by Laura Childs
It seemed like an interminable wait, but it was probably only a few minutes before Theodosia heard loud shouts as well as footsteps pounding in her direction. Drayton had managed to alert some of the nearby shooters, thank goodness, and they were rushing to help!
“What happened?” Someone flung himself down beside her. She glanced over. It was Jack Grimes, the caretaker.
“He’s been shot!” Theodosia cried. “A chest wound.” She was dismayed that precious seconds continued to slip by. This man needed a trauma team, not just a few concerned friends.
“But I was just with him!” Grimes shouted back. He looked genuinely shattered at seeing his employer lying on the ground and practically bleeding to death.
“Oh my heavens!” came another voice, shrill and frantic with worry.
Then a pale face came into view, and Theodosia recognized Reginald’s son, Alex, whom she’d been introduced to earlier in the day.
“Pop! Oh no, something’s happened to Pop!” Alex stood there, frozen in place like a human statue, his face blanched white as if he were about to faint.
“What can I do?” Grimes asked as another half-dozen members of the shooting party suddenly rushed in to form a tight circle around a failing Reginald Doyle.
“Keep pressure on his wound while I call an ambulance,” Theodosia said as she finally managed to punch 911 into her phone. “We have to get him to a hospital as soon as possible.”
Seconds later, the dispatcher was on the line, listening to Theodosia’s frantic plea for help. But even as the dispatcher assured her that an ambulance would be sent immediately, that she would radio the sheriff, Theodosia worried that it might be too late.
Through a jumble of shouted directions, and the dispatcher’s urgent voice telling Theodosia to remain on the line, she focused her gaze on Doyle.
His face was ashen gray, and he lay almost motionless now. His eyes were wide open, but something had changed dramatically. His pupils appeared fixed, and there were none of the faint gurgling or breath sounds she’d heard moments earlier.
Jack Grimes grasped Doyle’s hand and pleaded for him to hang on.
But it seemed there was little hope.
Theodosia let out a faint sigh even as the wind whooshed and whispered through nearby poplars. It looked to her that Reginald Doyle was clearly and unequivocally dead.
2
And then, of course, Doyle’s poor wife came running up.
Meredith Doyle was one of those women who was high-strung bordering on a nervous wreck. With her doe eyes, pale complexion, sleek blond hair, and angular, almost anorexic, physique, she looked like she might have been one of those heroin-chic runway models that were popular some thirty years ago.
Meredith was also verging on full-blown hysterics. Horror animated her face as she watched Drayton kneel down, touch a hand to her husband’s pulse, then put an ear to Doyle’s chest and listen for breath sounds. When Drayton shook his head, indicating that Doyle was no more, she let loose a shrill, piercing cry that sounded like the death knell of a dying animal.
“He can’t be dead!” Meredith wailed. “He can’t be.”
“No, no, no,” Alex shouted, as if he could change the outcome through sheer force of will. “Pop can’t be dead.”
“I’m so sorry,” Theodosia said. “I tried to stop the bleeding, but his wound was just too grievous.”
“His wound?” Meredith shouted. Her eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “What? How . . . ?”
“He either shot himself by accident or someone else did,” Theodosia said.
Meredith’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a few moments, then she said in a low hiss, “Reginald would never be so careless. I can hardly believe this.”
With an angry, puzzled look on his face, Alex turned his gaze on the small gathering that was clustered around Doyle. “Who would do this?” he demanded. “Who would be so clumsy and stupid?”
Feet shuffled in dry grass, throats were cleared, watchful eyes bounced from one person to another. Nobody stepped forward to admit that it was their misfortune to accidentally shoot their gracious host.
Alex gritted his teeth together and clenched his hands into tight fists as he confronted the group. “I said who? I demand an answer!” His complexion had turned a blotchy purple, and his blood pressure must have been sky-high off the charts.
Nobody wanted to meet his gaze.
From far off in the distance, a plaintive whine pierced the air.
