Devonshire Scream

by Laura Childs

  “Bless you, Theodosia.”

  “I went by your shop last night when I was out jogging.”

  “Yeah,” Brooke said. “What’s left of it.”

  “You’ll put the pieces back together. I know you will.”

  “Only if I don’t cave under all the pressure that’s being put on me by the various jewelers, collectors, and museums.”

  “I’m so sorry, Brooke.”

  “You know I’m counting on you, Theodosia.”

  Theodosia bit her lower lip as her heart did a slow flip-flop. “I know that, Brooke. I know you are.”

  9

  Once the lunch crowd had departed, once all the scone crumbs had been swept up and the teapots put back on their shelves, Theodosia and Drayton took off for the Heritage Society.

  “We won’t be long,” Theodosia promised Haley.

  “No problem,” Haley called back.

  Drayton tugged a brown ivy cap over his gray locks, then pushed the back door open for Theodosia.

  A brisk autumn wind suddenly whipped in, scattering a pile of papers from Theodosia’s desk and tossing her auburn curls against her cheeks.

  “Gracious.” Theodosia wrapped a light-blue pashmina around her shoulders, tugged it tight, and stepped out into the sun. Sheltered from the wind, it felt like a decent sixty degrees. But when the wind gusted in off the Atlantic . . . well, that was another story. Autumn in Charleston was sometimes two seasons jumbled together. The stubborn fingers of summer clung to each day with sheer Southern determination, while Old Man Winter rode into town at night and did his best to spread his chilly mantle. Currently, the two were at a standoff.

  “Haley and I are already debating the Christmas tea menus,” Drayton said as they stepped along Church Street. Ever the gentleman, he’d positioned himself on the outside of the sidewalk, tucking Theodosia safely between himself and the buildings. “She thinks we serve the same items every year and wants to rotate in some new scone varieties and entrées. But I think most customers look forward to our regular menu items. They’re a fine tradition that folks can count on, like Christmas carols and wreaths hung on the door.”

  Theodosia smiled. She hadn’t gotten her mind past Thanksgiving yet, but she was delighted that Drayton and Haley were thinking ahead. They were a powerful team, the perfect mix of creative passion and traditional wisdom. Now, if she could just keep them from killing each other.

  “Have you started your holiday shopping yet?” Theodosia asked.

  Drayton never broke stride. “Everyone gets tea.”

  “Of course.”

  As they followed the narrow walkway around St. Philip’s Church, Drayton asked, “Are we absolutely positive we want to do this?”

  “Don’t tell me you changed your mind,” Theodosia said. “You were the one who was so hot and bothered by the FBI showing up this morning. You were the one who decided we should go tell Timothy about Rinicker. To kind of warn him about the possibility of the Pink Panther gang.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I just hate to blindside Timothy.”

  “Think of it as a precautionary warning.”

  “Ah. That’s a more reasonable way of putting it.”

  • • •

  Tiny hurricanes of scarlet and amber leaves swirled past them as they headed into the cemetery, and Theodosia was hit with a twinge of anticipation. There was something so enchanting about this well-beaten path that wound its way between ancient headstones and linked one historic churchyard to the next. This was where the rich history of old Charleston enveloped you, this final resting place of elder statesmen, brigadier generals, fine Charleston ladies, and ordinary citizens. A great peacefulness pervaded this place, too, where Spanish moss draped the trees like lace on Southern belles and live oak trees were bent and gnarled with age.

  “So what’s our plan?” Drayton asked as they strolled along. “I’ve been trying to figure this out but I think my train of thought left the station without me.”

  “There’s no set plan,” Theodosia said. “I think we have to just lay everything out for Timothy and let him draw his own conclusion.”

  “You don’t think we should sort of help him along? Guide him?”

  “Well,” Theodosia said. “There’s always that.”

  Five minutes later, they arrived at the front door of the Heritage Society, where a gardener poised with his trimming shears was sculpting two large shrubs into topiaries.

  “What are they supposed to be?” Theodosia asked him.

