Shades of Earl Grey

“And Timothy Neville’s been collecting stamps for over forty years and the rarest piece in his collection is a block of four 1851 twelve-cent Washingtons.” Drayton paused and pursed his lips, thinking. “We’d have to come up with something far, far better than those if we really wanted to tantalize our thief.”

“Like what?” asked Haley.

Drayton thought for a moment. “The Pony Express collection is worth a fortune. But I can’t imagine where we’d lay our hands on a set.”

“What about a one-cent Z grill?” asked Theodosia.

Drayton stared at her. “The 1869 Benjamin Franklin with the Z grill background? Are you kidding?” he snorted. “Nobody’s got a one-cent Z grill.”

“Aunt Libby does,” said Theodosia with sudden calm. Aunt Libby had inherited a very fine stamp collection from her grandfather, Theodosia’s great-grandfather.

“Really?” squealed Haley. She grabbed for Drayton’s arm, ready to do a little dance. “A Z grill!” She hopped up and down, did a quick shuffle, then stopped suddenly. “What’s a Z grill?”

“An exceedingly rare philatelic specimen, that’s what it is,” said Drayton. He peered at Theodosia and cocked his head in disbelief. “Really? Your Aunt Libby has one?” Now he sounded like Haley. Incredulous.

Yes, Theodosia mused to herself, a rare postage stamp would be perfect. Stamps in general were escalating in value, sometimes even outpacing other collectibles. Besides, rare stamps were portable, easy to hide, and relatively easy to cash in. They were an easy sell to private collectors, who were often compulsive about completing their prized collections. Who knows, a rare stamp might even be the perfect bait to lure a cat burglar.

Drayton was still looking eagerly at her, waiting for an answer. “You’re quite sure it’s a Franklin Z grill?”

Theodosia nodded and a slow smile spread across Dray-ton’s face. “Yes,” he murmured, “that’s the ticket, then. A stamp so rare perhaps only a handful of top collectors know about it or have even seen one.”

“What’s the story?” asked Haley. “Why will it be on display?”

Theodosia thought for a moment. “We’ll say it’s part of Drayton’s collection.” She gazed at him, liking the sound of it. “Will that make good enough fodder for a newspaper article?” she asked.

“I’ll call Sheldon Tibbets now,” Drayton told her.

Chapter 20

Chicken Perloo HAS long been a dinner time favorite in Charleston as well as the surrounding low-country. Really a type of pilaf or jambalaya, Chicken Perloo, usually pronounced PER-lo and sometimes spelled pilau, is a homey one-pot meal that combines chicken, onions, celery, butter, tomatoes, thyme, and that ever-popular Carolina staple, white rice.

Simmering and bubbling on the stove in Theodosia’s kitchen, the Chicken Perloo emitted enticing aromas as Theodosia, Jory, Drayton, and Haley sat around Theodosia’s dining table. First course was a citrus salad topped with sliced strawberries and toasted almonds.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t check on the Chicken Perloo?” asked Drayton. He was seated closest to the kitchen door and was the one most tantalized by the flavorful aroma.

“Don’t you dare lift the cover on that kettle,” warned Theodosia. Haley shook her head. “Why do men always want to take a peak?” she asked.

“Because that’s how men are,” said Jory Davis. “It’s inherent in our nature. We’re compulsive lid-lifters and oven-door openers.” He took a sip of wine. “Curiosity is a wonderful thing,” he added.

“Not when it causes a cake to fall,” said Haley. “Remember that angel food cake I made last month? Drayton just couldn’t resist. Had to sneak the oven door open and take a look. And what were the results of his unbridled curiosity? Bam. A nasty mess. The poor thing crashed like the Hindenburg.”

“Why blame me, when the true culprit was the humidity,” protested Drayton. “Everyone knows you can’t bake angel food cake when the air is completely saturated with humidity.”

“We hadn’t had rain in days,” said Haley. She slid out of her chair and began collecting the empty salad plates. “I’ll help you serve, okay?” she said to Theodosia.

“Great,” said Theodosia. “And if Jory could pour some more wine, I think we’re set.”

It was a perfect dinner. Morsels of fresh, plump chicken blended with the tomatoes, celery, onions, and moist rice in a rich milieu. Not quite a stew, not quite a gumbo. And with Jory’s crisp white wine and a pan of fresh-baked corn muffins, nothing else was needed.

No one spoke of cat burglars or the dilemma at the Heritage Society until dessert, when Haley’s cake and lemon curd were served. And then it was Theodosia who began the discussion by bringing Jory Davis up to speed on the strange note they’d received that morning.

“It does seem like a cryptic warning,” he said as he held the note in his hands, studying it. “It’s tempting to just blow it off or chalk it up to a disgruntled customer, but I don’t think that’s the case here.”

“Neither do we,” said Theodosia.

“So you think it’s from this cat burglar guy, too?” Haley asked Jory as she began collecting plates.

“It’s possible,” said Jory. He stared across the table at Theodosia and concern was apparent in his face. “Tell me again about your idea for tomorrow night?”

Earlier in the evening, when Jory Davis had first arrived and she was still chopping celery, she’d mentioned her plan for putting a rare postage stamp on display at the Heritage Society tomorrow night. Now she filled Jory in about how Drayton had convinced his friend, Sheldon Tibbets, to write a short blurb about the Z grill to run in tomorrow’s edition.

Jory Davis leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “Sounds good. Although I must say, you three have exceedingly active imaginations.”

“But do you think it will work?” pressed Drayton.

“Why not,” said Jory, suddenly switching to a more serious demeanor. “Of course, not being a stamp collector or... what’s the technical term?”

“Philatelist,” filled in Drayton.

“Not being a dedicated philatelist,” said Jory, “the stamp sounds intriguing. But not something I’d risk life and limb for. However . . .”

He gazed across the table at Theodosia, bathed in the glow of pink candlelight.

“I think that professional thieves are probably also knowledgeable connoisseurs,” continued Jory. “My guess is they have a fairly good grasp of today’s market value for oil paintings and jewelry and stamps and such. That’s what drives them.” Haley set a dessert down in front of him and Jory immediately helped himself to a bite of cake. “Mmn, good. That might also be your cat burglar’s Achilles’ heel, by the way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Haley, fascinated.

“My guess is their knowledge is their downfall. It’s how they eventually get caught. A professional thief knows the value of his ill-gotten merchandise, yet often ends up trying to negotiate with fences or unsavory dealers who don’t. If these dealers get an inkling that something is of real value, they could easily flip on their so-called customer, report it to the insurance company, and pocket a nice fat reward.”

“And if a cat burglar sells his stolen goods on the Internet?” said Theodosia.

Jory Davis knew she was referring to Graham Carmody. “That’s a different story,” he said. He looked around the table. “Have you told them about Graham Carmody?” he asked her.

And so Theodosia quickly related her tale of going to Graham Carmody’s house, snatching the black plastic garbage bag, and finding it stuffed with computer printouts from various Internet auction sites.

“Theodosia,” chided Drayton, “you continue to trample the boundaries of what is prudent and safe. Going to this Graham Carmody’s house alone was far too impulsive.”

“Yeah,” agreed Haley, “you should have asked us to go along with you. Make a real outing of it!”

Drayton glowered at Haley. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”