flower arranging.”
“Okay,” said Haley. “Great.”
“We’ll ask Hattie Boatwright over at Floradora to design something for us,” suggested Drayton. “She took an ikebana workshop with me a few years ago and her arrangements turned out far better than mine.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “But then, she’s a professional.”
Haley continued ticking off ideas in rapid-fire succession. “And the refreshments at our main table should include Japanese green tea, some sushi, nothing too exotic, maybe some California rolls, and some of those little kushiyaki sticks. You know grilled chicken and vegetables with teriyaki sauce?”
“Can you make the California rolls?” asked Theodosia, “or should we ask Miyako’s Sushi to do the catering?”
“I can do it,” said Haley. “Once I cook the rice and season it properly with wine vinegar, the rest should be a snap.”
“Listen to her,” said Drayton. “She doesn’t even need
“Oh, yes I do,” said Haley. “You two have to figure out where to display all our nifty products. Then you should probably make up some gift baskets for sale, probably using those extra sweetgrass baskets we have in back. And—” she looked around “—oh yeah, dig out those tiny little Japanese cups we’ve got stored around here somewhere.”
Chapter 8
In 1929, with an eye to the future and their collective hearts set squarely in the past, Charleston’s city council passed the nation’s very first zoning ordinance to protect many of their city’s historic buildings. Two years later, they went a step further and set aside a full twenty-three square blocks of the peninsula—what is known today as the historic district—containing a rich assortment of historic homes as well as significant commercial, religious, and civic buildings.
The result is a breathtaking architectural preserve. The historic district is replete with Colonial, Georgian, Italianate, Greek Revival, and Federal-style buildings, as well as many examples of the ubiquitous Charleston single house, that have remained unchanged for well over a century. And even though the occasional hurricane blows in to rearrange things (such as Hurricane Hugo did in 1989), the streets are still lined with graceful live oaks, enormous mulberry bushes, and flowering magnolias, and the hundreds of hidden, backyard private gardens are nothing short of breathtaking.
As Theodosia stepped across the patio of the Heritage Society, she was delighted to see that some craftsperson had pieced together the beginnings of what would probably be a splendid-looking wrought iron bench.
Based on the design of a Victorian love seat, the bench was fashioned in a graceful S-curve, with one seat facing one way and another seat facing the opposite way.
Theodosia noted the sections where additional scrollwork would be added and decided the new bench was pretty and whimsical and would be a perfect addition to the patio outside the Heritage Society, since so many of their parties seemed to spill outside anyway.
“That’s going to be a lovely bench,” she told Claire Kitridge, one of the Heritage Society secretaries, who was seated at the massive wood reception desk. Claire had worked at the Heritage Society for several years and always seemed extremely dedicated.
Claire nodded her frizz of grayish hair. “Isn’t it?” she responded. “I’m just crazy over anything that’s wrought iron?” she said, allowing her voice to rise at the end of her sentence, making her statement sound like a question.
Sitting at the desk with her blue oxford shirt tucked into a plain navy skirt, Claire looked busy and efficient. She wore nary a speck of makeup and had her glasses strung around her neck on a practical silver chain. Theodosia had always thought Claire to be a straightforward, no-nonsense type of woman. But she also knew that Claire was a devotee of antique linens and had amassed a spectacular collection.
“Still sorting through flea markets, Claire?” Theodosia asked.
Claire fixed her with an eager gaze. “You wouldn’t believe the luck I’ve had. I just stumbled upon some spectacular linen napkins? Damask, woven back in the twenties for the ocean liner, the
“I am, but I’m going to have to find a bigger house,” bemoaned Theodosia. Tea towels were another one of her passions. Just like her collection of teacups.
“Tell me about it,” laughed Claire. “Between my linens, eiderdowns, and antique lace, it’s
“Yes, would you see if he can spare a few moments?” Theodosia asked.
“Of course,” said Claire. She punched a couple buttons. “Mr. Neville? Miss Theodosia Browning is here at the front desk? Could you . . . of course, I’ll tell her.” Claire hung up the phone and smiled at Theodosia. “Mr. Neville said to come right in. You know which office is his?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Theodosia.
“Let me know about those tea towels,” called Claire as Theodosia started down the hall.
“What do you think?” Timothy asked Theodosia as she stepped into his office. “An authentic Sully or a very good copy?” His arm made a sweeping gesture to indicate a portrait of a woman framed in gilt.
Theodosia took a few steps forward and studied the portrait that lay on Timothy’s desk. She knew that Thomas Sully was a distinguished painter who had lived and worked in Charleston for many years. He had produced a fairly large body of work, but he’d had his imitators, too. Then again, what successful artist didn’t?
Theodosia studied the surface of the painting. It was aged and the glaze crackled, that was for sure. So the painting certainly wasn’t recent. The signature looked good and the subject, a young woman sitting beside a fireplace, did seem to emit a certain glow from within. Still...
“May I?” she asked. Timothy nodded abruptly as Theodosia picked up the portrait and turned it over. It had been painted on canvas, she noted, not just on a wooden board. And the wooden canvas stretchers looked old and weathered, which was often a good giveaway of authenticity.
“I’d say it’s real,” she told Timothy. “And a fine example, at that.”
Timothy Neville beamed at her. “Well done, Miss Browning. May I ask what aspect of this painting most convinced you as to its authenticity?”
“The canvas looks old,” she said. “A little dry, in fact. And the stretchers are the slot and groove kind. That usually indicates late-eighteenth or early-nineteenth century.”
“Yes, this portrait is absolutely authentic,” Timothy told her. “It’s a recent donation and a welcome one at that.” Timothy rocked back on his heels. “I don’t know how popular we’re going to be in the future, however. Our recent debacle last Saturday night may have sealed our fate as far as donations go.”
He sat down heavily in his chair, as though he’d suddenly run out of energy and enthusiasm. “Sit, please,” he told her.
Theodosia moved around his desk and seated herself in one of the oversized leather chairs that faced Timothy’s desk.
“I talked with Tidwell,” she told him.
“Good. And I spoke with our insurance company.” He drew in a breath, held it, then blew out heavily. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. You obviously came here to share some news.”
Theodosia nodded. She wasn’t sure how pleased Timothy Neville would be with her news, however.
Timothy leaned forward in his chair. “You kept your meeting confidential?”
“It was just Drayton and myself, yes. Tidwell already knew about the two robberies, of course. But we spoke with him about the possibility of a cat burglar at work in Charleston.”
