by Laura Childs
Timothy grimaced, unwilling to meet Drayton’s earnest gaze. “Oh, but I’m afraid they will,” he replied, his voice quavering.
“Timothy,” said Theodosia, determined to bring him back to the subject at hand, “we’ve got to face reality. Whoever is responsible for these thefts has to be one of our own.”
Timothy’s eyebrows rose like two question marks on his pale face as he stared at Theodosia with trepidation. “Explain,” he said. One hand gestured at her weakly, urging her to continue.
“If it isn’t someone from our own circle,” said Theodosia, “then how else would they have known about Camille’s wedding ring at the Lady Goodwood? Or the European Jewel Collection?”
“They read the paper? Studied their intended target?” proposed Drayton.
“The European Jewel Collection was written up in the paper, yes,” said Theodosia. She thought for a moment. “But there was nothing about Camille Buchanan’s wedding ring. That was . . . that was . . .”
“An accident?” proposed Drayton.
“You’re not going to like this, but I’d say it’s more likely an inside job,” said Theodosia. “As far as the Lady Goodwood’s silver goes . . . well, you’d just have to know about that.”
“So whoever perpetrated the crime was right there,” said Timothy slowly. “They were right there among us last night. Probably sipping drinks, chatting with guests.”
They all sat in shocked silence for a moment, pondering the implications.
Finally, Theodosia spoke up. “There’s something else, too.”
“What’s that?” asked Drayton.
“If the two thefts are related, and I think we have pretty much come to the very unsettling conclusion that they are, then poor Harlan Wilson could be in danger,” said Theodosia. “Because he’s probably the only witness we have.”
“But he’s still in a coma!” exclaimed Drayton.
“Which is very good news for our thief,” said Theodosia. “Unless Mr. Wilson suddenly comes to and is able to provide the police with a careful description. Of course, we don’t know for certain that Mr. Wilson even saw the robbery take place. Let’s assume that he did, however, and act accordingly. Err on the side of caution.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Timothy. He suddenly looked terribly defeated.
“Obviously we need reinforcements,” said Theodosia. “And protection for Mr. Wilson.”
“The police,” said Timothy with resignation. “They’re already on it. I spoke with two investigators this morning.”
“Did you voice your concerns about a connection with the ring disappearing at the Lady Goodwood?” asked Drayton.
“No,” said Timothy. “I guess I just didn’t want to believe . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Then might I suggest we call in the big guns?” said Theodosia.
“You mean . . .” said Drayton, glancing sharply at her.
Theodosia nodded. “That’s right. Detective Tidwell.”
Henry Marchand, Timothy’s butler and housekeeper for the last forty years, suddenly appeared behind them. For someone who was so advanced in years, Henry moved with amazing stealth. They had heard nary a footstep.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have a phone call,” Henry said in his somber, papery voice.
Theodosia glanced down at Henry’s feet. He was wearing a pair of Chinese shoes. Thin-soled slip-ons made of black cotton fabric. No wonder he moved like a Ninja.
Timothy waved a hand as though to dismiss the call. “Tell them to—”
“It’s Mr. Bernard,” said Henry with a grave face.
Timothy reluctantly pulled himself up from his wicker chair. “You hear that? Vance Bernard is chairman of our executive advisory committee. The committee I report to. I can assure you, Vance Bernard is not a happy man today. Which can result in just one thing—my head will be placed squarely on the chopping block!”
Timothy took a few steps to the door, hesitated, turned back toward Theodosia and Drayton. “Once you speak with this fellow, Tidwell, you’ll let me know, yes?”
“Of course,” Theodosia assured him, then watched as Timothy turned back and entered the house. It was the first time she’d seen Timothy Neville walk without a spring in his step. It was the first time she’d really seen him looking old.
CHAPTER 6
THE NOTES FROM Pachelbel’s Canon drifted through
Theodosia’s upstairs apartment, a cozy fire crackled in the bright fireplace, a chapter from a new mystery novel beckoned. But try as she might, Theodosia just couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t relax.
