Sweat Tea Revenge (11 page)

13

Dougan Granville’s funeral
was held at St. Phillip’s, just a block or so from the Indigo Tea Shop. St. Phillip’s was an Episcopal church with neoclassical arches reminiscent of London’s St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields Church.

Theodosia arrived at the funeral purposefully late, slipping into a pew near the back of the church. She was only mildly surprised to find that the church was packed. Probably, she figured, many of Granville’s current and former clients had shown up out of polite respect. Plus there were board members and volunteers from the various charities that Granville’s serious sums of money had helped support. And, probably, some of his cigar-smoking buddies were here, too—businessmen who’d dropped by DG Stogies to grab a cigar and chew the fat with him while they bragged about mergers and dandy profit margins.

It was pretty clear that while Granville might not have been everyone’s favorite in life, he’d become Mr. Popularity in death.

Edging to her right, peering through a sea of people, Theodosia saw that Delaine was seated in the very first row. Allan Grumley sat to her right, Charles Horton to her left. She wondered if Delaine had made peace with the two men or was just dependent on them for emotional support. Probably the latter.

Upstairs, in the choir loft, an organist began to pump out the opening notes of a sorrowful dirge by Mozart. The notes spiraled out and upward, hanging in the air and filling the church with their solemnity.

Way down front, just this side of the altar, Theodosia could see a sterling silver urn resting on a small wooden table.

Cremated
, she thought to herself.
Granville’s been cremated.

So that was that. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, just as the English
Book of Common Prayer
, adapted from Genesis 3:19, had professed.

Theodosia glanced around again. Max had promised to join her. Except he had a meeting at the museum. She scanned the crowd. Was he here already? Maybe he’d wiggled out of his meeting? Why was life always so filled with conflict?

Her eyes fell on Simone Asher, who was sitting four rows ahead of her. Simone had wound her long blond hair into a French twist and was wearing a black bouclé jacket. Theodosia craned her head forward, wondering if the jacket was vintage. Maybe Dior or Chanel? Hard to tell. Those particular couture houses had a way of making all their pieces look timeless.

As if she could actually feel Theodosia’s eyes burning against the back of her head, Simone suddenly swiveled around. Her eyes skimmed the crowd, then landed on Theodosia. There was a flare of recognition and a sudden harshness in her expression. Then Simone touched a Kleenex to her nose and turned back toward the front of the church.

“Sorry I’m late,” whispered Max. He slid in next to her, suddenly filling her little space with his being. He sat down heavily, shoulders and knees touching and bumping hers, a reassuring male presence.

“I was worried you wouldn’t make it,” Theodosia whispered.

Max rolled his eyes and grabbed her hand. “I had to do some artful dodging, but I’m here now.” He glanced around. “How’s Delaine holding up?”

“She called me this morning and asked if I thought it was okay for her to wear open-toe shoes,” said Theodosia.

“So she’s doing fine,” said Max. “Delaine is being Delaine.”

“But she’s still a sad Delaine.”

“Sure, she is,” said Max, just as the organ music switched over to an even more somber rendition.

As if on cue, everyone stood up.

“Now what?” asked Max. He wasn’t particularly religious, so he didn’t attend church regularly. Theodosia thought she might have to do something about that.

“The service is starting,” said Theodosia.

Reverend Jeremiah Blaise, who’d been at St. Phillip’s for more than a dozen years and knew pretty much everyone in Charleston, began the service. He strode to the lectern, gripped it with both hands, and said, “This is a sad day for the city of Charleston.” With his long snow-white hair and angular face and body, he looked the embodiment of a modern-day prophet.

Reverend Blaise went on to give a moving and very touching eulogy, recounting Dougan Granville’s many civic contributions as well as his support of many local charities and arts organizations. Theodosia figured either Delaine or Allan Grumley had coached him heavily.

Then Allan Grumley took his turn at the lectern. He spoke of Granville as a smart, hardworking partner, as well as a lawyer who fought hard for the rights of the common man. Theodosia wondered how the common man would feel if he stepped into Granville’s elegant mansion and saw the paintings, antiques, and Spode china.

Max, who was getting a little restless, leaned forward, gripped the pew in front of him, and scanned the row they were seated in.

“Who’s that guy?” he whispered to Theodosia.

