by Laura Childs
They popped out next to one of the meeting rooms and ran into Timothy as he strode down the corridor. His face was not only pinched with worry, but as gray as his three-piece charcoal suit.
Timothy took one look at Drayton and said, “Good, you’re here.” Then he noticed Theodosia, gave a perfunctory smile, and said, “Hello, there.”
“I mean no disrespect, but you’re looking a little frantic,” Theodosia said to him.
“Probably because I am frantic,” Timothy said. “Money, the funds needed to run this place—to pay my staff, keep the lights on, do programming, and make continued acquisitions for our various collections—just keeps getting tighter and tighter.”
“Our wealthier citizens do seem to be holding on tight to their money,” Drayton said.
“Even in a bull market, donations are markedly down,” Timothy said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And now that we’re not getting Creekmore Plantation, well . . .”
“But you’ve still got a strong membership base,” Theodosia said. “Which I’m sure you can mobilize to attract other members and donors.”
“Particularly donors,” Drayton said.
“And you’re sponsoring that big Edgar Allen Poe Symposium next month,” Theodosia said. “That should generate some interest and dollars.” She really did try to see the upside of things.
“Hopefully, it will,” Timothy said. “I know that Claire Waltho, one of our new curators, has some kind of Halloween event lined up to complement the symposium.” He led them past a display of antique Civil War pistols to his office. He unlocked the door and gestured for them to come in and take a seat.
Theodosia loved Timothy’s office. It was a combination library and mini museum. His shelves contained leather-bound books and precious antiquities that included rare coins, Greek statues, American pottery, and even a jewel-studded crown that had once belonged to a long-exiled Russian prince.
Once Timothy had seated himself behind his enormous rosewood desk, and Theodosia and Drayton were seated in the leather-and-hobnail chairs directly opposite him, he got down to business.
“Is there anything new that I should know concerning Reginald Doyle’s murder?” Timothy asked. “Rumors about suspects? Ripples of mistrust? Heartfelt confessions?”
“I’m afraid not,” Drayton said.
“Well, there might be a few things,” Theodosia said.
Timothy’s sharp eyes shifted in her direction. “Such as?”
“I found out that Meredith Doyle is a crack shot with a pistol, Guy Thorne is gambling away the profits at Trollope’s Restaurant, Carl Clewis is an absolute jerk, and Alex Doyle has been a verbally abusive husband to Fawn, who is missing and sort of presumed to be drowned.”
Drayton turned and stared at her. “Do you think you left anything out?”
“No,” Theodosia said. She wanted Timothy to know that the suspect situation was definitely in flux.
Timothy raised a wrinkled hand and touched a small bronze dog statue that held a stack of papers in place.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Busy, yes,” Theodosia said. “Productive, no.”
“I heard about the sailboat being found. Do you think Fawn might have drowned?” Timothy asked.
“I’m not sure,” Theodosia said.
“Take a guess.”
“No,” Theodosia said. “No pun intended, but I think there’s something fishy going on. I just don’t know what it is.”
“Do you think Fawn might have been the one who killed Reginald?” Timothy asked.
“Oh no!” was Drayton’s shocked response.
“Hard to say,” Theodosia said in measured tones. “Fawn was angry at the family; there’s no doubt about that. But is she a killer? I’d like to think not.”
Timothy’s dark eyes sparkled. “Is there any chance Alex might have killed his stepfather and then turned his wrath on Fawn?”
“Alex is certainly angry enough. In fact, he takes turns raging at just about everyone. I suppose he could have killed Reginald Doyle. But Fawn? When push comes to shove . . . killing his own wife? Probably not,” Theodosia said. “At least I hope not.”
“I say,” Drayton said. “This is a terribly unnerving conversation.”
Timothy slapped both hands against his knees, then stood up. “Enough of this craziness, then. Drayton, you need to go cast your vote. Our registrar, Eleanor, has all the ballots laid out in the Palmetto Room. Once everyone on the board has voted, she’ll tally them up.”
