripe suit as the very same man from the yacht race. The commodore in the tight jacket swathed in gold braid.
“That’s Booth Crowley,” Tidwell told her.
“That’s Booth Crowley?” said Theodosia, stunned. Booth Crowley had been the one who’d been beckoning to Oliver Dixon that fateful Sunday. Booth Crowley had handed him the pistol.
And just look at who he’s yelling at, she thought. Billy Manolo, the worker from the yacht club who asked to borrow the tablecloth. Wasn’t this a strange little tableau?
“Hey buddy, cool your jets,” Billy Manolo cautioned. Lean, dark-complected, and a head taller than Booth Crowley, Billy stood poised on the balls of his feet, glowering back and looking as dangerous as a jungle cat.
Still, Booth Crowley persisted in his tirade.
“Is there some reason you’re here?” Booth Crowley thundered. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough problems?”
“Hey man, you’re crazy.” Billy Manolo curled his lip scornfully and waved one hand dismissively at Booth Crowley. “Take it easy, or you’ll put yourself into cardiac arrest.”
Indeed, thought Theodosia. Judging from Booth Crowley’s beet-red face and frantic antics, it looked as though he might go into cardiac arrest at any moment. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone quite so worked up. Booth Crowley was putting on a rather amazing show. And in front of the church at that.
“Do you know the fellow Crowley’s yelling at?” asked Drayton, mildly amused by the whole spectacle.
“That’s Billy Manolo,” replied Theodosia.
Drayton’s eyebrows shot sky high. “You do know him?”
“Met him,” said Theodosia. “He apparently works at the yacht club, taking care of the boats and doing odd jobs, I guess.”
The three of them watched Billy Manolo stalk off while Booth Crowley continued to rage at no one in particular.
“So that’s the Booth Crowley who’s a major donor to the symphony and the art museum and the hospital,” commented Drayton. “He doesn’t look like a mover and a shaker. Well, maybe shaking mad.”
“Ssh, Drayton, he’s heading this way,” cautioned Theodosia.
Booth Crowley looked like a furnace that had been stoked too high. He strode across the green lawn purposefully, both arms pumping furiously at his sides, his nostrils flared, his mouth gaping for air.
“You...Tidwell,” Booth Crowley hollered. “A word with you.”
Tidwell stood silently, a look of benign amusement on his jowly face.
Booth Crowley came puffing over to Tidwell. “I want you to keep an eye on that one.” Booth Crowley gestured wildly at the empty street behind him. “Billy Manolo. Works at the yacht club. Things have been missing. Manager had to dress him down last week, threatened to fire him if things don’t improve. Boy is a hoodlum. No good.”
Theodosia stifled a grin and wondered if Booth Crowley’s sentence structures were always this staccato and devoid of nouns and prepositions. A strange man. With a strange way of talking, too.
Drayton put a hand on Theodosia’s arm and began to steer her away from Tidwell and Booth Crowley. Crowley had eased back on the throttle a bit but was still sputtering. Tidwell was nodding mildly, listening to him but not really favoring Booth Crowley with his complete and undivided attention.
“Exit, stage left,” Drayton murmured under his breath.
“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But first . . .” Theodosia turned her focus on the bank of memorial wreaths she’d been studying earlier. Where is that wreath? she wondered. There was one composed of only greenery and purple leaves that had caught her eye earlier. Ah, here it is. She reached out and plucked a cluster of leaves from it even as Drayton propelled her away from one of the strangest memorial services she’d ever witnessed.
“What are you up to with that?” he asked.
Theodosia fingered the snippet of leaves. “They’re from the wreath that was sent by Lizbeth Cantrell.”
“Good Lord, you’re not serious. She sent a wreath and her brother is the prime murder suspect?”
“I promised to help her,” said Theodosia.
Drayton peered at her. “You did?” He shook his head. “You never fail to amaze me.”
“Do you know what this is? The greenery, I mean.”
Drayton pulled his half glasses from his jacket pocket and slid them onto his nose. “Coltsfoot,” he declared. “I’m awfully sure it’s coltsfoot.”
“What a strange thing to use for a memorial wreath. It’s not all that attractive,” Theodosia mused. “Maybe that’s why Lizbeth chose it. She was making a statement. Or anti-statement.”
“It’s more likely she chose it for the symbolism,” said Drayton.
Now it was Theodosia’s turn to give Drayton a strange look. “What symbolism might that be?”
“Coltsfoot represents justice,” said Drayton.
“Justice,” repeated Theodosia, now highly intrigued by Lizbeth Cantrell’s use of symbolism.
“It seems to me that more and more people are paying attention to certain symbols or talismans,” said Drayton. “I think it’s a symptom of unsettled times.”
“I think you may be right,” said Theodosia.
Chapter 14
“What do you think this could be?” asked Theodosia.
They had waited until late in the afternoon when the tea shop was finally empty before they brought out the tablecloth. Drayton had fished it out of the trunk of his Volvo, and now they were staring at the stains and splotches that traced irregular patterns across what had once been pristine linen.
“Yuck,” said Haley. “It’s blood. What else would it be?”
“No, look here.” Theodosia scratched at a brownish gray stain with her fingernail. “It could be powder marks,” she said. “Gunpowder.”
“Perhaps,” said Drayton with a frown. Using the borrowed magnifying glass, he studied the tablecloth carefully. “What about some variety of seaweed?” he proposed. “One end of it did end up dragging in Charleston Harbor. Isn’t there some kind of microorganism that might have washed over it and caused this mottled effect?
“You mean like plankton?” asked Haley. She had quizzed the two of them at length about the funeral, then listened with rapt attention as they told their story of the raging Booth Crowley and the disdainful Billy Manolo.
“Well, it could be,” replied Drayton, not entirely convinced by his own theory.
“What about schmutz?” countered Haley.
They both stared at her.
“You know,” said Haley. “Dirt, pollution, oil . . . schmutz.”
“Should the EPA ever offer you a position,” Drayton told her, “I’d advise you to turn them down.”
“All right, smarty, what do you think it is?” she said. “The darn thing slid onto the ground, some poor guy bled all over it, and then it knocked around in your trunk for a few days. Anything could have gotten on it.”
“Whatever’s on this tablecloth is from the picnic and not my trunk,” replied Drayton. “But, like Theodosia, I’m getting more and more fascinated.” He favored Theodosia with a serious look. “I do think you’re on to something.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his glasses. “You’re still adamantly against mentioning anything about this to Tidwell?”