by Laura Childs
What? Oh, my lord! A fire?
Gunning her Jeep, Theodosia turned left instead, cutting directly in front of a blue van and sending Earl Grey sprawling again. Then it was only seconds before she pulled directly in front of the Featherbed House.
The fire was much worse than she’d initially thought.
The entire second floor was engulfed in fire. Angry orange and yellow tongues licked and flicked at the roof line. A sudden loud explosion, almost like cannon fire, blew out a second-story window and shards of glass spattered the front walk like falling shrapnel.
Oh, my lord, what about Angie! Is she still inside?
Fear exploding within her, Theodosia threw her Jeep into park and jumped out. Closing the door firmly on Earl Grey, she sprinted for the front door, knowing she had to do something . . . anything!
Just as Theodosia hit the bottom step, the inn’s double doors exploded outward and Angie came rushing out. Black soot covered her face like camouflage paint, her hair was wild and slightly singed, her eyes were filled with desperation.
At seeing Theodosia, Angie flung herself into her friend’s arms. “We tried to put it out with fire extinguishers,” she shrieked, “but it got away from us!”
Theodosia grappled for her cell phone to call 911, but someone had obviously beat her to it. Already she could hear the blare of sirens, the whoop-whoop of police cruisers as they sped toward the burning house.
Ten seconds later, Teddy Vickers came stumbling out onto the front veranda, clutching a fire extinguisher, his face blackened by smoke.
“What happened?” asked Theodosia, as three large fire trucks, lights flashing, sirens blaring, roared up and men in asbestos-and-rubber suits piled out. She clutched at Teddy’s arm, trying to pull him away from the building.
Teddy coughed repeatedly, then shook his head. “No idea,” he managed to choke out.
“What about guests?” cried Theodosia.
Teddy shook his head again. “None. They’re all gone.”
Now Theodosia, Angie, and Teddy clung together, a little island of people surrounded by giant fire trucks, a melee of firefighters, and the burning Featherbed House. They watched as ladders were swiftly unloaded, hoses unwound and coupled. Then great gluts of water were suddenly being sprayed out in giant arcs.
“You’ll have to move back,” one of the firefighters told them. He had a kind face and a name tag that read Warren. He led them back to one of the trucks, instructed them to stay put. Since they were now at a safe distance from the fire, Theodosia went to her Jeep and brought Earl Grey out on his leash.
But pandemonium was ratcheting up by leaps and bounds. Gawkers arrived and pushed forward, TV news vans and rescue vehicles clogged the streets. Inside, the Featherbed House was rocked by a series of small explosions.
Angie was beside herself. “I don’t believe this!” she shrilled. “This can’t be happening!” She dropped her head into her hands. “Mark and I sank all our hard-earned money into this place . . . all our dreams, too.”
But it was happening. A deafening roar, like that from a blast furnace, filled the air as black smoke billowed from the top windows and hot flames danced atop the cupola. The updraft from the fire caused the little goose weathervane to spin madly, as if in utter panic.
Theodosia handed Earl Grey off to Teddy Vickers, then ventured twenty steps forward, edging toward the front lines, feeling intense heat prickle her face. “Can you save it?” Her fingers skittered off the rubber jacket of a firefighter who was muscling a giant hose, aiming his spurt of water directly through a blown-out window and into the interior of the building.
“Not sure, ma’am,” he told her. “You gotta get back.”
Returning to their little clutch, Theodosia found that Drayton had somehow made his way through the lines and was doing his best to console Angie and Teddy.
“How did you know?” Theodosia asked him. Earl Grey, excited by the goings-on, pressed up against her.
“Everybody knows,” Drayton told her. “The news is all over the historic district. Timothy Neville phoned the tea shop, and so did Nell Chappel from the Chowder Hound. Look around, everybody’s here!”
Peering over the tops of police cars, Theodosia saw a crowd that numbered in the hundreds. They’d come to gape at the fire, to stand transfixed by its power and devastating force.
Thirty minutes crawled by and finally the firefighters seemed to gain the upper hand. Three of them, suited up in asbestos gear, entered the house armed with axes.