Drayton glanced down the hillside. “Ambulance,” he said.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” Meredith suddenly shouted. She threw herself onto the ground alongside her husband and picked up one of his limp hands. “Maybe the EMTs can give him some plasma or blood or some sort of shot . . . adrenaline, maybe . . . to restart his heart.”
“Can they do that?” Drayton whispered to Theodosia.
“I don’t think so,” Theodosia whispered back. She was certainly no medic or EMT, but she knew dead when she saw it. And, for all intents and purposes, Reginald Doyle appeared to be clinically dead.
One of the shooting guests, a man with a square jaw, hazel eyes, and curly red hair, moved closer to peer at Doyle’s body.
“I think we should carry him back to the house,” the red-haired man said.
Two other men in the group hastily agreed. A paunchy guy in a khaki-colored Carhartt jacket produced a red-and-black plaid blanket and set it down next to Doyle. The three men knelt on the grass and prepared to roll Doyle’s body onto it. Drayton reached out to help.
“You can’t do that,” Theodosia said, her sharp tone cutting through their low grunts and murmurs.
Standing directly next to her, Alex immediately stiffened. “Why not?”
“We have to wait until the sheriff arrives,” Theodosia said.
“Nonsense, we can carry him just fine,” the red-haired man said. He seemed angry and ready to override anyone who tried to oppose him.
“Please, someone has to do something!” Meredith begged. She started to moan and hiccup at the same time. Then, looking as if she would pass out, she dug a white hankie out of her pocket and pressed it to her mouth.
“This is beyond hideous—letting Pop lie here in the middle of nowhere,” Alex said in an angry, tremulous voice.
Theodosia paused for a few moments, acutely aware of the soft rustle of nearby lavender plants, as well as the dry chi-chi-chi sound of late-season cicadas. Finally, she said, “This isn’t the middle of nowhere. It’s a crime scene.”
“Dear me,” Drayton said as he dropped one corner of the blanket. “Theodosia’s right.”
* * *
* * *
They were still arguing and snarling at one another when Sheriff Clay Burney arrived some five minutes later, along with two deputies, an ambulance, and a pair of EMTs. One of the EMTs immediately slipped a breathing tube down Doyle’s throat. With his other hand he rhythmically squeezed a ventilator bag. His partner touched a stethoscope to Doyle’s chest, listened, and grimaced. He hastily dug into his mobile kit and pulled out a large syringe.
“Epinephrine,” Sheriff Burney said. “Gonna try to reboot his heart.”
Tall and lean with short silvered hair and a craggy face, Sheriff Burney had been county sheriff for more than twenty-five years and had seen his share of accidents, killings, and death. He watched as the EMTs worked quickly and professionally on Doyle, but the disheartened look on their faces said it all. There was no hope.
When the EMT who’d administered the epinephrine finally shook his head, Burney bent down next to Doyle and carefully studied the body. He touched his hand to the end of Reginald Doyle’s gun barrel, then looked around at the group and asked—“Could this have been suicide?”
“Absolutely not!” Meredith protested.
“How dare you suggest such an awful thing!” Alex shouted.
Sheriff Burney raised his hands, palms facing out. “I had to ask.” He wasn’t apologetic; he was just doing his jo
b.
“Isn’t it obvious he was killed by someone in our shooting party?” Alex asked. He looked around angrily. “Maybe someone right here.”
“Is everyone from the shooting party present and accounted for?” Sheriff Burney asked the group.
Meredith shook her head. “A few people are still out and about.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Still hunting, I suppose. Or maybe they’ve heard the sirens and have wandered back to the house by now.”
Sheriff Burney cocked an eye at one of his deputies. “Seth, you go back to the house and round everybody up. Don’t let anyone leave.”
“Got it,” Seth said.
Burney looked at his other deputy. “Bobby, you collect all the guns here while I check the perimeter and take photos.”
“Excuse me,” Theodosia said in a brook-no-nonsense tone.
Everyone paused to stare at her.
