Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

Lizbeth blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said simply.

A pot of lentil soup simmered on the back burner; popovers baked golden and fluffy in the oven. Although Theodosia’s upstairs apartment was not overly large, it possessed that rare trait so often lacking in many newer apartments: style. Aubasson rugs in faded blue and cinnamon covered the floors. French doors gave the appearance of a living and dining room that flowed together flawlessly, while cove ceilings gave the rooms a cozy, architectural ambiance. Draperies and sofa were done in muted English chintz and prints.

Earlier, Drayton had gone next door to Robillard Booksellers and borrowed one of their oversized magnifying glasses on the pretext of trying to decipher some old Chinese tea labels. Now Theodosia held the magnifying glass in her hand as she sat at her dining room table, studying the black and white printouts. They’d been transmitted electronically just as Haley had promised, sliding, as if by magic, from her laser printer.

The photos were interesting in that they did, indeed, chronicle the events of that Sunday afternoon. Here were photos of sailboats jostling in the harbor at the beginning of the race. Then photos of the two dozen or so boats, sails filled with wind, setting off toward the Atlantic. The photographer had then concentrated on shots of the crowd. There were photos of people talking, people shaking hands, people hugging and exchanging air kisses. Delaine was in a couple shots; Drayton showed up in a few as well.

Here was Billy Manolo standing next to the table that held the rosewood box containing the pistol. And the commodore in the ill-fitting jacket with all the gold braid.

Theodosia shuffled through the printouts. They were interesting but a little disappointing at the same time. She hadn’t expected anything to jump right out at her; that would’ve been too easy. But she felt the rumblings of a low-level vibe that told her there must be something to be learned.

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.

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.