Laura Childs: Gunpowder Green

Out of the corner of her eye, Theodosia was aware of a woman collapsed on the ground. She considered the possibility that the young wife, Doe, had fainted and figured her hunch was correct.

Theodosia found her voice. “Someone call 911!” she yelled. Her words rang out loud and commanding.

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 bloodhound.

“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.