Gunpowder Green (4 page)

Giovanni Loard was suddenly next to her, frantically punching buttons on his cell phone. He barked into it, a harsh, urgent request for the operator to dispatch an ambulance and medical team to White Point Gardens.

Frustrated, feeling the need to do something, anything, Theodosia rushed over to where Oliver Dixon's body lay. Staring down, she inadvertently flinched at the sight of silver hair flecked with drops of blood. The poor man had pitched face forward onto the table, then slithered down. And, while his head now rested on the sandy shore, the lower half of his body was partially submerged. Water lapped insistently, gently rocking him back and forth in the surf.

Seconds later, Theodosia pulled herself together. Bending down, she gently touched her index and middle fingers to the side of Oliver Dixon's throat. There was nothing. No throb of a pulse, no breath sounds.

“The ambulance is on its way. What else can we do?” Giovanni Loard had joined her again. His breath was coming in short gasps; he was pale and seemed on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Nothing,” replied Theodosia as she stared at the bright crimson stain on Oliver Dixon's mortally wounded head. “I'm afraid there's nothing we
can
do.”

What seemed like an eternity was really only three minutes, according to Drayton's ancient Piaget watch, before screams from the ambulance erupted just blocks away.

“Theodosia, come over here.”

“What?” Theodosia looked up into Drayton's lined countenance. He bore the sad look of a betrayed blood-hound.

“Come over here while they tend to him,” Drayton urged.

She was suddenly aware that her feet were cold, and her long, silk skirt had somehow gotten wet and now trailed sadly. Drayton pulled her away from Oliver Dixon's body as a team of paramedics pushed past them, kicking the table out of their way. White blankets fluttered, and Theodosia heard the clatter of the metal gurney against rock. It made an ugly, scraping sound.

Drayton led her to one of the chairs and forced her to sit down.
Minutes earlier, carefree revelers had sat here,
she thought to herself. People had been enjoying iced tea and hors d'oeuvres—
her
iced tea and hors d'oeuvres. The crowd began to disperse and mill around. People spoke in hushed tones, but still no one seemed to know quite what to do.

Delaine wandered over and collapsed in a chair across from Theodosia. Her teeth were chattering, and her hair swung down in untidy tendrils. Eyes the size of saucers, she stared at Theodosia. “My God,” she moaned, “did you see that poor man's
face
?”

“Hush,” snapped Drayton. “Of course she saw it. We all did.”

Theodosia turned away from Delaine and gazed toward the rocky shore where Oliver Dixon's body still lay. The paramedics had arrived with a bustle, looking very official and snappy in their bright blue uniforms. They'd brought oxygen canisters, defibrillating equipment, IV needles, and bags of saline. Though they'd been working on Oliver Dixon for some time now, Theodosia knew there wasn't a single thing the paramedics could pull out of their bag of tricks that would make a whit of difference. The situation was completely out of their hands. Oliver Dixon was with his maker now.

Of course, the Charleston police had also arrived on the heels of the paramedics. Squealing tires had bumped up and over curbs, chewing across soft turf and leaving tire treads in their wake. In many spots, grass and newly sprouted flowers had been completely torn up.

Theodosia put her head in her hands and tried to shut out the low buzz of the crowd as the police began asking questions. She rubbed her eyes hard, then looked back at the minor furor that was still taking place over Oliver Dixon's body. One of the paramedics, the husky one, had inserted a tube down the poor man's throat and was pumping a plastic bag furiously.

Two men, obviously police, detached themselves from a cluster of onlookers and joined the paramedics.

Theodosia squinted, trying to protect her eyes from the glare of sun on water, and tried to sort out what exactly was going on between the paramedics and the police. When one of the policemen turned sideways, Theodosia realized with a start that she recognized that ample silhouette.

It was Burt Tidwell.

Theodosia sighed. Burt Tidwell had to be one of the most arrogant, cantankerous detectives on the entire Charleston police force. She'd run up against Tidwell last fall when a guest at one of the Lamplighter Tours had been poisoned. He'd been the investigating detective, obtuse in his questioning, brash in his demeanor.

At the same time, Tidwell was a star player. He was the Tiger Woods of detectives.

Theodosia watched as Tidwell took command of the scene. His physical presence loomed large, his manner was beyond take-charge, veering toward overbearing. The paramedics, finally resigned to the fact that all their heroic efforts were in vain, quit what they were doing and stepped back. It was no longer their show. Now it was Tidwell's.

Finally, Theodosia could stand it no more.

“Where will you be taking him?” Theodosia plucked at the sleeve of Tidwell's tweed jacket. It was just like Tidwell to be wearing wool on the first really hot day. On the other hand, Tidwell wasn't the kind of man who concerned himself with matters of fashion. His was a more focused existence. Two things seemed to hold Tidwell's interest; crime and food. And not necessarily in that order.

Tidwell's bullet-shaped head swiveled on his broad shoulders until he was staring straight at Theodosia. His lower lip drooped, and his bushy eyebrows spread across his domed forehead like an errant caterpillar. Only his hooded eyes, clear and sharp, reflecting keen intelligence, registered recognition.

“You,” he finally growled.

“You'll have to step back, miss.” A uniformed officer with a name tag that read Tandy grabbed Theodosia by the elbow and began to apply pressure, attempting to pull her back. He was instantly halted by Tidwell's angry gaze.

“Leave her alone,” Tidwell growled. His voice rumbled from his ample stomach like a boiler starting up.

Startled, Officer Tandy released Theodosia's arm and stepped back. “Yes sir,” he said politely.

Tidwell eyed Theodosia. He took in her wet skirt and slippers, registered her obvious distress. “Probably not to the hospital,” Tidwell said quietly as he watched one of the paramedics begin to pull a sheet up over Oliver Dixon's body. “This poor devil is most assuredly dead.”

