15
As if Theodosia hadn’t had her fill of fashion-conscious mourners last night, here she was, sitting in St. Michael’s Church, one of the oldest of Charleston’s many churches, at the corner of Meeting Street and Broad, waiting for Nadine’s funeral to begin. And even though Drayton wasn’t exactly pleased to be here, he was a class act as he sat next to her wearing a charcoal gray three-piece suit.
Theodosia leaned in close to him and said, “I never got a chance to tell you about Julie.”
Drayton hesitated for a moment, then whispered, “Who’s Julie?” Drayton was uncomfortable talking in church even though mourners were still filing in and there was chatter all around them.
“The intern at Lemon Squeeze Couture.”
“Do you mean the small reddish-haired girl who looked like she’s afraid of her own shadow?”
“That’s the one. Anyway, she told me that Harvey Bateman has a nasty temper.”
“How nasty?”
“Apparently, Bateman has a short fuse and goes off on people at a moment’s notice,” Theodosia said. “Julie said he’s insulting and demanding, and isn’t afraid to get physical.”
Drayton frowned. “What’s he done?”
“Supposedly, Bateman’s thrown coffee cups, raised his hand in a threatening gesture . . .”
“And this leads you to believe . . . what?”
“That a guy who threatens female interns or employees might not think twice about shooting someone if his livelihood were in jeopardy.”
“You think Bateman shot Nadine because his livelihood was threatened? You think he’s the one connected to the cocaine?”
“Maybe. I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
“This amateur investigation is becoming a lot more dangerous than I expected.”
Theodosia nodded. She figured it would be dangerous. After all, they were talking murder, drugs, big money, and titanic egos. With all that going for them, what could possibly go wrong?
Actually, she just needed one thing to go right.
* * *
* * *
At nine o’clock on the button, the organist struck her first chord on the ancient organ. And with a somber hymn wafting out over the mourners, Delaine walked down the center aisle clutching an ornate silver urn. She was accompanied by Bettina, a couple of distant cousins she wasn’t particularly fond of, and Janine, her faithful, overworked assistant from Cotton Duck.
“That’s it? No fancy casket like last night?” Drayton asked.
“Maybe it was rented just for show,” Theodosia said. “Like the birds.”
Drayton didn’t laugh out loud—he was too polite for that. But his mouth did pull into a pucker.
What Delaine did spring for was a gospel choir. A full-on, purple-robed group of two dozen men and women who filed into the sacristy at the precise moment she set her sister’s urn on a small table next to a podium.
The gospel choir kicked things off by singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” then segued into a snappy version of “How Great Thou Art.”
As the choir sang, Theodosia craned her head to see who was sitting in the pews up front. Predictably, it was the Lemon Squeeze Couture gang—Marvin Chauvet, Harvey Bateman, and Mark Devlin. Julie the intern was a couple of rows back from them. And behind her was Simon Nardwell.
When the choir finished, the minister, a tall, balding, kind-faced man, stepped up to the podium and introduced himself as Reverend Chait Burwell. He welcomed the mourners to what he called a “celebration of life.”
Theodosia stared at the stained glass window behind the altar as she listened to the minister speak. The window depicted St. Michael slaying a dragon, and it was a wonder—an original Tiffany. St. Michael looked sure and confident of his victory over evil as he stood there with his sword raised. Theodosia’s thoughts began to wander, and she wondered if they’d enjoy a similar type of victory in finding Nadine’s killer. She didn’t want to literally slay whoever it was, but she did want to bring him—or her—to justice. Good should triumph over evil, right? In the real world, not just on church windows.
Drayton stirred next to her. The minister had finished, and now Delaine had taken his place at the podium. He raised a single eyebrow as if to say, This should be interesting.
Turns out it was beyond quirky.
Delaine unfolded a piece of paper, pulled her face into a sad smile, and said, “Here’s a quick little poetic gem I know my dear, departed sister would have adored. I think it captures her spirit perfectly.” And then she read:
Don’t mourn for me now,
Don’t mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing
For ever and ever.
Delaine gazed out at the stunned faces and open mouths and said, “Isn’t that sweet? Doesn’t that sound like Nadine’s true outlook on life?”
“How wildly inappropriate,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia.
“But typical Delaine,” Theodosia whispered back. “You should know by now that she doesn’t do morbid.”
“Or anything close to religious.”
Luckily, the moment was resurrected by Bettina, who walked to the podium, smiled sadly at the mourners, and read Psalm 25, which began with “To you, O Lord, I lift my soul.” She had a lovely speaking voice and, with so much emotion involved, touched the hearts of everyone in church.
Marvin Chauvet got up, looked disinterested, and said a few words. Which, to Theodosia, sounded like generic platitudes. Your basic she’ll-be-sadly-missed, blah, blah, blah.
There was a final number from the gospel choir, and then the minister stepped to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and invited everyone to a post-funeral brunch at the Lady Goodwood Inn.
“Are we going?” Drayton asked. He glanced at his antique watch, frowned, and tapped the crystal. “Do we have time?”
“Are you serious?” Theodosia said. She watched as Eddie Fox jumped out of his pew and aced out Simon Nardwell so he could walk down the aisle with Delaine. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
* * *
* * *
The Lady Goodwood Inn, a lovely brick edifice with tangles of green ivy curling up the sides of the building, was one of Theodosia’s favorite places. She’d hosted teas there as well as attended garden shows, bridal showers, and wedding receptions. Both she and Drayton enjoyed friendly relationships with their guest services and catering directors.