Shades of Earl Grey

“Hello?” she answered, slightly out of breath.

“Theo, it’s Jory,” came a familiar, upbeat voice.

“Oh, hi there,” she answered. “Hang on a minute, will you?” She unclipped Earl Grey’s leash, shrugged out of her sweatshirt, kicked off her running shoes. Then she settled down cross-legged on the overstuffed couch, comfy in her T-shirt and sweat pants.

“Okay, I’m back,” she told him.

“Good. I called to see if we’re still going to the symphony Thursday night. We talked about it, but I’m not sure we ever made it formal.”

“The symphony. Thursday. Hmm... Thursday’s the open house.”

“Right,” he said. “Your tea bag products.”

“T-Bath.”

“Exactly. But that’ll be over... when?”

She considered this. “Maybe four-thirty, five at the latest.”

“Excellent,” said Jory. “The concert doesn’t start until eight. Which should give you ample time to recoup, recover, and get gorgeous.”

She laughed. Jory Davis did have a way with words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.

“Hey,” he cajoled, “this is supposed to be fun. We’re talking major league date here.”

Good heavens, she thought to herself, I’m acting like an idiot. As Haley would say, this is one cute guy!

“Sorry,” she told him. “An evening at the symphony sounds wonderful. No, better than that . . . fabulous!”

“Over-the-top enthusiasm. That’s more like it,” he laughed, but a moment later turned sober. “Hey, this thing that happened at the Heritage Society last Saturday night... you’re not getting all tangled up in Drayton’s and Timothy Neville’s problems, are you?”

How could she, really? she wondered. She hadn’t found a solid clue to go on yet. All she had were hunches. “No,” she told him. “Not really. You just caught me at the end of a busy day and a long jog.”

“I thought so,” he said. “That dog is running you ragged. I told you to get a bulldog or a dachshund. Those guys have little, short legs. Means you’d travel a much shorter distance. But no, you had to go and hook up with a... what is he again? A doberarian?”

She giggled. “A dalbrador. Thanks, Jory. Good night.”

“ ’Night, kiddo.”

Hanging up the phone, Theodosia decided maybe the better part of valor was to turn in early. She paused, thinking of Jory and their date Thursday night. She was looking forward to spending time with him. As she meandered through her apartment, pulling the draperies across and turning off lights, her mind wandered back to the man she’d seen tonight. Had it been Cooper Hobcaw out loping along in the fog? She’d thought the figure had looked a little like him, long legs, slightly haggard frame. But now she wasn’t sure. She supposed the fog could make anything a little hazy. Including her memory.

The one thing she was sure of, however, was the nagging feeling that something strange was definitely going on. That a cat burglar, or whatever you’d call him, was definitely on the loose out there.

So instead of turning in, Theodosia decided to do a little investigatory work. On the Internet. Surely she’d find something about cat burglars. Everything else was there, for goodness’ sake.

As it turned out, the Internet search proved very productive. When she typed CAT BURGLAR into one of the search engines, hundreds of hits came up. A few were for a rock band and some for a kind of cat burglar game that sounded similar to the old Dungeons and Dragons-type fantasy game.

But she also found good, solid information, too. Newspaper articles about cat burglars who had struck in places like Malibu, New York, Palm Springs, and Palm Beach.

That chilled her. It was exactly what Burt Tidwell had said. The migratory type of cat burglar follows the goods.

There was information posted by different law enforcement agencies, too. And as she scanned the various MOs, one profile seemed to emerge. Cat burglars were bold, even fearless. They were adrenaline junkies who thrived on danger. Apparently, some cat burglars even preferred to ply their trade when a home, hotel room, or shop was occupied. The thrill of someone sitting downstairs, sleeping in the next room, or eating dinner nearby seemed to add an extra touch of danger, an extra dimension to a game they relished. It also appeared that cat burglars often circumvented security systems by scaling buildings or power poles and shutting off electricity.

Shutting off electricity.

That’s what happened at the Heritage Society. Or had that been a storm-induced power failure that a thief simply took advantage of? She didn’t know.

From everything she read, cat burglars also appeared to be smart. Very smart. One cat burglar, known as the dinner hour burglar, entered homes while the residents were downstairs eating their dinner. Another selected his targets by reading magazines like Town & Country and Architectural Digest. And still another savvy cat burglar with a predilection for gold and silver carried a test kit along with him. That way he could pass on the candlesticks and platters that were merely gold- or silver-plated and concentrate on stealing only the finer pieces!

Like Camille’s wedding ring? Or the silver at the Lady Goodwood Inn? she wondered. Holy cow.

Theodosia quickly scanned the rest of the hits. Several law enforcement officials had gone so far as to speculate on the type of person who turns to cat burglary. They tended to be strong and agile, often with gymnast backgrounds, always bold.

She thought about this. Cooper Hobcaw was certainly bold enough. Bold bordering on brash. And as a criminal attorney, he courted danger in a manner of speaking. He could be looking for another outlet from which to get his thrills.

Was Claire Kitridge bold and agile? She wasn’t that old, maybe late thirties. And she looked like she was in good shape. Maybe all those weekend jaunts into the countryside looking for antique linens were really . . .

No, not Claire. It couldn’t be Claire, could it?

Tired now, eyes stinging from peering at the monitor so intently, Theodosia exited the Internet and shut down her computer.

Enough, she told herself. Time to turn in. Earl Grey was already snuggled in his dog bed, snoring softly. It was time she did the same.

But as cozy and comfortable as Theodosia’s bedroom was, with the down comforter and the Egyptian cotton sheets, it was a long while before she was able to fall asleep.

Chapter 13

Last evening’s fog, which had grounded planes at Charleston International Airport in North Charleston, had been dissipated overnight by strong winds swooping in from the Atlantic. The sky was a deep cerulean blue with just a few wisps of errant clouds, and the sun shone brightly, gilding the brick facades, wrought iron artistry, and wooden shutters that made the shops of Church Street so very quaint and picturesque.

But as Delaine Dish strode down Church Street, past the Chowder Hound, the Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, the Antiquarian Bookstore, and the Peregrine Building, which housed the newly opened Gallery Margaux, she barely noticed the magnificent day that had dawned in Charleston.

Delaine was a woman on a mission.

She had driven back from Savannah last night with her friend, Celerie Stuart, feeling upset and more than a little helpless. Captain Corey Buchanan’s funeral had been a blur. She’d been introduced to a kaleidoscope of solemn-faced, tight-lipped Buchanans, who had all seemed to regard her with the same measure of cool