“I believe I heard a pistol shot.”
Sheriff Burney pushed his Smokey Bear hat up on his forehead. “You heard what?”
“Right before I discovered Mr. Doyle lying here, I was pretty sure I heard a pistol shot.”
Sheriff Burney’s sharp gaze traveled around the group. “Anybody here carrying a pistol?”
No one responded.
“Best to speak up now.”
No one spoke up.
“Huh,” he said.
* * *
* * *
Sheriff Burney and his deputy worked quietly and efficiently for a good thirty minutes. They took photos, dusted Doyle’s gun for prints, moved everyone back, and searched the area thoroughly. It wasn’t quite the way they did it in the big city, but it was competent and methodical.
Finally, Sheriff Burney signaled for the EMTs to put Reginald Doyle in a black plastic body bag.
With Meredith weeping and everyone else looking somber and a little scared, they watched as Doyle’s body was gently rolled into the bag. Then the bag was zipped and a backboard slipped beneath it.
Everyone trooped back to the main house in a silent caravan, and once they arrived there, the questioning began. Deputies checked IDs and wrote down names and addresses. The sheriff interviewed everyone separately. One hour passed, then another.
Finally, Sheriff Burney turned his attention to Theodosia. “You were the one who heard the shot and discovered him?” he asked.
Theodosia nodded. “Yes, unfortunately.”
“It was a single shot?”
“That’s right.”
“And you can tell the difference between a pistol shot and a rifle shot?” Burney asked.
“I know the difference. And what I heard sounded most like a pistol shot.” Theodosia paused and lowered her voice. “Sheriff, you saw the victim’s chest wound, plus you have a good working knowledge of guns. What type of gun do you think made that entrance wound?”
“Pistol,” Burney said. “Although I’m going to let my ballistics guy and the coroner render the final judgment.” He looked around. “Okay then, I’d appreciate it, ma’am, if you’d drive back out there with me so I can take another look around. Show me exactly where you were standing when you heard that shot. Can you do that? You’re not too upset to go back, are you?”
Theodosia stared at him, all business. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
* * *
Ten minutes later, Theodosia and Sheriff Burney were back in the now-darkening woods. Theodosia showed him where she’d been standing when she first heard the shot, then led him to the spot where she’d found the body.
Burney asked a few more questions and fell silent, thinking. A few minutes went by, and then, almost as if he were talking to himself, he said, “Shot at close range.”
“That means Doyle knew his killer,” Theodosia responded.
Burney aimed an inquiring gaze at Theodosia. “Interesting you picked up on that,” he said. “Most ordinary citizens wouldn’t.”
“I’m dating a Charleston detective.”
Burney glanced sharply at her. “One of Tidwell’s boys?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded and looked around. “And you’re fairly sure no one else was stalking birds in this particular area?”
“I didn’t think anyone was nearby. Mr. Doyle—the victim—made us all draw pegs, so we were assigned different areas of the fields and woods. That way we wouldn’t risk shooting each other.”
“But someone shot him,” Burney said. “So after Doyle and his man Grimes stopped by to talk to you and your friend . . . Drayton, is it? You say they took off?”
“That’s right.”
“So why did Doyle end up back here?” Burney slipped off his hat and ran a hand over his sparse gray hair.
“I don’t know. Good question. Maybe Doyle was circling back to check on Drayton and me?”
“Maybe.” But Burney didn’t sound convinced. He gazed at a nearby hill bathed in purple-blue that seemed to melt seamlessly into a sky that was darkening to indigo. “What is that up there? Some kind of crop?”
“Lavender plants,” Theodosia said.
Burney put his hat back on, knelt down, and ran a hand over the area where Doyle’s body had been. When he stood up again, his knees cracked like walnuts.
“Getting too old for this,” he said.
“How long have you been sheriff?” Theodosia asked. She liked that he was older; it meant that he had experience.
“Maybe too long.” Burney looked around at the scene again, his eyes keen with interest. “Or maybe not.”