“I can’t stand this any longer,” exclaimed Drayton. He slipped toward two firefighters who were conversing with their heads together. They turned when he approached and turned again when Drayton spoke to them and motioned toward Angie.
Theodosia watched Drayton’s conversation closely, saw his look of concern change to dismay.
“It’s a complete and utter disaster,” said Drayton, when he returned to their little group. “The entire top floor has been gutted by flames. And of course there’s major water damage on the first floor.”
“What about the attached carriage house?” asked Theodosia. The second-story bridge connected the main building to the two-story carriage house where a restaurant and party room were housed. But Theodosia was unable to see that structure from where she stood.
“That at least was spared,” said Drayton. “But the greenhouse . . .”
Angie put a trembling hand to her mouth. “Mark’s orchids?”
Drayton looked distressed. “Pretty much devastated. If they weren’t fried by falling cinders they were pounded with water from the high-powered hoses.”
“Theo! Drayton!” called a voice behind them.
Their heads turned in unison.
“Haley?” said a surprised Theodosia once she caught sight of Haley’s young face. “What are you doing here?”
In response, Haley hoisted up a huge silver jug.
“Haley brought iced tea,” Theodosia told the group. Tears welled up in her eyes. She felt overwhelmed by the fire, yet heartened by this single kind act.
“I’ll run and help her,” said Drayton.
Thanks in part to Drayton’s persuasiveness and Haley’s welcome offerings, the police allowed Haley to back her little blue hatchback up on the curb and set up a makeshift commissary. Within minutes, firefighters with soot-stained faces clustered around, gratefully accepting glasses of ice-cold sweet tea and helping themselves to scones and muffins. There was nothing more they could do now except hang tough and make sure there were no flare-ups from the red-hot cinders and ashes.
“Do you know how it started?” Theodosia asked one of the firefighters. He shook his head, unwilling to meet her gaze. A sick feeling was beginning to grow in the pit of her stomach. She searched the crowd, spotted a firefighter wearing a badge, figured he must be a captain or lieutenant or something like that.
Theodosia grabbed a tray of scones and edged her way toward him. He was on his cell phone, muttering excitedly. As she pressed forward, she distinctly heard the words flash point and arson.
Arson? she thought. Meaning someone deliberately set this fire? Dear lord, no.
As she stood watching him, the man with the badge punched a button on his phone and stared over at her. “Are you Angie Congdon?” he asked.
“She’s over there,” indicated Theodosia.
“Thanks.” He moved off and Theodosia watched as he went over and introduced himself to Angie, put a hand gently on her shoulder, then lead her away to talk.
Theodosia passed out the rest of the scones, then headed back to Haley’s car. Remarkably, Harlan Noble was standing there. But he looked grim.
“The orchids?” Harlan Noble asked. His dark eyes glowed while his face was as white as a sheet. “The orchids are ruined?”
“Everything’s ruined,” snapped Theodosia. She wondered how Harlan Noble could worry about orchids at a time like this, when Angie’s only means of survival has just gone up in smoke!
“Give it a rest, wi
ll you, Harlan?” said Drayton, sounding more than a little cross. “And kindly move back.”
Theodosia dropped the empty tray to her side and scanned the huge crowd that was still gathered. There were lots of familiar faces among the people who’d come to gaze in awe at the ruined Featherbed House. Neighbors, people who worked at the Heritage Society down the street, shop-keepers from around the historic district.
Why, there’s Leah Shalimar, thought Theodosia, giving a little start as she spotted her in the crowd. She must have still been in the neighborhood.
And way over on the sidelines stood Fayne Hamilton.
Theodosia gave a sharp intake of breath. She’d completely forgotten about Fayne.
Could she have had a hand in this? Theodosia suddenly wondered as tendrils of suspicion crept into her mind. The love notes to Mark, the fact that Fayne had been in this exact vicinity when the fire started, and the mumblings about arson would seem to make Fayne a prime suspect.
