Ming Tea Murder by Childs Laura

Author:Childs, Laura [Childs, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-04-20T07:00:00+00:00

16

Church Street would never have been called Church Street if it weren’t for St. Philip’s Episcopal Church. Founded in 1681, constructed in 1836, the elegant-looking church with the circular front proudly extended out into the middle of Church Street for all to see.

Surrounded on three sides by centuries-old graveyards, St. Philip’s seemed uniquely appropriate for Edgar Webster’s funeral Monday morning. The choir sang a somber version of “How Great Thou Art” as the mourners quietly filed in. Theodosia, sitting in one of the back pews, recognized Roger Greaves and his wife, Dolly, and what was probably a contingent of Datrex employees crowded around them. There was also a bunch of Webster relatives.

Theodosia also noted that Elliot Kern was present and accounted for, as well as a number of curators and board members from the museum.

Stands to reason, she thought, since poor Webster had met his maker there. Too bad it hadn’t happened in a picturesque garden or gallery. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Edgar to have gasped out his dying breath in a chrome yellow photo booth. The kind people rented for fairs or sweet sixteen parties. The kind Max had unfortunately rented. And it was too bad that Webster hadn’t had the presence of mind to push the button and take a photo. Then his death—and his killer’s identity—would have been recorded for posterity.

Squirming around in her seat, Theodosia noted that Tidwell was hunched in the very last pew. He seemed intent on ignoring everyone around him, though he was probably observing them like a hawk. And there was Bill Glass, skulking in with a load of cameras strung around his neck. He was here to capture the moment, she thought. But not for posterity. Any images he captured today would exist only for a day or two in his rag of a tabloid, then get tossed out with the next day’s garbage.

As the choir finished their dirge and the organ music slowly died in the still air, there was a disturbance at the back of the church. The sound of doors opening, loud whispers, a hum of activity, and the click-clack of rolling metal wheels.

Theodosia swiveled around and saw that Edgar Webster’s casket had been loaded onto a casket roller. Covered with the official state flag of South Carolina—bright blue with a white palmetto and crescent—that draped the casket and was topped with an enormous spray of white lilies.

Interesting, she thought. They were the same type of flowers used at the Titanic Tea last night. Only these lilies were larger and the presentation far more grand.

A hush came over the congregation, and the organ started up again as Charlotte Webster, hanging on the arm of Harlan Duke, came walking down the aisle. Charlotte wore a black jacket with a perky, stand-up collar, a ruffled skirt, and a black hat that was somewhere between a stovepipe and The Cat in the Hat. They were followed closely by Edgar Webster’s casket. Flanked by six grim-faced pallbearers and an honor guard of four more men in black suits, it creaked noisily down the aisle.

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