They all walked down to the Palmetto Room then, passing the Great Hall, where Reginald Doyle’s funeral would be taking place tomorrow morning. Peering into the dim interior of the large auditorium that served a dual purpose as a gallery, Theodosia could see that a semicircle of black folding chairs had already been set up. But no coffin. Not yet.
“Say now,” a voice called from behind them. “I didn’t expect to see you two again so soon.”
Theodosia turned and found herself staring at a smiling Bill Jacoby.
“Timothy twisted my arm, too,” Jacoby said. “About the balloting.”
“He’s good at that,” Drayton laughed.
“We’re delighted to have Mr. Jacoby on our board of directors,” Timothy said. “When Reginald retired and Mr. Jacoby took his place, there was a seamless transition. Not a single missed step.”
“Mr. Jacoby’s company even gifted us with a nice financial donation,” Drayton said to Theodosia.
Timothy plucked at Drayton’s sleeve. “Time to vote. Let’s not keep Eleanor waiting.”
Which left Theodosia facing Bill Jacoby.
“Thank you for your help tonight,” Jacoby said. “At the funeral parlor.”
“It was the least I could do. I’m just sorry it was so traumatic for Meredith.”
“Tomorrow’s going to be even more emotional for her. Especially with Fawn still missing.”
“Do you think she drowned?” Theodosia asked.
Jacoby’s brows scrunched together, his eyes teared up, and he seemed to be on the verge of an emotional breakdown. Then he swallowed hard and managed to pull it together.
“I’m praying that Fawn is safe and sound,” Jacoby said. “Wherever she may be.”
* * *
* * *
Theodosia had just dropped Drayton off and was driving down Legare Street, when her phone rang. She dug in her purse, pulled it out, and said, “Hello?”
It was Pete Riley.
“I know we called off dinner tonight, but now I’m hoping—no, I’m holding my breath and praying—that we can somehow get together anyway,” he said. “Have a late dinner date.”
“Let me check my schedule,” Theodosia said. She let two seconds slide by, then said, “Guess what? You’re in luck. I just cleared my calendar.”
“Meet me at Poogan’s Porch in twenty minutes?” Poogan’s Porch was a Charleston landmark, a restaurant located in an 1891 home on Queen Street in the French Quarter.
“You got it.”
Theodosia managed to get to Poogan’s Porch in a record fifteen minutes. But Riley must have called her from there, because he was sitting at a table in their posh-looking parlor, waiting for her when she arrived. Even better, he’d ordered a bottle of wine.
“A cabernet,” Riley said as he plucked the bottle from the wine bucket and poured her a glassful. “Stag’s Leap FAY Cabernet. 2014.” He grinned. “That’s the vintage, not the price.”
“Aren’t you just full of surprises,” Theodosia said. She smiled at Riley across the candlelit table, and her heart skipped a few beats. Tonight he was wearing an oatmeal-colored cashmere sweater paired with blue jeans. A casual look that made him appear more like a college English professor than a homicide detective. Plus, he was tall, fairly intense, and his brown hair carried a few threads of silver at the temples to give him a seasoned look. Yup, she thought, Riley was so good-looking. And now here they were, finally able to connect and enjoy a late dinner.
“How’d
your day go?” Riley asked once they’d ordered. A bowl of she-crab soup with Poogan’s famous buttermilk biscuits for Theodosia, shrimp and grits for Riley.
“Promise you won’t get mad if I tell you?” Theodosia said.
“No. But tell me anyway.”
“I talked to the Lavender Lady, snuck a look at Alex Doyle’s J/22, argued with Carl Clewis, and went shopping for coffins.”
“Some folks have all the fun.”
“What did you do?” Theodosia asked.
“I got called on the carpet today by our Supreme Allied Commander,” Riley said.
“Really?” Theodosia’s voice held a questioning note.
Riley’s laugh was a warm rumble. “Don’t act so innocent. You knew I would.”
“No, I didn’t,” Theodosia said.
“Let me put it this way, part of the tongue-lashing included Burt Tidwell asking me to personally deliver a warning to you.”
Theodosia gave him a questioning look. “So this isn’t a romantic dinner after all? It’s more a romantic warning?”
