Shades of Earl Grey

just rolled into a corner somewhere and was lying there in a puff of dust. I never thought any kind of serious theft would occur at the Heritage Society. Not in my wildest dreams!”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” spoke up Drayton. “I’d say you took our warning very seriously. When I spoke to you about the wedding ring disappearing from the Lady Goodwood Inn, you were extremely agreeable about taking precautions. You even approved the expenditure for the electronic equipment. Which means you did everything right, Timothy. No one could possibly fault you or hold you responsible.”

Timothy grimaced, unwilling to meet Drayton’s earnest gaze. “Oh, but I’m afraid they will,” he replied, his voice quavering.

“Timothy,” said Theodosia, determined to bring him back to the subject at hand, “we’ve got to face reality. Whoever is responsible for these thefts has to be one of our own.”

Timothy’s eyebrows rose like two question marks on his pale face as he stared at Theodosia with trepidation. “Explain,” he said. One hand gestured at her weakly, urging her to continue.

“If it isn’t someone from our own circle,” said Theodosia, “then how else would they have known about Camille’s wedding ring at the Lady Goodwood? Or the European Jewel Collection?”

“They read the paper? Studied their intended target?” proposed Drayton.

“The European Jewel Collection was written up in the paper, yes,” said Theodosia. She thought for a moment. “But there was nothing about Camille Buchanan’s wedding ring. That was... that was...”

“An accident?” proposed Drayton.

“You’re not going to like this, but I’d say it’s more likely an inside job,” said Theodosia. “As far as the Lady Goodwood’s silver goes... well, you’d just have to know about that.”

“So whoever perpetrated the crime was right there,” said Timothy slowly. “They were right there among us last night. Probably sipping drinks, chatting with guests.”

They all sat in shocked silence for a moment, pondering the implications.

Finally, Theodosia spoke up. “There’s something else, too.”

“What’s that?” asked Drayton.

“If the two thefts are related, and I think we have pretty much come to the very unsettling conclusion that they are, then poor Harlan Wilson could be in danger,” said Theodosia. “Because he’s probably the only witness we have.”

“But he’s still in a coma!” exclaimed Drayton.

“Which is very good news for our thief,” said Theodosia. “Unless Mr. Wilson suddenly comes to and is able to provide the police with a careful description. Of course, we don’t know for certain that Mr. Wilson even saw the robbery take place. Let’s assume that he did, however, and act accordingly. Err on the side of caution.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Timothy. He suddenly looked terribly defeated.

“Obviously we need reinforcements,” said Theodosia. “And protection for Mr. Wilson.”

“The police,” said Timothy with resignation. “They’re already on it. I spoke with two investigators this morning.”

“Did you voice your concerns about a connection with the ring disappearing at the Lady Goodwood?” asked Drayton.

“No,” said Timothy. “I guess I just didn’t want to believe . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Then might I suggest we call in the big guns?” said Theodosia.

“You mean . . .” said Drayton, glancing sharply at her.

Theodosia nodded. “That’s right. Detective Tidwell.”

Henry Marchand, Timothy’s butler and housekeeper for the last forty years, suddenly appeared behind them. For someone who was so advanced in years, Henry moved with amazing stealth. They had heard nary a footstep.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have a phone call,” Henry said in his somber, papery voice.

Theodosia glanced down at Henry’s feet. He was wearing a pair of Chinese shoes. Thin-soled slip-ons made of black cotton fabric. No wonder he moved like a Ninja.

Timothy waved a hand as though to dismiss the call. “Tell them to—”

“It’s Mr. Bernard,” said Henry with a grave face.

Timothy reluctantly pulled himself up from his wicker chair. “You hear that? Vance Bernard is chairman of our executive advisory committee. The committee I report to. I can assure you, Vance Bernard is not a happy man today. Which can result in just one thing—my head will be placed squarely on the chopping block!”

Timothy took a few steps to the door, hesitated, turned back toward Theodosia and Drayton. “Once you speak with this fellow, Tidwell, you’ll let me know, yes?”

“Of course,” Theodosia assured him, then watched as Timothy turned back and entered the house. It was the first time she’d seen Timothy Neville walk without a spring in his step. It was the first time she’d really seen him looking old.

Chapter 6

The notes from Pachelbel’s Canon drifted through Theodosia’s upstairs apartment, a cozy fire crackled in the bright fireplace, a chapter from a new mystery novel beckoned. But try as she might, Theodosia just couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t relax.

After that rather jarring meeting with Timothy Neville, she and Drayton had tried to formulate some sort of battle plan. But nothing had seemed to gel. There didn’t seem to be any real clues. After all, if no one person stuck in their minds as a potential suspect, what exactly could they do? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Theodosia lay her book facedown on the sofa, kicked off the afghan she’d been snuggled under, and gazed about, a slightly disgruntled look on her usually serene face.

She loved her little place above the tea shop. It was elegant, cozy, and suited her perfectly. This past summer, she’d taken the big plunge and painted the walls. But instead of a conservative palette of eggshell white or cream, she’d opted for a rich ochre base coat, then sponged a second layer of flaxen yellow on top of it. The result was a sun-washed feel reminiscent of a Tuscan villa. Now the cinnamon and gold Oriental rug she’d always had in the living room really came alive. As did the gleaming seascape oil paintings on the walls. Flanking the double doorway that led to her small dining room, she’d installed two antique wooden columns as plant stands for her Boston ferns.

What had once been very shabby chic had suddenly become the picture of Southern elegance.

That’s good, she had told herself. The nature of a home should shift and mature along with its owner.

But tonight, the upstairs apartment she’d worked so hard and lovingly on just felt confining.

Enough, she decided as she padded into her bedroom, rooted around in the bottom of the closet for her Nikes, and pulled a pair of leggings from a chest of drawers.

When in doubt, go for a jog.

Earl Grey, suddenly alert and convinced something wonderful was about to take place, sprang to his feet. Toenails clicking against hardwood floors, he circled her repeatedly, ears pitched forward, tail beating a doggy rhythm in double time.

“You got it, fella, let’s go,” said Theodosia as she grabbed his leather leash off the hook in the kitchen.

Ecstatic now, Earl Grey tumbled down the stairs ahead of her, ready to charge out and own the night.

Heading down Church Street past the Chowder Hound Restaurant, Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, and Floradora, her favorite flower shop, Theodosia and Earl Grey cut over on Water Street to East Bay. The night was cool but not cold. The atmosphere, laden with humidity, lent a soft focus to the light that streamed from the old mansions, garden lanterns, portico and street lamps. Charleston, always highly atmospheric to begin with, positively glowed at night.