Theodosia decided she’d better have a little chat with the fire captain once he was finished talking to Angie.
What was it fire investigators said about arsonists? Theodosia wondered to herself. Oh yes . . . that arsonists often show up to view their own handiwork.
13
“Good heavens, Drayton,” squawked Delaine, “those Eternal Peace bouquets belong over here!” Delaine Dish, looking both fashionable and sedate in a black knit suit and patent leather stilettos gestured toward two wicker plant stands and grimaced unhappily. “These dusty little tables are absolutely ghastly,” she complained as she muscled them around and then repositioned them. “But I suppose there isn’t time to make a change.”
“Hardly,” said Drayton. He was dressed in a severely tailored double-breasted charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and black bow tie. His black shoes carried a high-gloss shine. Drayton could have gone anywhere in the world, Maxim’s in Paris, the Metropolitan Opera in New York, the Breakers in Palm Beach, and looked smashing. But, today, his sad and tired eyes testified to the fact that he was helping prepare for a funeral.
Delaine frowned and fidgeted with two large bouquets. “Oh well, I suppose the spill of Rubrum lilies, roses, and gladiolas will hide the really nasty parts.”
Theodosia stood in the nave of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist and watched as Drayton and Delaine put finishing touches on everything. The imposing Gothic church with its vaulted ceiling and elegant columns looked magnificent as always. Candles flickered, light streamed in through stained-glass windows, saints peered down benevo-lently from their lofty windows in the clerestory.
There was a reason Charleston had been dubbed the “holy city.” One hundred eighty-one church spires, steeples, crosses, and bell towers dominated its skyline. It was a fine procession of churches that represented a vast diversity of worshipers and served as a 300-year-old testament to the American ideals of religious freedom.
Theodosia squared her shoulders and stifled a yawn. She’d woken up early this morning. Around five o’clock, before the sun was even up. Unable to sleep any longer, she’d lain in bed fretting about her so-called investigation that seemed to be going nowhere. And dreading Mark’s funeral, fearful that Angie Congdon had reached her limits as to the amount of tragedy one person could endure. From the fire yesterday that had reduced the Featherbed House to ruins, to her husband’s funeral this morning—how much could she take?
But the human spirit is resilient, thought Theodosia. And the Lord only doles out as much as we can handle, right?
At the same time, Theodosia worried that there were now two separate investigations going on. Sheriff Billings’s homicide investigation and the Charleston Fire Department’s inquiry over yesterday’s fire.
Theodosia was nervous that between the questioning, suppositions, clues, and paperwork, the two camps might get their lines crossed. Or, worse yet, not communicate at all.
So first thing this morning, Theodosia had taken it upon herself to telephone Sheriff Billings. He’d already heard from the fire department, so that had been a step in the right direction. Maybe, Theodosia decided, if Mark’s death and yesterday’s fire were somehow connected, someone would come up with a solid motive. Or at least a theory.
“What do you think, Theodosia?” called Delaine.
She’d moved the bouquets a fourth time, trying, Theodosia supposed, to achieve some sort of thematic design.
“Nice,” called Theodosia. Her footsteps echoed in the great cathedral as she advanced down the aisle toward Delaine and Drayton. “Good.” What could she say? There wasn’t much of anything to say. It was a sad day and this was a funeral for Mark.
“I’m hoping Bobby Wayne arrives a little early,” said Drayton. “Then we can do a microphone test instead of putting him up there to do his eulogy cold. There’s nothing worse than being lulled by the music of Johann Sebastian Bach, then being jolted out of your pew by a buzz and an ugly hum from a bad PA system.”
Delaine reached into her black silk clutch and pulled out a pair of black gloves. “Bobby Wayne will be coming with the Loveday and Luxor contingent. At least that’s what he told me last night.”
“You two were together last night?” asked Theodosia.