“Something like that.”
“Let me guess, Tidwell wants me to back off.”
“I want you to back off,” Riley said.
“Of course you do.”
Conversation halted as the waiter arrived with their dinners, set everything out carefully, and refilled their wineglasses. Then they were caught up in exclaiming over the elegant presentation and the tantalizing aromas rising from their food.
Which, in turn, led to actual eating.
“This is fabulous,” Riley managed to say in between bites.
“Mmn,” Theodosia responded. With every spoonful of she-crab soup, her mouth was in culinary heaven.
“I take it the soup is good?”
“Some of the best I’ve ever had.” As Theodosia broke open a buttermilk biscuit, Riley hastily reached for the plate of butter and passed it to her.
“Anything else you’d like?” he asked.
Do I dare?
Theodosia nodded. “Do you know if an accelerant was used in the fire at Creekmore Plantation?”
“What!”
“Oh, and could you do a quick check on Carl Clewis for me? See what he was up to the day of Doyle’s murder?”
“Are you serious? Asking me to . . .” Riley was practically sputtering. “After the thrashing I just got?”
“Please? They’re both awfully important.”
Riley stared at her for a few seconds, then nodded. “Okay, but you can only pick one.”
“Carl Clewis.”
“So that’s it. The final, finito, finale. One and done, then no more worming information out of me. And I assure you, my dear, our deal is nonnegotiable.”
Theodosia just smiled sweetly.
19
Reginald Doyle’s simple, dignified memorial service wasn’t all that simple and it wasn’t particularly dignified. Since nine thirty, people had been pouring into the Heritage Society’s Great Hall, moving the spindly black chairs around to suit their needs and circle of friends, greeting one another loudly, and tippy-tapping on their phones.
“Looks like it’s going to be a full house,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia. “Although I don’t see a single soul that I know.”
“I think most of these people are from Celantis Pharmaceuticals and Trollope’s Restaurant,” Theodosia said. “Employees.”
“So a mandatory event then. A command performance, heavy on the command.”
“Probably.”
“Do you know how Haley is coming with the food?”
“Last time I checked she was setting up the buffet table in the Palmetto Room with the help of one of the Heritage Society interns. And she’s using the adjacent kitchen to brew tea. Once the scones and tea sandwiches are all arranged, Haley plans to scoot back to the tea shop. She’s exhibiting at the Sugar Arts Show this afternoon, if you recall. So we’ll need to get in there to honcho the luncheon as soon as this service concludes.”
“This service can’t conclude until it starts,” Drayton said in a dour tone as he glanced about the room again. “I see people, I see a wooden bier, but there’s no coffin.”
“Reginald is late to his own funeral,” Theodosia said. She glanced about the room, at the clerestory windows that let in small shards of light, at the tasteful display of Audubon prints hung on the far wall.
A shadowy figure hovered in the doorway, then shlumped its way in and sat down heavily in the last row.
Theodosia immediately recognized Bill Glass, who was dressed like a refugee from a nineties’-era consignment shop. Weird khaki vest, grunge-inspired plaid flannel shirt, and pants that were just this side of parachute pants. He immediately began fiddling with his cameras.
A man in a dark three-piece suit—an usher or maybe one of the Heritage Society’s young curators—touched Glass on the shoulder and asked him to put away his cameras. Glass nodded and left the room. But two minutes later, he snuck back in again. When he glanced around and saw Theodosia looking at him, he touched a finger to his forehead in a mock salute.
She ignored him.
Finally, amid the buzz and whispers of the assembled crowd, Meredith arrived on the arm of Bill Jacoby. She wore a black skirt suit, a white silk blouse with a pussycat bow, and a jaunty black veil. She looked, Theodosia thought, like a Vogue-inspired Sicilian widow.
Two minutes later, the coffin arrived. Resting on a metal conveyer that had one loose, squeaking wheel, it was rolled into the Great Hall by six somber-looking pallbearers. Theodosia recognized Alex Doyle, Timothy Neville, and Guy Thorne as they struggled to push the gleaming El Presidente model along, but she wasn’t sure who the other three men were. Probably executives from Celantis Pharmaceuticals.