After that rather jarring meeting with Timothy Neville, she and Drayton had tried to formulate some sort of battle plan. But nothing had seemed to gel. There didn’t seem to be any real clues. After all, if no one person stuck in their minds as a potential suspect, what exactly could they do? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Theodosia lay her book facedown on the sofa, kicked off the afghan she’d been snuggled under, and gazed about, a slightly disgruntled look on her usually serene face.
She loved her little place above the tea shop. It was elegant, cozy, and suited her perfectly. This past summer, she’d taken the big plunge and painted the walls. But instead of a conservative palette of eggshell white or cream, she’d opted for a rich ochre base coat, then sponged a second layer of flaxen yellow on top of it. The result was a sun-washed feel reminiscent of a Tuscan villa. Now the cinnamon and gold Oriental rug she’d always had in the living room really came alive. As did the gleaming seascape oil paintings on the walls. Flanking the double doorway that led to her small dining room, she’d installed two antique wooden columns as plant stands for her Boston ferns.
What had once been very shabby chic had suddenly become the picture of Southern elegance.
That’s good, she had told herself. The nature of a home should shift and mature along with its owner.
But tonight, the upstairs apartment she’d worked so hard and lovingly on just felt confining.
Enough, she decided as she padded into her bedroom, rooted around in the bottom of the closet for her Nikes, and pulled a pair of leggings from a chest of drawers.
When in doubt, go for a jog.
Earl Grey, suddenly alert and convinced something wonderful was about to take place, sprang to his feet. Toe-nails clicking against hardwood floors, he circled her repeatedly, ears pitched forward, tail beating a doggy rhythm in double time.
“You got it, fella, let’s go,” said Theodosia as she grabbed his leather leash off the hook in the kitchen.
Ecstatic now, Earl Grey tumbled down the stairs ahead of her, ready to charge out and own the night.
Heading down Church Street past the Chowder Hound Restaurant, Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, and Floradora, her favorite flower shop, Theodosia and Earl Grey cut over on Water Street to East Bay. The night was cool but not cold. The atmosphere, laden with humidity, lent a soft focus to the light that streamed from the old mansions, garden lanterns, portico and street lamps. Charleston, always highly atmospheric to begin with, positively glowed at night.
The first six blocks they kept it down to a fast walk. Theodosia wanted to stretch her legs, ease out the kinks. She loved to run, had been a runner for some ten years now. But she also knew the cardinal sin in running was to skip the warm-up and zoom right into high gear. That was the absolute wrong way to do it. That’s how muscles got pulled, tendons sprained.
But by the time she and Earl Grey hit Battery Park at the very tip of the peninsula, they were warmed up and ready to blow out the carbon.
Theodosia gave a fast look around, didn’t see anyone who remotely resembled the pooch police. Excellent, she thought with a tiny stab of guilt as she unclipped Earl Grey’s lead. And with that, the two of them bounded down the pathway that snugged the shoreline.
A salty wind whipped Theodosia’s hair out in streaming tendrils, oyster shells crunched beneath her feet. They pounded past a trio of Civil War cannons, past a huge stack of
old cannon balls, past the bandstand where so many weddings and wedding party photos had taken place. To their left was the surging harbor with its marker buoys and flickering lights, to their right loomed the dark city of Charleston, the Kingdom by the Sea that Edgar Allan Poe had immortalized in his poem Annabelle Lee.
Theodosia took a right where Legare Street intersected and Earl Grey bounded along beside her. They flew down the block, the dog maintaining his easy, loping stride in order to stay even with his beloved owner. Now they were deep in the heart of the historic district again. Streets were canopied over with trees, cobblestones paved a warren of narrow walkways and secret alleys, and large, elegant homes butted up against each other. Theodosia cut to the right, down Atlantic, and whistled softly for Earl Grey to follow. He did.
They skimmed past the tiny brick Library Society building with its ornate wrought iron fence, then turned down a narrow, hidden pathway that ran behind the building. Theodosia slowed her pace, then pulled to a stop just outside the Library Society’s lush courtyard garden. In the dim light, she could make out the three-tiered fountain, columns of lush oleander, and large camellia bushes.