Theodosia tilted her head forward and glanced down the row. And immediately saw Jack Alston. In a dark suit and blue shirt that made his eyes look even bluer, he noticed her noticing and gave a small smile. “He’s nobody,” she told Max.

“Seems like he’s been staring at you,” said Max.

“I’ll tell you about him later,” said Theodosia.

“He’s got eyes like a Samoyed. Piercing blue.”

Yes, he does
, thought Theodosia.
And I wish he’d get them off me.

Charles Horton, Granville’s stepson, delivered the final eulogy. Dressed in a light-colored linen jacket and khaki slacks, he looked like he was on his way to lunch at Charleston’s Fox Ridge Country Club. For all Theodosia knew, maybe he was.

Horton, not exactly a world-class public speaker, droned on about reconnecting with family as the audience shuffled their feet and cleared their collective throats.

Until, suddenly, bizarrely, a cry rose from up front. It spiraled upward like the shriek of a wounded animal and spiked with an anguished gasp.

“Poor Delaine,” whispered Max.

“That’s not Delaine,” said Theodosia. “That’s her sister, Nadine.”

“The poor woman must be emotionally overwrought.”

Theodosia wanted to tell Max that Nadine got overwrought if her tea went cold. Or if her designer shoes pinched her big toe. Instead she said, “Perpetually.”

*   *   *

When the service
finally concluded, Theodosia and Max were among the first to leave the church. Max had to run back to the Gibbes Museum, but Theodosia hung around, specifically so she could talk to Tidwell. She hadn’t spotted him in the crowd, but she knew the bulky detective had to be lurking somewhere.

She didn’t have to wait long. As guests streamed out, Tidwell was easy to spot. He was the guy in the too-tight, oversized suit who cast wary glances at everyone.

Theodosia raised a hand and waved. “Detective!” she called out. “Tidwell!”

He saw her and wandered over to her. “What?” he asked, his eyes still scanning the crowd.

“The paperweight,” said Theodosia, frustrated that she had to bring it up. That he wasn’t offering her the latest news. “Anything?”

Tidwell shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. It was submerged far too long to get any meaningful prints off it.”

“Rats,” said Theodosia.

“Or Rattlings,” Tidwell murmured as he quickly moved off.

Before Theodosia could run after Tidwell, she was hit with a strange surprise. Jed and Tim Beckman rushed to greet her. Jed carried a video camera, while Tim, with a battery pack strung around his waist, held their sound equipment and a boom microphone.

“Good heavens,” said Theodosia. “Don’t tell me you guys have been filming?”

“Didn’t you see us up front?” said Tim.

“Miss Dish said it was okay,” Jed assured her.

“She did, really?” said Theodosia.

“She’s awfully nice,” said Tim.

“She’s awfully sad today,” said Theodosia. “I hope you didn’t impose on her too much.”

“We wouldn’t do that,” said Jed, as he aimed the lens of his camera into the crowd.

“What are you going to use the footage for?” asked Theodosia.

Jed shrugged. “Not sure.”

Theodosia gazed at the crowd that had congregated on the sidewalk and spotted Bill Glass. Just like Jed and Tim, he was busy recording the event, snapping photos like he was at a Hollywood red-carpet event.

Theodosia slithered through the crowd and tapped Glass on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

Glass never broke stride. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he said, as he clicked off another half-dozen shots. “This is great stuff. Bunch of swells at a funeral? You can’t beat it.”

“Glass,” she said, suddenly getting an idea. “Can I take a look at the photos you shot the day of the wedding?”

Glass glanced at her. “You mean Delaine’s nonwedding?”

“Whatever you want to call it,” said Theodosia. “The thing is, can I see them?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Glass. “But not until tomorrow, okay? I’m crazy busy today; we go to press tonight.”

“Maybe you could stop by the tea shop?”

“Sure,” said Glass. As he continued to shoot, Allan Grumley and Charles Horton walked by.

“Hey guys, look this way!” Glass called to them. “Gimme a big smile! Say
circumstantial evidence
!”

Annoyed, both men turned away.

But not before Theodosia had nabbed Grumley. “Grumley!” she called out, putting a note of authority in her voice. “I need to talk to you!”

Grumley didn’t look happy, but he hesitated nonetheless. “What?” he asked.

“You told Delaine and me that Detective Tidwell wanted you to keep Granville’s will under wraps.”

