by Laura Childs
“What kind of law does Jory Davis practice again?” asked Delaine.
“Mostly corporate and real estate law,” said Theodosia. “Deeds, foreclosures, zoning, leases, that sort of thing.”
“So he’s never faced off against Cooper in a courtroom,” said Delaine.
The thought amused Theodosia. She could see Cooper Hobcaw with his arrogant stance arguing torts against a bemused Jory Davis. But no, that would never happen. Cooper Hobcaw was a criminal attorney, Jory Davis a real estate attorney.
“Cooper Hobcaw seems like a nice fellow . . .” began Theodosia when, suddenly, every light in the place went out. Whoosh. Extinguished like the flame on a candle.
Oh no, thought Theodosia, her heart in her throat. Not again!
Plunged into complete darkness, the room erupted in chaos. Women screamed, a tray of drinks went crashing to the floor. Across the room, something hit the carpet with a muffled thud. Disoriented by the dark, people began to lunge to and fro. Theodosia felt an elbow drill into her back, a sleeve brush roughly against her bare arm.
Suddenly, mercifully, from off to her left, someone flipped on a cigarette lighter and held the flame aloft like a tiny torch. There was a spatter of applause, then a deep hum started from somewhere in the depths of the building.
“Generator,” murmured a male voice off to her right. “Emergency lights should kick on soon.”
Ten seconds later, four sets of emergency lights sputtered on.
They blazed weakly overhead, yet did little to actually illuminate the room. The lighting felt unnatural and fuzzy, like trying to peer through a bank of fog.
“Hey!” called a voice that Theodosia recognized as belonging to Jory Davis. “Someone’s down over here!”
Theodosia quickly elbowed her way through the crowd in the direction of Jory Davis’s voice.
Ten feet, fifteen feet of pushing past people brought her to just outside the small gallery. In the dim light she could see one of the security guards sprawled on the floor. Jory Davis was already on his hands and knees beside the man, making a hasty check of his airways, trying to determine if he was still breathing.
“Is he okay?” asked Theodosia.
“He’s still breathing,” said Jory, “but he’s for sure out cold.” Jory put a finger to the top of the security guard’s head, came away with a smear of blood. “Looks like he took a nasty bump to the noggin.” Jory glanced up at Theodosia. “Somebody sapped this poor guy, but good,” he added in a tight, low voice. Then Jory Davis scrambled to his feet. “Can someone please call an ambulance!” he shouted.
With Jory Davis’s forceful lawyer voice ringing out across the room, no fewer than twenty people responded instantly. Cell phones were yanked from pockets and evening bags, and twenty fingers punched in the same 911 call, completely swamping the small crew that manned Charleston’s central emergency line.
“Theodosia!” Timothy Neville was suddenly at her side and clutching her arm. “It’s gone!” he told her in a tremulous voice. “Vanished!”
“What’s gone?” she asked, momentarily confused.
“The Blue Kashmir,” Timothy hissed. “The sapphire necklace. It’s disappeared from its case!” Timothy clapped a wizened hand to the side of his face and seemed to collapse in on himself.
Theodosia stared at Timothy in disbelief. When the power went out, the sensor beams had stopped working, too, she realized. Oh, no...we didn’t even consider that possibility. Had someone cut the power deliberately? Or had the storm just knocked it out?
No, she decided, if a guard’s been injured, the power had to have been disabled on purpose.
In the dim light Theodosia could see that Timothy was dangerously on the verge of passing out.
“Are you okay, Timothy?” she asked.
“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly, although perspiration had broken out on his face and his breathing had suddenly turned shallow.
Ohmygosh, Theodosia thought to herself. Heart attack? Not Timothy. Please, Lord, not Timothy. Not now.
Pushing his way over to them, Drayton took one look at Timothy Neville’s face, grabbed him firmly by the arm, and steered him to a nearby chair a few feet away. “Are you all right, Timothy?” he asked as Timothy sat down gingerly, looking paler than ever.
“Yes, I think so . . .” rasped Timothy, “. . . just let me catch my...”
Theodosia whirled about and threw herself down next to Jory Davis. He had once again taken up his position next to the fallen security guard and had bunched up his jacket and put it under the poor man’s head. A woman whom Theodosia recognized as Dr. Lucy Cornwall, Earl Grey’s veterinarian, was administering CPR to the downed security guard, while Jory Davis continued to monitor the man’s pulse.
“There’s something wrong with Timothy,” Theodosia told them in a rush. “I think he’s having a heart attack!”
Chapter 5
On this lazy Sunday in late October, autumn was clearly in the air. The wet weather was temporarily held at bay by a warm front that had finally drifted up from the Gulf of Mexico. It seemed like a toss-up as to whether the day would dissipate into scattered thundershowers or weak sunshine would punch through the low-hanging clouds.
Down at Charleston Harbor, people strolled through White Point Gardens and Battery Park, delighted by the huge displays of Civil War cannons and gazing at the magnificent harbor where whitecaps rose like peaks of frosting. Out on the water, sailboats bobbed like corks, tossed about in the boiling froth, masts straining against strong twenty-knot winds.
But Theodosia was not out sailing today. She was not slicing through the waves, enjoying salty breezes and the exhilaration of navigating tricky cross-currents.
Instead, she sat with Drayton and Timothy on the side piazza of Timothy Neville’s home. The sun was warm and caressing, the view conducive to Zen-like contemplation since the piazza overlooked the bamboo groves, rocky paths, Chinese lanterns, and trickling fountain of Timothy’s Asian-inspired garden. But the mood was not particularly serene.