Time to reel her dog in, she decided. Time to start the cool-down. Theodosia knelt down, clipped the leash back onto Earl Grey’s leather collar, and gave him a reassuring pat.
And in the moment of silence that followed, heard footsteps coming up behind her.
Had someone been following her?
She remained kneeling in the back alleyway, her breath coming faster now, her heart pounding.
If someone had been following her, she reasoned, they probably hadn’t realized she’d stopped. Which meant they’d be coming around that corner any second. Hastily, she unclipped Earl Grey’s leash and wound it around her right fist. The leather and metal snap would make a dandy weapon and Earl Grey would be far more effective as a guard dog if he were free to move about on his own.
Earl Grey stood expectantly now, as did Theodosia, listening to rapidly approaching footsteps.
Suddenly, the nighttime runner was upon them. Startled, obviously not expecting to see someone blocking the pathway, the man, a tall man, skidded to a stop and gaped at Theodosia, his breath coming in hard gasps.
“Theodosia?” he said.
Theodosia stared back, relief suddenly flooding her. The mysterious runner was none other than Cooper Hobcaw.
She put a hand to her heart. “Oh my goodness,” she laughed, “you startled me.”
Cooper Hobcaw looked equally rattled. “Yeah . . . sorry. Are you okay?” he asked.
Theodosia knew he was probably wondering just what she was doing here, standing in this dark pathway, looking like an idiot.
“I was just putting the leash back on Earl Grey,” she explained, “and heard someone coming.” When she’d realized who it was, she had quickly loosened the leather leash from around her hand. There was no reason to let Cooper Hobcaw know she’d been prepared to launch an all-out assault on him.
Now Theodosia bent down and clipped the leash onto Earl Grey’s collar. “There,” she said as it made a satisfying snap. “Sorry we startled you.”
“Hey,” he breathed, “same here. You can’t be too careful after what happened last night.”
“Exactly my thought,” replied Theodosia.
“Strange goings-on,” said Cooper Hobcaw. “Have you heard . . . is the fellow who got knocked on the head, the security guard, going to be okay?”
“I think so.”
“Good,” he said. Cooper Hobcaw peered at her in the darkness. “I thought I was the only nutcase who went running through the historic district at night.”
“No,” she said. “There are actually quite a few of us.”
Cooper Hobcaw nodded. “The professional’s dilemma, right? Work all day, exercise at night.”
She nodded back. “ ’Fraid so.”
“I like your buddy here.” He reached out and rubbed Earl Grey behind the ears. Earl Grey responded by tossing his elegant head and inviting a scratch under the chin. “Nice dog,” said Cooper Hobcaw. “Friendly, too. I like that.”
It was only after Cooper Hobcaw had jogged off that Theodosia remembered he lived over on the other side of Calhoun and not in the historic district at all.
CHAPTER 7
“ONCE YOU TASTE this Formosan Oolong,” promised Drayton as he poured a steaming brownish-amber liquid into celadon green ceramic teacups for the three women seated at his table, “I think you’ll understand why it’s been dubbed the champagne of teas.”
Heads bobbed forward, and here and there a delicate slurp was emitted.
“Delicious!” declared one of the women.
A second woman held up the small teacup. “Why no handles?” she asked.
“It’s simply the convention for Chinese teacups, or tea bowls as they are often called,” replied Drayton. “Same for Japanese teacups. Now if we were drinking a nice strong tea in Morocco or Russia, we’d probably be using a glass. And the English teacup, usually slightly fluted and with a delicate handle, is a derivation of the ale tankard which was often used for imbibing the proverbial hot toddy.”
The ladies nodded happily, delighted with their tea tasting and with Drayton’s fascinating bits of tea lore.
“This oolong does have a slightly sweet flavor,” declared one of his tasters.
“Can you pick up a hint of peaches or honey?” he asked.
The three ladies tasted again, then nodded.