3
Back at Creekmore Plantation, a dozen or so folks still milled about on the front lawn. Most looked apprehensive; a few looked perfectly at ease.
When Drayton saw Theodosia heading in his direction, his first words were, “Meredith wants us to stay.”
Theodosia frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“She’s invited us to spend the night.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” An overnight at Creekmore Plantation was the absolute last thing Theodosia wanted to do. She was tired and not in the mood to hang around and rehash this afternoon’s disaster.
Drayton pressed on. “As you can imagine, Meredith is extremely upset.”
“Everybody’s on edge,” Theodosia said.
“What I mean to say is Meredith is bouncing-off-the-walls crazy.”
“Give me a moment.” Theodosia held up a finger. She’d just spotted Jack Grimes and was eager to ask him a question.
Grimes saw her coming, turned a shoulder, and tried to slip away. Theodosia cornered him anyway near the buffet table.
“I have a question for you, Mr. Grimes,” she said.
Grimes looked apprehensive. “What’s that?”
“I was wondering how you and Mr. Doyle got separated?”
“What do you mean?” Grimes asked.
“I mean exactly that. As far as I could see, you were accompanying Mr. Doyle all day long. Reloading his gun, carrying his pack, and everything. So what I’m wondering is, why did you end up over near the pond while Doyle ended up near the lavender field?”
Grimes’s face darkened. “Because he asked me to go check on Mr. Thorne.”
“Yes, but why exactly did Mr. Doyle turn back? What was his reason?”
“I don’t know.” Grimes’s face pulled into an unhappy mask. “But it sure sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”
“Really, I’m just asking a simple question,” Theodosia said.
“Well, I don’t care to answer. I’ll talk to the sheriff, sure enough, but not to you.” Grimes took off in a huff, heading for a nearby barn.
“Why were you talking to Grimes?” Drayton asked when Theodosia rejoined him.
“Just trying to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Grimes seems like a tough character, so you might want to tread cautiously.” Then Drayton nodded toward Meredith and her family. “This is beyond heartbreaking. Just look at them.”
Meredith’s son, Alex, had his arms around his mot
her, trying desperately to soothe her. At the same time, Alex’s young wife, Fawn, was huddled next to them, looking shocked, barely uttering a single word. Two men they’d encountered earlier, the one wearing a khaki Carhartt jacket and the red-haired man, were also attempting to comfort Meredith.
When the two men moved away, Drayton said, “We should go . . . talk to her.”
“Drayton,” Meredith said tearfully as he came up to her and gave her a chaste embrace. “Can you believe my dear Reginald is dead?”
“It’s inconceivable,” Drayton said.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Theodosia said to Meredith. They’d been introduced earlier but hadn’t really had much chance to talk.
Meredith grasped Theodosia’s hand. “You were the one who found him. You were with him when he died!”
“I’m afraid so.”
Meredith looked almost fearful to ask her next question. “Did Reginald have any last words?”
Theodosia thought about the terrible grunts and groans she’d heard coming from the dying man, but she wisely said, “I’m afraid not.”
Meredith wrung her hands. “This is just so unbelievable. I can barely . . . process . . . what happened today.”
Alex’s hand was visibly shaking as he drank from his glass of bourbon. “It’s so bizarre. I mean, everybody loved Pop,” he said.
Theodosia gazed at Alex. Clearly, someone had not loved Pop. Or else Pop wouldn’t be riding back to the Charleston medical examiner’s office tucked neatly into a black plastic body bag.
“How many, um, guests were here today?” Theodosia asked. Some folks had left soon after being questioned by Sheriff Burney; the rest still milled about on the lawn, talking in soft voices, drinking, making frequent forays to the buffet table to pick at barbequed pork, fried chicken, candied yams, fried okra, and corn bread. The bar with its liveried bartender also seemed to be doing a brisk business.
“I don’t know. I guess around fifteen,” Alex said. He took another large gulp of his drink and gave a helpless shrug.