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Then one of the back doors burst open and a large, burly man clambered out. Theodosia recognized his familiar bulk immediately. It was Detective Burt Tidwell, head of the CPD’s Robbery and Homicide Division.
Tidwell was a large man, bearish and brash. He not only commanded respect but demanded the utmost from his officers. Tidwell was a former FBI officer who’d tired working for the Feds and yearned to get his hands dirty again. Here in Charleston he had every opportunity.
As Tidwell threaded his way toward them, he began to cough. Low, harsh rasps. Then he dipped a hand into the pocket of his saggy, oversized jacket and pulled out a hankie. Unfurled it and held it to his mouth.
Raising a hand, as if offering some kind of benediction, a half dozen uniformed officers immediately clustered around him.
“Talk to me,” Tidwell said.
“Two dozen people with minor eye injuries,” one officer said.
“The rest with breathing issues,” another officer said.
“Everyone being tended to?” Tidwell asked.
There were nods and yeses from all the officers.
“Any idea what caused the problem?” Tidwell asked as he glanced around. “Officer Gandler? You were one of the first on scene?”
“We think it was some type of insecticide,” Officer Gandler said. He pointed to the two men in hazmat suits. “That’s their guesstimate, anyway, before they run lab tests. Probably something toxic, but only when it’s super concentrated. Then if someone breathes in a whole bunch of the gas or ingests a fatal dose...”
“Did anyone?” Tidwell asked.
“No,” Gandler said. “We got lucky.”
“And we also have a GSW?” Tidwell was referring to a gunshot wound.
“Osgood Claxton,” Gandler said.
Tidwell looked startled. “The politician?”
“Exactly, sir.”
Tidwell nodded, then turned slowly to look at the black tarp covering the body that lay well away from the crowd. The body that was waiting for the Crime Scene investigators to come and photograph and run tests on it.
Then Tidwell’s roving eyes took in the picnic tables, mess of teapots and half-ruined sandwiches, and ruined artwork.
“There was an event taking place here,” he said.
“A tea party,” Officer Gandler said. “To celebrate an art gallery.”
Tidwell’s eyes continued to move across the scene. Until they fell upon Theodosia. “Uh-huh,” he said with a knowing look.
But before Theodosia could connect with Tidwell and pepper him with a million questions, Holly’s boyfriend, Philip Boldt, came rushing in.
“Holly! Holly!” Philip yelled, his voice edging into hysteria. He spun around, looking everywhere, frantic to find her.
“Philip, over here!” Holly called back. She rushed over to meet him and practically fell into his arms crying. They hugged, kissed, and wiped tears from each other’s eyes. Then, when they were finally composed, they walked over to where Theodosia was standing, where Drayton was still sprawled in a chair.
Theodosia reached a hand out and gently touched Philip’s arm. “Are you okay?” she asked. Philip was a thin, nervous type who looked like he was coming apart at the seams.
Philip gave a vigorous shake of his head. “No, I’m not okay. Not anywhere near okay.” His mouth curved downward, his chin quivered. “I was at my restaurant and I got a frantic call from Holly. What happened here anyway?”
So Theodosia proceeded to tell him, giving Philip the short, CliffsNotes version with Holly jumping in and Drayton tossing in his two cents worth as best he could. She did, however, leave out the part where she chased the phony beekeeper and then had to hit the dirt when he fired at her. Some things were best left unsaid, she decided.
Philip listened to the retelling of the phony beekeeper’s assault with toxic smoke and the beekeeper’s shooting of Osgood Claxton. He seemed to grasp the gist of it all. But just as he began to nod with understanding, splotchy tears rolled down his face and he said, “Are all the paintings ruined?”
Holly grimaced. “They’re not in great shape.”