“Yes,” said Grumley.

“No,” said Theodosia. “That’s not what he said at all. You lied to us.”

“You don’t get it,” said Grumley. “I’m protecting Delaine.” He turned and moved away.

“Protecting?” Theodosia called after him. “Protecting her from what?”

But Grumley was gone.

“Bizarre,” Theodosia muttered to herself. “Totally bizarre.” Had Grumley already cleared up the matter of the will with Delaine? Perhaps he had. After all, they’d sat together through the service. Okay, then, she had to speak to Delaine.

Theodosia elbowed her way through the crowd, nodding and smiling to folks she knew, but heading toward the main entrance where she figured Delaine should be by now.

And she was right. Delaine stood in front of the double doors, clutching the silver urn in her hands. Millie Grant was next to her. And so were Hillary Retton and Marianne Petigru, the two women who owned Popple Hill, one of Charleston’s premier interior decorating firms.

Delaine looked tense and tired, and Theodosia figured she’d probably hit her limit on accepting condolences. Now she was just on autopilot, poor dear.

A few more people shook Delaine’s hand and administered air kisses before she spotted Theodosia waiting for her. She whispered something to Millie, handed her the silver urn, and quickly buttonholed Theodosia.

“We’ve got a huge problem,” were Delaine’s first words.

“What’s wrong now?” asked Theodosia. Something about the will? The burial? Delaine’s boutique?

“It’s the Summer Garden Tour,” said Delaine. “Dougan’s house is on it.”

Theodosia stared at her. “You’re talking about the big Summer Garden Tour that starts day after tomorrow?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” said Theodosia. “Too bad Dougan’s house can’t be showcased on it anymore. Obviously the organizers will have to drop it at the last minute.”

“Dougan’s home is not being dropped,” said Delaine.

“What are you talking about?”

“The thing is,” said Delaine, “we can’t just opt out. Dougan’s house is listed in the printed program. It’s already been
advertised
as one of six homes on the tour.”

“Tell them to
un
advertise it.” The answer seemed obvious to Theodosia.

Delaine shook her head. “It’s too late. We’ll just have to pull it together as best we can.”

“You keep saying
we
,” said Theodosia.

“Because you live right next door,” Delaine reasoned. “It’s only a hop, skip, and a jump from your cottage to Dougan’s place. I figured you could help out.”

“What!” Theodosia yelped. Delaine had just thrown her one heck of a curve ball. “Good Lord, Granville’s home and gardens can’t possibly be ready in two days’ time!” She fought to get a grip as people around them suddenly stared with curiosity. “You can’t make that happen!
I
can’t make that happen!”

“Well, someone has to,” said Delaine, rather irritably.

“Maybe you could hire someone,” said Theodosia. “Or get Nadine to pitch in and help.”

Delaine puckered her lips in distaste. “Are you serious? You saw my sister today. She’s about as useless as a garden slug.” Delaine shook her head. “No, Theo, it’s up to us to make it happen. There’s just no other option.”

Theodosia was still stunned. “But I . . . um, what would I have to do?”

“First off,” said Delaine, “I’ll contact the gardener and cleaning staff and have them get everything ship-shape.”

“Okaaay,” said Theodosia, as she waited for the other shoe to drop. And she didn’t have to wait long.

“And you can handle the refreshments,” Delaine smiled.

Thud.

“Me? Seriously?”

“Yes,” said Delaine. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You cater little gatherings?”

“But this wouldn’t exactly be a little gathering. We’re talking about the possibility of hundreds of people touring Granville’s home and gardens. Maybe even a thousand people who’ll need tea and desserts!”

“Theo,” said Delaine, looking both serious and a little frightened, “I’m asking you as a friend. Out of
desperation
. I really need your help. Now are you
in
or not?”

“Okay, yes, I’ll help,” said Theodosia, feeling sufficiently browbeaten.

“Good,” said Delaine. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

Theodosia shifted around. “Will we be going to the cemetery?”

Delaine shook her head. “No. Since Dougan was cremated, I’ve decided to take his ashes and have them made into a diamond.”

“Excuse me?” Theodosia rasped. Had she heard Delaine correctly? No, she couldn’t have. Delaine had muttered something about a diamond. The poor woman must be confused and mad with grief after all.