Even as the coffin was seesawed into place and transferred to the bier, as a podium was rolled out next to it, the guests surrounding them were still texting and checking their e-mails.
“What are all these people doing?” Drayton asked. “What’s on their phones that’s so all-fired important?”
“Nothing,” Theodosia said. “They’re millennials. That’s what they do.”
“The porch light’s on but nobody’s home,” Drayton muttered.
As Guy Thorne draped a large swag of white lilies over the casket (closed, not open, Theodosia noted), music seeped through the room’s speakers. Theodosia recognized the song as “How Great Thou Art.”
Finally, a black-suited minister strode into the room and took his place behind the podium. Throats were cleared, a few phones were switched to mute, and Bill Glass began to surreptitiously take pictures. Theodosia could hear the faint snap, snap, snap of his camera. She wished she could go back there, pry open that camera, and rip the film out. Except she knew it was a digital camera. Maybe, she thought, some things shouldn’t be improved upon.
The back row also held a couple of surprise guests who’d snuck into the room and settled themselves onto folding chairs. One was Jack Grimes, the other was Carl Clewis.
Weird, Theodosia thought, that those two just showed up. She also decided it could prove to be highly interesting.
The minister opened with a reading from Romans 6:4, We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in the newness of life.
Then the minister spoke about Reginald Doyle for a while, recounting a sort of time capsule version of Doyle’s life, accomplishments, and charitable contributions. He did not mention that the man had been murdered, or that his killer was still out there roaming freely.
Timothy Neville was the next speaker. He spoke for a good ten minutes, praising Reginald’s service and devotion to the Heritage Society and sharing a few amusing anecdotes.
By the time Bill Jacoby got his turn to eulogize Reginald, offering even more platitudes, the audience had pretty much tuned out. They were back on their phones.
“Rude,” Drayton hissed to Theodosia.
“Tel
l me about it.”
Finally, it was Meredith’s turn. She rose shakily from her chair, staggered to the podium, and clutched it with both hands.
“Thank you all for coming,” Meredith said in a high, reedy voice, made tight with emotion. “As you’re well aware, this is a desperate and challenging time for myself and my family. Losing Reginald . . .” Meredith’s voice faltered, and she turned her head away from the crowd, trying to tamp down her tears and gather her thoughts.
Finally, she was able to continue.
“Losing Reginald . . . and then Fawn . . . who we are still praying for and hoping will have a safe return . . . this has all been completely unbearable. It feels as if . . .” She touched a hand to her chest. “As if my heart is wound tight with barbed wire. The only bright spot in any of this has been my son, as well as my dear friends, and all of . . .” Meredith’s voice cracked again, and this time she simply shook her head. She was not only rambling, she was way too grief-stricken to go on.
Thankfully, the minister bounded up to the podium, escorted Meredith back to her chair, and led the group in a fairly rousing rendition of “Amazing Grace.” And then he graciously invited everyone to stay for a light lunch to be served immediately across the hall in the Palmetto Room.
“Oops,” Drayton said. “That’s our cue.”
Theodosia and Drayton popped up from their seats like a couple of wily gophers and bounded down the center aisle ahead of everyone else. They flew across the hallway and ran into the Palmetto Room, ready to don aprons and get busy. But when they laid eyes on the perfectly arranged tea table, it was clear Haley had already worked her magic.
A dozen three-tiered stands held all manner of tea sandwiches—chicken salad, crab salad, cream cheese with chutney, and parsley and bacon tea rounds. More tiered stands, as well as several large platters, held brownie bites, miniature butterscotch scones, chocolate chip cookies, and fig bars. Haley had also set out a large stack of luncheon-sized plates that were perfect for sandwiches and scones, as well as balancing a small teacup.
“Is this okay?” Brenda, the intern, asked them.
“Magnificent,” Theodosia proclaimed. “Thank you for your help. It looks as if we won’t have to do much more than smile and encourage the guests to help themselves.”