  The gardener just smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

  Drayton opened the grand double doors with a flourish and ushered her in. “So we’ll just meet with Timothy and sort of . . . spill the beans.”

  “Let’s try to do it with a little more aplomb than that,” Theodosia said.

  The Heritage Society’s foyer was elegantly appointed with a marble floor, an antique persimmon-and-blue Oriental carpet, and well-worn leather chairs. A magnificent crystal-and-brass chandelier cast rainbow prisms over the front desk.

  The snapping of Theodosia’s kitten heels echoed through the anteroom, raising the attention of a serious-looking young woman at the front desk.

  Theodosia decided she was probably one of the many interns that the Heritage Society employed. Although most of the time they were paid only in college credits.

  “We’re here to see Timothy Neville,” Drayton said.

  The young woman lifted horn-rimmed glasses from a dainty silver chain and pushed them over the slope of her snub nose. Her black high-collar dress was almost as severe as her expression. “I’m afraid Mr. Neville is unavailable.”

  “But we have an appointment,” Drayton said. “I called Timothy something like fifteen minutes ago.”

  Theodosia stepped forward. “Drayton is on the board of directors.” She tapped the desk with a fingertip. “Here.”

  “Oh.” The receptionist blinked rapidly, realizing she might have made a serious tactical error. “Then I guess you could . . . um . . . go right in.”

  “Thank you, we will do that,” Theodosia said.

  They walked down the hallway. “She seemed nice,” Drayton said, barely able to keep a straight face.

  “If your taste runs to rottweiler guard dogs,” Theodosia deadpanned.

  More Oriental carpets covered the hallway, and oil paintings and elaborate tapestries were hung on the walls in a patchwork of rich, dark colors. The Heritage Society was a testament to old-world elegance and luxury, almost a cross between a medieval castle and a baronial manor house. Before she’d purchased her own home, Theodosia had always thought she could happily live here. Ensconced in a four-poster bed in the cozy, leather-book-lined library, anyway.

  They paused at a doorway with a two-story archway. An engraved plaque announced: GREAT HALL.

  The sign didn’t lie.

  Wide, arching beams and stately columns marked the vast space with quiet authority. Natural light streamed through clerestory windows, illuminating dust motes and adding to the grandiose atmosphere. Workers in white overalls bustled about the room, arranging heavy wooden display cases and ornate library tables. Additional lights were being set up and tested.

  A tall glass case stood pretentiously in the center of the room, as if to announce itself as being more important than any other.

  “I take it that’s the display place of honor?” Theodosia asked. A cluster of pinpoint spotlights shone down on the empty case, suggesting her hunch was right.

  “For the Fabergé egg,” Drayton said. “That’s right.”

  “Are there any security measures in place?”

  “Locks on all the doors,” Drayton said.

  “No laser beams, or thermal or pressure-sensitive alarms?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet anyway.” Drayton seemed to shrink back self-consciously. “I’m not sure I eve
n know what those things are.”

  Theodosia walked in and circled the empty display case. “Well, this just isn’t good. Sitting right out in the middle like this.”

  “There will be lots more treasures on display, too,” Drayton said. “Some Early American paintings, Greek vases, Chippendale furniture, and some absolutely superb . . .”

  “You’re a bit early for the festivities, aren’t you?” an authoritative voice suddenly rang out.

  His train of thought broken, Drayton immediately spun around. “Timothy. Theo and I were just on our way to see you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you were. Then, come along.” Timothy Neville turned on his heel and gestured impatiently for them to follow him. He bopped along, a man extremely spry for his advanced age and diminutive stature. “We’ve been busy here. Busy, busy, busy,” his voice floated back at them as they struggled to keep up.

  When they reached Timothy’s office, the octogenarian scurried behind a mahogany desk the size of a tennis court and gestured for them to take a seat. Of course, Timothy’s desk chair was set at a much higher level than that of his guests. A sly little trick that brought him infinite pleasure.