Timothy hadn’t experienced a heart attack last night after all. After rushing him to the hospital along with the security guard, an EKG had been administered, cardiac enzymes monitored, blood pressure taken every fifteen minutes.
Extreme stress, the doctor had ruled, once he’d studied the test results and learned of the strange events that had taken place at the Heritage Society’s party. Extreme stress had triggered a rush of adrenaline and a flood of cortisol, which had produced symptoms that closely mimicked an all-out heart attack.
A shaken but stoic Timothy had put up with all the tests and ministrations at the hospital, but staunchly vetoed any notion of an overnight stay even if it was intended purely for observation.
The security guard hadn’t fared as well. He lay in intensive care, his head swathed in bandages, fluttering in and out of a coma, hooked up to a host of beeping, glowing monitors.
“Have you seen this?” Timothy Neville winced as he held up the front page of the main news section of the Sunday Post & Courier.
“We’ve seen it,” said Drayton. He sat in a wicker lounge chair facing Timothy, looking anything but relaxed. In fact, Drayton was wound so tightly it looked as though his bow tie was about ready to spin.
“Jackals,” spat Timothy. “How do they get this stuff out so fast?”
A small article, mercifully positioned at the bottom of the page, led off with the headline GEMS NABBED FROM HERITAGE SOCIETY.
“At least it’s not in seventy-two-point type,” Drayton pointed out.
Timothy stared at him with a mixture of anger and disgust.
Nervously, Drayton crossed his legs then uncrossed them, deciding that perhaps humor wasn’t the most practical approach here.
“We look like idiots,” raged Timothy. “This is going to cost us donors and then some!”
Theodosia knew that Timothy Neville was worried sick that this incident might also cost him his job as president of the Heritage Society. The man was ei
ghty-one, she reasoned, and had done a masterful job for the past twenty-five years. But how long could he continue? Would this be the political scandal that brought about his downfall? She hoped not, but it was certainly possible.
“Timothy,” began Drayton, “I know you have serious doubts about opening the Treasures Show to the public next Saturday. Please... just take into consideration how much promotion has already been done, how much publicity we’ve gotten.”
Timothy gazed at the front page of the newspaper again. “Publicity,” he snorted. “This kind of publicity we don’t need. What’s important now is damage control. This incident has been the worst kind of blight on the Heritage Society.” Timothy spat out the word blight as though he were discussing manure.
“Which is why we should stay the course,” pleaded Drayton. “Open the Treasures Show to the public next weekend as planned. Show everyone that it’s business as usual, that we haven’t been affected!”
Timothy sighed deeply. “I don’t know. I’ll have to speak with the insurance company. And our executive advisory committee, of course.” Timothy sat quietly in his chair, staring out at the garden. “Any word on the poor fellow who got clobbered on the head?” he asked finally.
“The man’s name is Harlan Wilson,” said Drayton. “He was one of the security guards from Gold Shield who has been employed by us on several other occasions. As far as we know, he’s still terribly groggy, in and out of consciousness. He has a rather nasty concussion as well as a hairline skull fracture. The results of his ECG, his encephalogram, looked very positive, however. There are no interruptions in brain activity, which is a very good sign. Doctors, being doctors, are remaining cautious, though. They haven’t allowed the police to question Mr. Wilson as yet. They warn that it might be a day or two before he’s well enough for that.”
Timothy shook his head. “Such a terrible thing. Poor man getting hurt like that.”
Theodosia had remained quiet during most of the exchange between Timothy and Drayton. She wasn’t on the board of the Heritage Society like Drayton was. And she wasn’t a close friend of Timothy’s like Drayton was. But she did share their anger and frustration. After all, she’d also had a nervous rumbling about this. And had thought, mistakenly it would appear, that security guards and some newly purchased gadgets would be enough to ensure safekeeping of the European Jewel Collection.
Did that make her partially responsible for what happened last night?
With Theodosia’s sense of fair play, the answer was a resounding yes. Yes, she was partially responsible. So, yes, she was determined to try to help resolve this problem.
Delaine had begged for her help in trying to find the missing wedding ring; now Drayton and Timothy seemed to be in a fairly tight situation as well.
Theodosia also knew that the one issue that desperately needed to be discussed remained unspoken.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” began Theodosia quietly.
“Of course,” said Timothy with an air of resignation. “It means our good name has been besmirched. How willing are people going to be to donate a silver tankard or a piece of Chippendale if they think the Heritage Society can’t even offer decent security?” He shook his head. “I doubt they’ll even trust us with a dog-eared photo album now.”
“Timothy,” Theodosia said slowly, “this second theft gives us a fairly good confirmation that some kind of special thief or cat burglar is operating in the historic district.”
She watched as Timothy lowered his head in his hands.
“Why, oh why, didn’t I take this more seriously?” he lamented. “I assumed that missing wedding ring had just rolled into a corner somewhere and was lying there in a puff of dust. I never thought any kind of serious theft would occur at the Heritage Society. Not in my wildest dreams!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” spoke up Drayton. “I’d say you took our warning very seriously. When I spoke to you about the wedding ring disappearing from the Lady Goodwood Inn, you were extremely agreeable about taking precautions. You even approved the expenditure for the electronic equipment. Which means you did everything right, Timothy. No one could possibly fault you or hold you responsible.”
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 hap
py 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.