“And chestnuts,” he added. “Very often an oolong will offer up a delicate nutty taste. That’s a result of the shortened withering period. Freshly picked leaves are dried for only about four or five hours, then allowed to partially ferment. Once the outside of the leaves begin to turn greenish-brown, the tea is fired. Remember,” he told them, “tea is one thing that never improves with age. Freshness does count.”
“I’ll never go back to orange pekoe again,” declared one woman happily.
“Which, as you all know, is really a grade of tea, not a flavor at all,” said Drayton as a quick aside. “Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies,” he stood up from the table, “I shall check to see if a certain batch of croissants are out of the oven yet.”
The ladies beamed, caught up as they were in the fascinating world of tea. But then, whenever Drayton conducted one of his tea tastings, he was highly instinctive as well as delightfully entertaining. He was sometimes booked weeks in advance, and often, bed-and-breakfasts such as the Featherbed House or the Allister Beene Home would recommend to their guests that tea with Drayton was a “not to be missed” event.
Drayton hustled over to where Theodosia stood at the counter. “Are the croissants ready yet?” he asked.
“Should be just coming out of the oven,” she told him.
Drayton stood for a moment and fidgeted.
“You’re thinking of the funeral,” she said, noting the suddenly somber look on his face.
“Yes,” he said, “aren’t you?”
“Here you are, Drayton,” said Haley as she came through the curtains and delivered a plate of golden pastries into Drayton’s waiting arms. “And some pain au chocolat, too. I had extra dough so I sweetened things up a bit.” Haley suddenly paused, registering the looks on their faces. “Oh, gosh,” she said, “the funeral’s today, isn’t it? I wonder how they-all are doing down in Savannah.”
“Probably awful,” said Drayton.
“That’s what I figured, too,” said Haley. “I mean, I only met Camille that one time but I really liked her a lot. She was a hoot. Well, you know what I mean.”
“Of course, we do, dear,” said Theodosia. “She’s a lovely girl.”
“You called Tidwell, right?” said Drayton.
“You’re going to talk to him?” said Haley. She didn’t care for Tidwell, thought him to be a boor and a brute.
“I sent him an e-mail last night,” said Theodosia.
“Technology,” Drayton said derisively. “It’s going to be the downfall of
Western civilization.”
“You didn’t think so the other day when you guys set up those tracker beams,” said Haley.
“And they didn’t work, did they!” argued Drayton.
“Hold everything,” said Theodosia. “We all know the motion sensors didn’t work because someone cut the power. It had nothing to do with a technological melt-down.”
“Drayton, don’t you have a table full of customers waiting for those?” Haley indicated the plate of baked goods in his hand.
“Don’t you have today’s luncheon to figure out?” he asked her.
“Tea-marinated prawns on Japanese noodles,” she told him. “But I don’t anticipate there’ll be any leftovers.”
“Tea-marinated prawns?” he said, suddenly perking up. “My, that does sound lovely. May I ask which tea you’ve chosen as a marinade base?”
Haley grinned. “You may not. But if any of our customers are interested, you may tell them it is Lapsang Souchong.”
“Mmnn,” said Drayton, considering. “Nice, rich, black tea from southern China. Smoky flavor. Should be highly complementary with seafood.”
“Maybe there’ll be a nibble left over,” she told him.
“Let’s hope so,” he said.
Haley’s tea-marinated prawns were an enormous hit. Theodosia wasn’t sure exactly what seemed to be bringing the customers in these days—the cool, sunny weather, the hint of autumn in the air, or a sudden jump in the number of tourists—but they were packed for lunch once again. Standing room only, in fact. Giselle and Cleo, two regulars from Parsifal, a gift shop down the street, ended up getting their lunches packed to go in one of the Indigo Tea Shop’s indigo blue boxes, rather than stand around and wait for a table.
“Maybe we should be putting tables on the sidewalk,” Theodosia lamented to Drayton.
“We’ve talked about outside tables before and never done it,” he said. “It would mean a little more work, but it would certainly increase our capacity as well.”