  Theodosia scanned the dramatically masculine office that was crammed with antiques, bronze statues, paintings, and trinkets from every era. She’d always teased Drayton that the Heritage Society looked like an overdone men’s private cigar club, and that was precisely what Timothy’s office looked like. Mahogany built-ins, oversized brown leather chairs, a freestanding globe, and never mind the clichéd drink trolley with its whiskey and bourbon decanters. All that was missing were the smoking jackets and pipe tobacco.

  “What’s up?” Timothy asked. His high cheekbones jutted sharply from his simian-looking face and his hooded eyes crackled with intensity. He was big on getting down to business with a minimum of fanfare. Or maybe he figured he just didn’t have that many years left.

  Drayton released a long breath. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the tragedy at Heart’s Desire.”

  Timothy leaned back and folded his hands, clearly interested. “Yes, I read all about it in the newspaper and saw the various reports on TV.”

  “It was a smash-and-grab,” Theodosia put in. “This crazy gang of thieves drove an SUV right through the window, stole every item of value, and disappeared in about two minutes.” She paused. “I was there. And I want to tell you it was well orchestrated. Choreographed, almost.”

  Timothy’s sparse brows shot up. “Indeed.”

  Theodosia continued. “We’re worried the same type of robbery might happen at your Rare Antiquities Show this Saturday.”

  Timothy’s hand stroked his narrow chin. “Why would you think that?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Theodosia said. “Two FBI agents paid us a visit this morning to see if I could identify any of the perpetrators.”

  “They showed her a dozen different photos of known international jewel thieves,” Drayton said.

  Timothy continued to watch Theodosia carefully with eyes that were keen and bright.

  “And what’s problematic,” Theodosia said, “is that there was a photo that may or may not have been an old photo of Lionel Rinicker.”

  “What!” he cried. Her words caught Timothy completely off guard. “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. Rinicker is a learned historian, not some hooligan who goes about crashing trucks through jewelry store windows.” Now his eyes sought out Drayton’s. “Plus he’s a valuable member of our board of directors.”

  “Which brings us to exactly why we’re here,” Theodosia said. “We don’t want to slander the man any more than you do, but what if Rinicker is . . . is some sort of inside man?”

  Timothy’s smooth forehead dissolved into wrinkles and he shook his head. He was clearly in disagreement.

  “Wait,” Drayton said. He turned to Theodosia. “Tell him about the Pink Panther gang.”

  So she did. She told Timothy all about the high-end robberies all over Europe and the Interpol warnings.

  Drayton scooted to the edge of his seat. “The gang members who’ve been caught have all managed to engineer daring escapes. Agent Zimmer told us they speak multiple languages and carry various international passports. Which means they could turn up anywhere.”

  Timothy steepled his fingers and inclined his head toward them. “Including right here in Charleston.”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Theodosia said.

  “But . . . Lionel has become your friend, Drayton,” Timothy said in a slightly reproachful voice.

  “Yes. That’s why this is so agonizing for me.” Drayton gazed at Timothy. “It has to be for you, too. I mean, you were the one who introduced us.”

  “That’s right,” Timothy said. “I first met Lionel Rinicker last spring at an antiques auction. He impressed me with his verve.”

  Theodosia leaned forward. “How so?”

  “We were both bidding on a Faulkner first edition,” Timothy said. “And I overheard him misquote a famous line. Of course I couldn’t help myself, I had to correct him. And that was that. We started conversing and he bought me a cognac. Despite the fact that he’d botched one of my favorite lines, I found him to be a charming and learned man. Since he’d already settled here in Charleston, one thing led to another, and now he’s on our board of directors.” Timothy’s gaze shifted to Drayton. “You seconded his nomination.”

  “I did,” Drayton said, looking almost miserable.

  Theodosia decided to step in. “Despite all this good-old-boy camaraderie, I still think it’s critical we keep an eye on Rinicker.”

  Timothy mulled this over for a few moments. “I suppose I could go along with that. We watch the man, but we do not move against him in any way. We are respectful of him. Agreed?”