Once again, Theodosia took in the mud and bloodstains. Then her eyes strayed to something she hadn't noticed before. Pieces of the exploded pistol lay scattered about. An embossed grip sat on wet sand a few feet from where they were standing. Another piece of twisted gray metal was nestled in a crack between two nearby rocks.

“But then, you knew that, didn't you?” Tidwell gazed at her pleasantly. “The paramedics said you were first on the scene. They said you were the first one to reach him.” Tidwell had a maddening way of phrasing questions as statements.

“Yes, I guess I was,” said Theodosia. It suddenly occurred to her that she might be experiencing a mild case of shock. It wasn't every day that someone was killed right before her very eyes.

“I believe I am correct in stating that the unfortunate Mr. Dixon was killed instantly when the pistol misfired,” said Tidwell. He gazed across Charleston Harbor, his eyes seeming to search for something on the distant shore. “Hell of a thing, these old pistols,” he murmured. “Thing works fine for years, decades it would seem in this case. Then one day . . .
ker-bang
.” Tidwell's hands flew into the air in a gesture that seemed to communicate a randomness of fate.

“Sir.” Officer Tandy handed a pair of latex gloves to Tidwell.

Wordlessly, Tidwell accepted the gloves, then worked the tight rubber over his chubby hands. He leaned down and began collecting the remnants of the pistol.

As Theodosia watched him, her normally unlined brow suddenly puckered into a frown. “You're going to have those pieces examined by a ballistics expert, aren't you?” she asked.

Burt Tidwell's hooded eyes blinked slowly, like a reptile contemplating its prey.

Tidwell dropped two pieces of the pistol into a plastic bag, handed the task off to Tandy, who hovered nearby. Then he hooked a large paw under Theodosia's elbow and began leading her away. Theodosia was aware of pressure on her arm and the crunch of tiny white seashells underfoot. And two hundred sets of eyes watching her.

When they were a good forty paces from the shore and Oliver Dixon's body, they stopped under a giant live oak tree and faced each other. Spanish moss waved in lacy, gray green banners above them. Warm, languid breezes off the bay caressed Theodosia's face, reminding her it was still Sunday afternoon. But the day no longer felt glorious.

“Tell me.” Tidwell cocked an eye toward her. “Are you always filled with such suspicion and unbridled skepticism?”

“Of course not,” said Theodosia defensively.
Lord,
she thought,
here we go again. Burt Tidwell has to be the most obstinate, obtuse cuss that ever roamed the face of this earth.

Last October, during the Lamplighter Tour, Tidwell had kept them all on pins and needles for weeks with his suspicions and vexing accusations when Bethany Shepherd, one of Haley's friends who filled in occasionally at the tea shop, had come under scrutiny. Of course, Tidwell had been unapologetic, even after Theodosia had been the one to discover that it was Samantha Rabathan and not Bethany who had perpetrated the deadly deed.

That death in the garden of the Avis Melbourne Home had appeared accidental, too. Now Theodosia had learned to be a bit more skeptical and exercise a modicum of caution.

She also knew Tidwell could be an irritant or an ally. Today, she wasn't sure which one he'd be. That coin was still up in the air.

“Miss Browning,” began Tidwell, “I have already spoken with one of the yacht club's board members. He is an attorney of note and is of the opinion that this was simply an unfortunate accident.”

“Did he tell you where the pistol is usually kept?” pressed Theodosia.

“I presume at the yacht club,” replied Tidwell. His smile was the kind tolerant adults often reserve for children. “Where it has always been kept under lock and key.”

“Which club?” asked Theodosia.

There was a sharp intake of breath as Tidwell hesitated.

Aha,
Theodosia thought to herself,
he doesn't know.

“There are two yacht clubs,” Theodosia informed Tidwell. She hesitated a moment before she continued. “And they are rivals.”

JEAKETTLES CHIRPED
and hissed, and the aroma of freshly brewed teas permeated the air: a delicately fruited Nilgiri, a sweet Assam, and a spicy black Yunnan from southwest China. Sunlight streamed in through the antique panes, bathing the interior of the tea shop in warm light and lending a glow to the wooden floors and battered hickory tables that were, somehow, just the right backdrop for the dazzling array of teapots that ranged from Cordon Bleu white porcelain to fanciful hand-painted floral ceramics.

Haley had been up early as usual, working wonders in the oversized professional oven they'd managed to squeeze into the back of the shop. Now benne wafers, blueberry scones, and lemon and sour cream muffins cooled on wooden racks. When the tea shop's double doors were propped open, as they so often were, Drayton swore the tantalizing aromas could be enjoyed up and down the entire length of Church Street.

By nine A.M., the day's first customers, shopkeepers from Robillard Booksellers, Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, and other nearby businesses, had already stopped by for their cup of tea and breakfast sweet. All had pressed Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley for details on the terrible events of yesterday, shaking their heads with regret, murmuring about the dreadful turn of events, and wasn't it a shame about the young widow, Doe.

Then there was a lull before the next wave of customers arrived. These were usually regulars from the historic district, who were wont to stop by for tea and a quiet perusal of the morning's newspaper as well as tourists who arrived via horse-drawn carriages and colorful jitneys.

It was during this lull that Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley had gathered around one of the round tables to sip tea and rehash yesterday's tragic events. They'd been joined by Miss Dimple, their elderly bookkeeper, who'd dropped by to pick up last week's receipts.

“And the pistol just exploded?” asked Miss Dimple with awe as the story unfolded once more for her benefit.

“With a cataclysmic crash,” said Drayton. “Then the poor man simply collapsed. But then, what else would you expect? I'm sure he was killed instantly.”