Laura Childs: Gunpowder Green

So surprised was Theodosia that she stood rooted to the spot, blinking after him.

“At sixes and sevens?” said Drayton’s voice in her ear. She whirled to find him clutching two empty pitchers in one hand, a tray bearing a single, lonely sandwich balanced in the other. He gazed at her quizzically.

“That antique dealer you told me about, Giovanni Loard?” Theodosia gestured after Giovanni. “He offered to help. Nobody ever offers to help.”

Drayton peered through the crowd. “Remarkable. Do you know that the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta has rated South Carolinians as having the most sedentary lifestyle in the country?”

“Hey,” said Haley as she joined them, “I’m about ready for a sedentary lifestyle. My feet are tired, and I think I just got my first sunburn of the year. But first things first. Who was that cute guy, anyway?”

“Giovanni Loard,” said Theodosia. “He runs an antique shop down on King Street.”

They watched Giovanni pick his way through the crowd, dispensing sandwiches, talking animatedly with guests. “Personable chap, isn’t he?” remarked Drayton.

Giovanni wound his way to Doe and Oliver Dixon’s table, where Delaine was still seated, and offered sandwiches all around.

Suddenly, a man with flaming red hair swaggered up behind him. Although Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley were far enough away that they couldn’t hear the exact words spoken, they could obviously see that the red-haired man was angry. Very angry. Oliver Dixon whirled about to confront him, and now both men were talking excitedly. A low murmur ran through the crowd.

“The guy with the red hair,” said Haley. “What’s his problem?”

“Don’t know,” said Theodosia.

“Do you know who he is?” asked Drayton as he pursed his lips and peered speculatively at the two men whose argument appeared to escalate by the second. “That’s Ford Cantrell,” said Theodosia. She knew him, knew of him, anyway. Ford Cantrell was from the low country, that vast area of woods, old rice plantations, and swampland just south of Charleston. He was a farmer by trade, although his ancestors would have been called plantation owners.

“He’s been drinking,” hissed Drayton. “Have you ever seen anyone drunk at an afternoon tea?”

Theodosia’s eyes flickered back to the hotheaded, swaggering Ford Cantrell. He had one hand stuck out in front of him as he spoke angrily to Oliver Dixon. Then he gave Oliver Dixon a rough shove and stalked off.

“Yes,” she finally answered. “I have.”

Now another excited voice rose from a small group of onlookers gathered down by the shore. “Here they come!”

Two hundred people jumped from their chairs en masse and began pushing toward the water.

No, thought Theodosia. Make that one hundred ninety-nine. Ford Cantrell was hustling off in the opposite direction. She watched as he veered around a group of Civil War cannons, then set off toward the bandstand. Ford Cantrell appeared to be walking steadily, not staggering, but the back of his neck glowed red. A been-drinking-toomuch red, not an out-in-the-sun red.

Why had the seemingly mild-mannered Oliver Dixon been embroiled in an argument with Ford Cantrell? An argument that looked like it could have erupted into a knockdown-drag-out fight? What got those two men so fired up? wondered Theodosia.

“Theodosia, come on,” called Haley. “The sailboats are heading for the final markers!”

Theodosia shook off her consternation with Ford Cantrell and turned her attention to Charleston Harbor. She could see that a half-dozen boats had managed to gain a commanding lead and were bearing down on the two red buoys that pitched wildly back and forth in the billowing waves.

Somewhere out there, Jory Davis was skippering his J-24, Theodosia told herself. Jory was an attorney with her father’s old firm, Ligget, Hume, Hartwell, and she’d been dating him off and on for the past few months. She hoped his yacht, Rubicon , was one of the handful of boats jockeying for finishing-line position.

Theodosia strode across the newly greened grass, picking up dropped napkins and flatware as she went. When she finally caught up with the crowd, they were packed into a tight knot near what was left of the old seawall that had been pummeled by Hurricane Hugo back in 1989. The onlookers were whistling and cheering as the sailboats fought their way through the strong crosscurrents that marked the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper rivers.

Theodosia cleared the half-dozen empty platters from the long buffet table and glanced toward the sailboats again. Once this race ended, and it looked like it would end soon, folks would wander over to the Charleston Yacht Club for cold beer, fried catfish, or she-crab soup. Some would retire to private courtyard gardens in the historic district for mint juleps and, later, enjoy elegantly prepared dinners on bone china. Her task here was almost done.

“Oliver, over here!” An officious-looking man with a shock of white hair and a too-tight white commodore’s blazer trimmed in gold braid waved broadly to Oliver Dixon. He took the wooden box that had been tucked carefully under one arm and laid it on the table Billy Manolo had set up down at the shore. Then the man motioned to Oliver Dixon again. “C’mon, Oliver,” he urged insistently.

Theodosia paused in her cleanup to watch as the highly excited commodore opened a rather lovely rosewood box and gently removed a pistol. It was old, she decided, antique, with brass fittings that glinted in the sun and a long, curved barrel. How nice, she thought, that Oliver Dixon was being given the honor of officiating at the finish line.

All the yachts had rounded the markers now, and two yachts had pushed out in front, gaining a substantial lead. One of the leaders flew a white mainsail that read Topper ; the other had a blue and white striped sail printed with the numbers N-271 . Neck and neck, they bore down toward the finishing-line buoy.

More cheers rose from the crowd. The wind had risen and was driving the two boats furiously toward the finish line.

Thirty feet to Theodosia’s left, Oliver Dixon stood poised on the rocky shore, next to the table. His fine silver hair riffled in the wind, his eyes were fixed on the boat with the blue and white striped sail, N-271 . That yacht seemed to have gained a slight advantage over Topper as it skimmed across the waves.

Now everyone on shore could see the crews working madly to fine-tune the trim of their sails even as they hung out over the sides, using body weight to balance their craft.

The two lead boats were closing in, N-271 , the boat with the blue and white striped sail, still enjoying its small lead. So close were they now that Theodosia could even see the faces of the crew members pulled into grimaces, betraying their hard work and exhilaration.

Oliver Dixon stood at the ready, poised to fire the pistol as the winner hurtled across the finish line.

Theodosia picked up a silver pitcher and was about to empty it, when the finish-line gun sounded with a tremendous explosion.

A sudden hush swept through the crowd, as though someone had pulled the plug.

Then a single, anguished cry pierced the stillness. Beginning as a sob, Doe Belvedere Dixon’s voice rose in a horrified scream as blood poured forth from Oliver Dixon’s head, and she watched helplessly as her husband of nine weeks crumpled to the ground.

Drayton staggered toward Theodosia and grabbed her arm roughly. “No one’s doing anything!” he said in a choked whisper.

Theodosia gazed about as the ghastly scene seemed to reveal itself in slow motion. Drayton was right. Everyone was just standing there. Picnickers who had been in such high spirits moments earlier seemed frozen in place. Most of the crowd gaped openly at Oliver Dixon’s splayed-out body; a few grimaced and covered their eyes.