Shades of Earl Grey

stamp,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?” asked Theodosia.

Drayton rocked back on his heels, stuck his hands in his pants pockets, jingled his change. “Not enough of a lure?” He pulled his hands from his pockets, fidgeted some more. “To be perfectly honest, this whole charade made me extremely nervous. And people did ask a lot more questions than I thought they would last night. I felt like I had to keep explaining things.”

Theodosia’s brows knit together upon hearing this. “What do you mean, Drayton? What did you tell them?”

“Exactly what we rehearsed. The Z grill stamp, issued in eighteen sixty-nine, Benjamin Franklin, blah, blah, blah.” He grimaced slightly. “But I still felt like a fraud, seeing as how it’s not really part of my collection.”

“Did you tell people the stamp was staying on display?” Theodosia asked.

“Heavens no,” exclaimed Drayton. “I made it quite clear that this was a one-time event. That I was returning the stamp to my personal collection the very next day.” He shook his head. “I really hated saying that.”

Theodosia stared at him. “That’s what you told people? Really?”

“Awful, isn’t it? I feel like such a liar when it’s not even my stamp. What happens if a bunch of reputable collectors ever ask to see it? I’m cooked.” He sat down at the table across from Theodosia, stared at his tea.

A smile suddenly formed on Theodosia’s face. Her blue eyes began to twinkle. “Drayton, you’re a genius.”

He looked up from his tea sharply. “What?”

“You heard me. A genius.”

“I am?” He looked pleased yet befuddled, quite unsure as to what his great brain power status was being attributed.

“Don’t you see?” began Theodosia excitedly. “Knowing it was on display for one night only, the thief might decide to come looking at your house.”

Drayton’s face suddenly dissolved into worry. “Oh no. That’s not good at all. Especially when it won’t even be there.”

“Are you kidding?” said Theodosia. “This is a terrific break!” She grinned. Yes, she thought to herself, it suddenly made perfect sense. The bait had been there for the taking last night. But then Drayton, in all his nervousness about the stamp, had related his little story about the stamp being on loan just for the opening night. That it would soon be returned to his own private collection. So, if the thief had truly been intrigued by the Z grill stamp, he had to figure it would be much easier to break into Drayton’s house than risk a second attempt at the Heritage Society!

Theodosia looked at her watch. “I’d say we’ve got some serious planning to do.”

Drayton gave her a skeptical look. “For what, pray tell?”

“We’ve got to be ready in case that cat burglar decides to break into your house tonight.”

“My house? Tonight?” His voice rose in protest. “Oh, no. I don’t think so.” He crossed his arms resolutely and shook his head.

“Oh yes,” urged Theodosia. “This could be our big chance.”

“I’d feel far more confident if we called the police,” Drayton argued.

“I did that last night. They didn’t seem to have any brilliant suggestions.”

Drayton considered this. “True,” he allowed.

“In fact, they seemed to have no clue as to how the cat burglar even got in my house,” said Theodosia.

Drayton frowned. “I thought you said the locks had been picked.”

“Actually, I think our cat burglar came across a series of rooftops, jumped a five-foot span, and snuck in through the dormer in my bedroom.”

Drayton stared at her. “Have you suddenly gone psychic? Whatever made you compose that elaborate scenario?”

“There’s a tiny scuff on my window ledge,” said Theodosia. And indeed, there had been. Just the tiniest, minutest scuff. Nothing you’d really notice, unless you’d just dusted a couple days before and were quite sure it hadn’t been there then.

Drayton continued to stare in surprise. “A scuff. You base your theory on a scuff?”

“And a hunch,” said Theodosia. “A very weird hunch. Trust me on this, Drayton. There’s someone out there who adores playing games. Leaving notes, planting clues, playing both sides. And I think there’s a very distinct possibility they’re going to show up tonight.”

“Halloween night,” he said. “Why on earth would they choose Halloween night to appear?”

Theodosia considered Drayton’s question. “I think,” she said, “it would appeal to their sense of play. Now... are you in or not?”

Drayton rolled his eyes, plucked nervously at his bow tie. “Of course I’m in,” he replied finally. “After everything that’s happened, how could I not be?”

Chapter 24

The moon, still a fat round globe with barely a scant wedge missing from it, slid into the night sky above Charleston and shone down through skeletal tree branches. On most every step, stoop, and piazza of the elegant homes in the historic district, fat, orange pumpkins squatted, their innards replaced with flickering candles. Trick- or-treaters in fluttering capes and costumes ran wildly down cobblestone lanes, drinking in the excitement and magic that was All Hallows’ Eve.

At exactly seven o’clock, Drayton exited his house, a one-hundred-sixty-year-old brick and wood home that had once been owned by John Underwood, a Civil War surgeon. He made a big production of locking his front door, then stepped jauntily down Montagu Street toward the Heritage Society. Two of his friends, Tom Wigley and Clark Dickerson, would be waiting for him there. He’d phoned them earlier and arranged to hold an elaborately staged meeting that had absolutely nothing to do with Heritage Society business.

The only thing the three men were going to do was talk, shuffle papers, and sit in one of the meeting rooms with the lights blazing like mad, maintaining the illusion of an important, productive meeting. Anyone peering in from the street would see Drayton participating in this meeting. And know that he was, therefore, not at home.

Theodosia, on the other hand, had been sequestered in the small closet in Drayton’s study for the last half- hour or so.

She had assured Drayton that she was going to phone Detective Tidwell on her cell phone, explain exactly what they were up to, and request that he send over a couple of uniformed police officers to keep watch over Drayton’s house.

But she hadn’t.

Instead, Theodosia was crouched in the confines of the small closet with Earl Grey snuggled beside her, his elegant head resting gently in her lap.

Outside the closet, barely six feet from where she sat, was Drayton’s desk where one of his stamp albums lay enticingly open. Rows of plastic-encased stamps that hearkened back to Revolutionary War days filled its pages. This album was propped up against a second leather-bound stamp album. Next to these albums was a smattering of first-day covers, rare stamps that had been postmarked on their first day of issue, and of course, Aunt Libby’s Z grill stamp. At the last minute, Drayton had added a few extra props to make it look, as he put it, “not so much like a stage set.” A pack of gum, silver letter opener, a leather box filled with paper clips, Haley’s bottle of superglue, and a small notepad with some random scribbles on it.

This desk top still life was lit by a single Tiffany lamp that sat on Drayton’s desk, which was not really a desk at all but a sturdy old oak library table. The rest of the small twelve-by-fourteen-foot room was lined with bookcases that sagged with all manner of books—fiction, history, poetry, gardening, and cooking. In one corner was an overstuffed leather chair. On the wall opposite the closet where Theodosia sat waiting was a small window