Delaine hunched her shoulders and gave a tiny giggle. It sounded incongruous in the solemnity of the church. “Date night,” she whispered. “First we had dinner at Harbor Oaks over near the marina. Grilled grouper with huckleberry and orange chutney and the most glorious Pouilly-Fuissé. Then we sipped snifters of Armagnac brandy in their cigar room, after which we went on to the Gibbes Museum to hear a string quartet.” She waved one hand and her gloves fluttered airily. “It was a small charity function. Very chi-chi. Oh,” Delaine said, almost as an afterthought, “and when I got home I called Angie Congdon.”
“Where’s Angie staying?” asked Theodosia. When she, Drayton, and Haley finally left late yesterday, Angie hadn’t figured out what her plans would be.
“She’s holed up with her sister, Gwyn, down the street at the Bogard Inn,” said Delaine. “I guess everyone down there really had to hustle. Most of the folks flying in from out of town for the funeral today had planned to stay at the Featherbed House.”
“A dreadfully sad change of plans, eh?” said Drayton coming up behind them.
“Afraid so,” said Delaine. She spun on her stilettos and surveyed the interior of the church. “But everything here looks wonderful. If we just move the Remembrance memorial wreath over to this side and, oh . . . I almost forgot about the Timeless Tribute casket spray. Don’t you think we should . . .”
“Wait for the casket to arrive,” said a somber Drayton.
As mourners filed in, filling the front pews and then spilling into the middle and back sections of the church, Theodosia and Drayton slipped into seats on the side aisle. Finally, a cousin of Angie Congdon, a tall man with a sad basset hound face, stepped up to the front of the church and gave a knowing nod to the organist. The opening tones of Mozart’s Requiem suddenly thundered in the vast recess of the church. Then, six pallbearers in dark suits wheeled the casket down the aisle. When they arrived at the front of the church, they seesawed it back and forth for a moment, then positioned it horizontally.
Twisting around in her seat, Theodosia studied the people who were already seated. Lots of people from the historic district had shown up, friends and neighbors who knew and cared for Angie and Mark. And there was Leah Shalimar, looking sedate in a navy suit, seated just behind Bobby Wayne. And way in the back of the church, Harlan Noble sat folded up like a praying mantis.
Then Angie walked in, looking small and tentative within her protective contingent of relatives. Once everyone had taken their seats, Delaine approached the large mahogany casket and placed a spray of long-tailed purple-pink Machu Picchu orchids on top. Then she took her seat with the rest of the mourners.
It was a traditional service, filled with fine words that should have brought great comfort and solace. But Theodosia found little consolation. Like mo
st everyone close to her, she was convinced that Mark’s death had been a wrongful death. And that justice was still waiting to be served. Swiveling in her seat once again, she surreptitiously scanned the crowd, wondering if anyone among them had come here today with a guilt-laden heart.
No, everyone looks very solemn and sad.
Drayton’s shoulder gently touched hers. “Bobby Wayne,” he said in a low murmur.
Slowly, as though moving with great effort, Bobby Wayne Loveday took his place at the podium. He had been Mark’s friend and employer. And lately, Angie’s confidant and shoulder to cry on. It seemed fitting that Bobby Wayne deliver the final eulogy.
Bobby Wayne spoke eloquently, but with a warmth and down-home charm. He praised Mark, whom he called a dear and kind man, and wept openly when he spoke about Angie and Mark’s marriage of twenty years. His words were heartfelt and touching.
Bobby Wayne finished up by reciting the poem “If Death Is Kind,” by Sara Teasdale.
Perhaps if death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
We will come down at night to these resounding beaches
And the long gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.
“Perfect,” breathed Theodosia.
“Magnificent choice,” whispered Drayton, pulling out a hanky to wipe his red-rimmed eyes.
The organ sounded a single note, then broke into the hymn “Abide with Me,” as Bobby Wayne walked solemnly back to his seat. Theodosia’s moist eyes followed him as he slid into a pew next to Delaine and fumbled for her hand.
Theodosia had been completely wowed by Bobby Wayne’s choice of poems. The Teasdale poem was short, poignant, and contained some amazingly appropriate phrasing. References to honeysuckle, resounding beaches, and the gentle thunder of the sea seemed like tailor-made descriptors of Charleston!