Shades of Earl Grey

his pulse to racing. But once the object was digitally photographed and put up on the web site, then things really got interesting. Because that’s when he started making money.

Graham loved checking and rechecking the bids, especially when one of his choice items was reaching its final days. It was exciting to note when his reserve price had been met, even better when bidding heated up and competitors from all over the world began to play a cat-andmouse game with each other, sneaking in new bids at three in the morning!

What a marvel the Internet was. And what a brilliant way to move merchandise. So fast, so inexpensive, and so highly anonymous. Whoever had really invented the Internet (and he was quite sure it hadn’t been Al Gore, more likely a bunch of brainy military tech weinies) should be awarded a gold medal. Because the Internet had become the repository for all of civilization’s accumulated knowledge. And an international marketplace for all of civilization’s goods.

Graham Carmody stretched his long legs, scratched at the scruff of ginger-colored beard that sprouted on his face. He’d have to can it in a little while, get his shit ready for tomorrow. Starting tomorrow noon he’d be working nonstop for the next couple days. A docents’ luncheon at the art museum, then the gig at Symphony Hall. Friday and Saturday evenings were booked solid, too. Working as a temp for Butler’s Express didn’t leave a lot of room for extracurricular activities, but it certainly got him into lots of interesting places. Oh well, hit it hard now, retire early...

Reaching for a cigarette, Graham Carmody stood up suddenly, letting his computer chair snap back. He glanced at the walls of his study, at the tasty antiques and oddities that occupied the wooden shelves. He didn’t even remember where he’d picked up that pre-Columbian statue. Or that silver tray. Oh well. Didn’t matter.

Overcome by fatigue now from too many hours spent staring at the computer screen, he paced the length of the room, glancing out the window into the back garden of the small single house he rented. What luck he’d had in finding this place. Mrs. Gerritsen, an older lady and recent widow, had been looking for a young man to rent the downstairs from her. Give her a sense of security, she’d told him. He gazed at his rumpled reflection in the window. Security. Him. Sure. You bet, Mrs. Gerritsen. Anything you say, babe.

A sudden movement outside caught his eye. He stepped closer to the window, cupped his hands to the glass, and tried to peer outside.

Is someone out there? Moving around in the alley?

He darted through the doorway into the kitchen and threw open the back door.

Hey! he called, leaping down the back steps, intent on throwing a good scare into whoever was sneaking around out back.

But all he saw were shadows. All he heard was the whisper of the wind through Mrs. Gerritsen’s dead flower stalks.

Graham Carmody stood on the sidewalk in his bare feet. Nothing, he finally told himself. Probably just a stray cat trying to paw its way into the garbage bag I set out earlier. He’d seen the damn things around before, thought maybe Mrs. Gerritsen secretly put out food for them.

You’re just feeling jumpy, kid. Time to log some serious sack time. Graham Carmody turned and went back inside his house.

Graham Carmody, Graham Carmody. The name had played like a litany in Theodosia’s head. He’d been one of the waiters at Delaine’s party; he’d also worked at the Heritage Society the night the Blue Kashmir necklace disappeared. Coincidence or convenience?

And so it wasn’t any surprise that at nine o’clock that night Theodosia pulled out the Charleston phone directory, paged through the C’s, and ran her finger down the index of names until she actually found the name, Graham Carmody.

Over on Bogard Street. Not all that far from here.

She’d stood in her hallway, gazing at her reflection in the mirror, debating how she could pull this off. Go for a jog and take Earl Grey along in case she needed a convincing ruse? Or just drive there and snoop?

In the end she jumped in her Jeep and drove there. Parked a block or so away. Flipped the switch that killed the dome light, then slipped quietly out the door.

Theodosia had scouted the house from the street first. It was your typical Charleston single house. Long and narrow, one room wide, butted up against the street. Charleston folklore held that residences had once been taxed according to how much street frontage they occupied. Hence the evolution of the conservatively narrow Charleston single house.

This one was clapboard, though many single houses were far grander and built of brick or stucco. Graham Carmody’s house looked fairly well kept for its age, Theodosia decided. It had probably been built just before the turn of the century. The previous century.

And look, next to the front door. Two mailboxes. The house had obviously been turned into a duplex of sorts. Is Graham Carmody the landlord or the renter? she wondered.

Going around to the back of the house, walking down the alley, she’d seen him through the window, working on his computer.

Graham Carmody was surprisingly pleasant looking. Young, probably late twenties. A trifle scruffy, but still the kind of guy Haley would find attractive. Would call hunky.

Theodosia had been staring in at him from outside, drawn unconsciously forward, when the tip of her shoe had struck something.

A black vinyl garbage bag.

Was it his? she’d wondered. Should she look inside? Better yet, should she take it?

Feeling a trifle foolish, but still curious, she’d snatched up the black bag and slung it over her shoulder.

That’s when the man in the window had reacted. Had bolted out of the room in a flash.

Theodosia had known he was coming after her. He’d seen something, her movement or shadow when she grabbed the bag, and was rushing out to check!

But she was down the alley and around the corner before Graham Carmody ever hit the flower beds. Then she crouched behind a huge clump of magnolias, trying to control her breathing, knowing Graham Carmody hadn’t been wearing shoes, but praying he wouldn’t run down the alley after her anyway.

He hadn’t.

Theodosia waited a full five minutes, during which time she felt like a surreptitious Santa with a bag of who-knows-what thrown across his back.

She took a roundabout route back to her Jeep, unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat.

Keeping one eye on the rearview mirror, she drove a circuitous route back to her apartment above the Indigo Tea Shop. Finally, when her breathing had returned to normal and she’d parallel parked in the spot behind her shop, she turned her attention to the black garbage bag that rested beside her on the passenger seat.

Digging a fingernail into the soft plastic, she ripped the bag open. But instead of the orange juice cartons, candy bar wrappers, and empty cereal boxes she’d expected to see, there were printouts. Computer printouts. Mounds of them.

Frowning, Theodosia snapped the Jeep’s dome light on and stared at the sheets of paper.

They were activity printouts from an Internet auction site. Dates and times of bids. Amounts of bids.

She sat stock-still and stared out the front window of the Jeep. If Graham Carmody is a cat burglar, what better way to fence his stolen goods than on an Internet auction site! It would be a way to draw millions of buyers from all over the world and still remain anonymous!

Yes, she decided, this definitely bore looking into. And the sooner the better.

Chapter 16

Timothy Neville had weathered many crises in his eighty years and many problems during his tenure as