  “Yes, of course,” Drayton said. “You know I’m just sick about this.”

  Timothy gazed at Theodosia. “Agreed, Theodosia?”

  “Sure.” Theodosia wasn’t sick about the situation. Just extremely wary.

  Timothy picked up a small bronze bust of Thomas Jefferson and creaked back in his chair. “My goodness, I find this hard to believe. Why, Lionel is even dating one of our rather prominent citizens.”

  “Who would that be?” Theodosia asked.

  “Grace Dawson,” Timothy said. “You probably know her. She’s that peppy little blond-haired lady who lives in the old Burwick-Howell mansion on Tradd Street. You see her out walking sometimes with those two magnificent Doberman pinschers.”

  “Sultan and Satin,” Drayton said. “Yes, they’re beautiful dogs.”

  “They’re dating?” Theodosia asked. Then she quickly waved a hand in front of her face as if to erase her words. “Wait, I didn’t mean the Dobermans.”

  “I understand what you mean,” Timothy said. “And, yes, the two of them are seeing each other. Keeping company, or whatever you choose to call it.”

  Theodosia smiled to herself. She’d call it dating, yes. Haley would call it friends with benefits. As for the dogs, Earl Grey and the Dobermans hadn’t officially met yet. But she suspected it might be time to remedy that.

  “So you’ve told the FBI about our upcoming show?” Timothy said. “About our Fabergé egg?”

  “They’re well aware of it,” Theodosia said.

  Timothy seemed to make up his mind then. He put Mr. Jefferson’s likeness down and said, “I’ll hire more guards for Saturday night. And do you have a phone number for that agent you mentioned? Ziskie, was it? I’d like to speak with him.”

  “Agent Zimmer,” Theodosia said. She removed Zimmer’s card from her pocketbook and copied down the information for Timothy. But she kept the card.

  If she truly intended to help Brooke find some answers, Agent Zimmer just might come in handy.

  10

  Earl Grey lounged in front of the fireplace, looki
ng lazy and content, as Theodosia bustled about the kitchen fixing dinner. Theodosia sometimes wondered who appreciated their harmonious evening routine the most. And judging by the peaceful, almost beatific look on her dear dog’s face, she suspected it was him.

  On warmer evenings, she’d have carried her plate out to the small patio in the backyard where decades of ivy crawled up a redbrick wall and a small fountain pattered away. It was a lovely Charleston pocket garden, green and lush, tangled rather than manicured. But tonight was way too cool and the fire much too inviting.

  Theodosia moved briskly about the kitchen, dancing to Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten.” Tonight was going to be salad night. She chopped and diced grape tomatoes, shallots, and parsley, then tossed everything into a bowl of bulgur wheat. She whipped some olive oil and red vinegar together and then poured it over her salad. Bits of crumbled goat cheese went on top, and there you had it. A Mediterranean grain salad. Haley would have approved. In fact, it was an adaptation of one of Haley’s recipes.

  Curling into a chair at the table, Theodosia tasted her creation. Mmn, it was delicious. As she nibbled her salad and glanced through the latest edition of Charleston magazine, her eyes were drawn to the pink orchid that sat on the dining room table. It had been a gift from Angie Congdon, her friend who owned the Featherbed House B and B.

  Theodosia wasn’t sure if she had a knack for the care and feeding of this particular Phalaenopsis, but she was willing to give it a try. Besides, it was nice to have something exotic in the house.

  Earl Grey touched a nose to her knee and peered up at her.

  “No,” she said. “You’ve had your dinner. A delicious kibble entrée.”

  He continued to gaze at her, his sad brown eyes pleading for a bite.

  “I know. If I give you a bite you’ll never ask me again, right?”

  “Rwww,” Earl Grey responded.

  “But you will. That’s just how you are.”

  This time he rolled his eyes at her, which immediately tugged at her heart. And just as she was about to break down, to run into the kitchen and get him a dog cookie, the phone rang.