Shades of Earl Grey

Brooke hesitated. “Well, yes, I suppose I have in a couple instances. I don’t really feel I can go into detail, though...”

“That’s okay,” said Theodosia hastily, “it was just a random thought. Forget I even brought it up.”

But Brooke continued to pick at the thread of their conversation. “When a seller does act a bit nervous or suspicious, I try to get a quick Polaroid of the jewelry they’re offering for sale. Then I check with the Police Department to see if anything similar has been reported stolen. Now, of course, there are several Internet web sites that specialize in the recovery of art and high-end jewelry. You can post stolen, suspicious, or recovered items with them.”

“And there are also web sites where you can sell goods, no questions asked,” said Theodosia.

“Yes,” sighed Brooke, “there are lots of those. Antique auction sites, sellers’ marts, what have you.”

“Can I offer you a little more honey?” asked Haley as she deposited a small silver dish on the table filled with the sticky gold liquid.

“Thank you, Haley,” said Brooke. “Your biscuits are delicious. Nice and light, and really great with this honey.”

“It’s from DuBose Bees,” responded Haley. “They’re one of our best suppliers and specialize in all different flavors of honey. Sourwood honey, apple honey, melon honey...”

“How on earth do you get melon honey?” asked Brooke.

Haley wrinkled her button nose and smiled. “It’s really kind of neat. The grower puts his beehives right smack dab in the middle of a field of melons. Apparently, once the bees pollinate the flowers, their honey begins to take on this sweet melon flavor. Works the same way with apples and peaches.”

“I never dreamed it was done that way,” said Brooke, genuinely fascinated. “I always thought they just added flavoring or something.”

Haley glanced up as the bell over the door tinkled. “Hey there, Miss Dimple,” she said in a chirpy voice.

Short and plump, edging up into her high seventies, Miss Dimple flashed a big smile at Haley and Theodosia as she swished in wearing a purple wool poncho slung over her purple and red dress. She had worked in the building next door to the tea shop, the Peregrine Building, as a personal assistant to old Mr. Dauphine, the building’s owner, for many years. When Mr. Dauphine died of a heart attack last year, Miss Dimple, in a state of anxiety and desperately needing a job, was encouraged by Theodosia to pursue freelance bookkeeping. Now Miss Dimple had a new career handling payables and receivables for several small businesses on Church Street such as the Chowder Hound Restaurant and Turtle Creek Antiques. She even worked behind the counter from time to time at Pinckney’s Gift Shop.

“Miss Dimple,” said Theodosia, popping up from her chair. “How was your vacation in Coral Gables?”

Miss Dimple toddled over to her in a pair of too-tight shoes and grasped Theodosia’s arm. “Wonderful,” she gushed. “Do you know they still have those water skiers? I saw them back in 1958 and they’re still doing amazing stunts, standing on each other’s shoulders and skiing backwards.”

“Guess you’re not a Six Flags kind of gal, huh, Miss Dimple?” said Haley with a mischievous grin.

“You’re a wicked girl, Haley Parker,” scolded Miss Dimple. “You know my brain would be in an absolute spin if I went on one of those topsy-turvy rides. No, just watching water skiers is excitement enough when you get to be my age,” she said as she followed Theodosia into the back of the shop.

When they had passed through the green velvet curtains and were in Theodosia’s private office, Miss Dimple said in a loud whisper, “I hear you’ve had some excitement around here again.” Her old eyes sparkled. “That theft at the Heritage Society must have put Drayton in a dreadful state. Timothy Neville, too. Neither one has what you’d call a tranquil personality.”

“They were both pretty upset,” agreed Theodosia. “Still are.” She rummaged through the stack of papers that had somehow accumulated with amazing speed on top of her desk, searching for the previous week’s receipts so Miss Dimple could bring their books up to date.

“I was so sorry to hear about the death of Delaine’s niece’s fiancé, too.” Miss Dimple paused. “That’s a mouthful, now isn’t it?”

“It was a tragedy,” said Theodosia. “His death and the missing ring have us all on edge.”

“Missing ring?” asked Miss Dimple, suddenly perking up. “I didn’t hear about that.”

Theodosia gave up looking for the receipts for a moment. “Camille’s heirloom wedding ring is still unaccounted for. But keep that under your hat, will you? The fact that the ring might be related to the disappearance of that sapphire necklace at the Heritage Society is really just a theory we’re going on.”

“The theory being . . .” said Miss Dimple.

“Well... that the two incidents are related,” said Theodosia.

Miss Dimple gazed at her with eyes big as saucers. “Do you know Chessie Calvert?” she asked suddenly.

Theodosia shook her head.

“Two weeks ago, just before I went on vacation, somebody broke into Chessie’s house and stole her collection of Tiffany Favrile vases,” said Miss Dimple. Favrile vases were among the early efforts of Louis Tiffany. Highly colorful and often fancifully shaped like flowers, Tiffany vases were renowned for their jewel-like brilliance.

“No kidding,” said Theodosia. This was a bit of a bombshell.

“Now when I say collection, I mean a total of three vases,” said Miss Dimple. “Still, they were gorgeous pieces. Inherited from her Grand-Aunt Polly and worth a pretty penny. Chessie was heartbroken.”

“So there have been thefts before,” said Theodosia. “Camille’s ring wasn’t the first.”

“Could be a nasty trend,” said Miss Dimple.

“Did your friend, Chessie, report this theft to the police?” asked Theodosia.

“Oh yes,” said Miss Dimple. “And they sent a—what-do-you-call-it?—an e-mail to the folks at that Art Theft Association in New York. The police theorized that Chessie’s pieces might show up at auction somewhere. Apparently there’s a huge demand for Tiffany collectibles.”

Theodosia drummed her fingers on her desk. “This isn’t good.”

“No, it’s not,” said Miss Dimple. She studied Theodosia with a cool, appraising look. “Let me guess,” she said, her old eyes narrowing. “In light of the rather bizarre occurrences with Camille’s ring and the necklace at the Heritage Society, you’ve decided to launch your own investigation.” She tossed the word investigation out as though she were Watson chatting it up with Sherlock Holmes.

“It’s more just looking into things than anything,” said Theodosia, offering a hasty explanation. “Delaine was awfully upset. And Timothy’s worried sick about losing his job.”

“Yes, but bully for you, dear,” said Miss Dimple. “Besides jumping in to help, you show a real intuition for this line of work.” She nodded approvingly at Theodosia. “If I were to place a bet, I’d put my money on you instead of the police.”

“Thanks for your confidence, Miss Dimple, but like I said, I’m really... oh, here they are!” Theodosia grabbed the packet of receipts that had been clipped together and then somehow buried under a mound of tea catalogs, invitations, recipes, and marketing ideas.

Miss Dimple took the receipts from Theodosia and opened her purse to put them in. “I don’t know if what I told you about Chessie Calvert’s Tiffany vases has helped or hurt,” she said.

“Definitely helped,” said Theodosia. “It means there’s been a pattern. That’s not great news, of course, but it means my theory has credence.”

“So you’re going to keep investigating?” asked Miss Dimple.

“Absolutely,” said Theodosia. Three instances of valuables stolen, maybe more? You better believe I’m going to keep going.

“Oh!” Miss Dimple suddenly exclaimed. “What’s wrong with me? I almost forgot.” She plunked herself down in the chair across from Theodosia and rifled through her handbag. “I found this in a darling little shop in Key Largo and thought it would be absolutely perfect for you!” Miss Dimple pulled out a gift wrapped in pink tissue paper and handed it to her.

Theodosia accepted the gift, peeled back the paper. It was a wrought iron trivet in the shape of a teapot.