Shades of Earl Grey atsm-3

by Laura Childs

  Jogging down Murray, Theodosia and Earl Grey rounded the tip of the peninsula. For some reason it seemed darker out here. And lonelier. Fog, not just mist, but real cottony, wispy fog, was rolling in now from the Atlantic. Across the parkway, houses and lights that had merely looked soft focus before were suddenly being swallowed up in a wall of gray.

  Passing near the Featherbed House, a bed-and-breakfast run by Angie and Mark Congdon, four squat orange pumpkins glowed like beacons from the front steps. Tiny candles flickered inside their carved grins, broadcasting a sinister welcome.

  Halloween, thought Theodosia. It’s only a few days away.

  Theodosia and Earl Grey slowed their pace, Theodosia deciding, at the last minute, to head down the Congdons’ private alley. It was a narrow cobblestone lane that wound past their garage then connected up with another walkway. That walkway would bring her, in a roundabout manner, back to Tradd Street. It sounded complicated, but wasn’t. The historic district was a maze of alleys, walkways, and connecting paths, the result of old carriage drives, servants’ entrances, and tradesmen’s lanes. Once you had it figured out, you were set.

  As Theodosia slipped slowly past the Featherbed House with its second-story bridge that connected the main house with two rooms over the carriage house, Earl Grey gave a low growl. He strained at his leash, jerking Theodosia toward a nearby tree. Then the dog gazed sharply upward on full alert.

  What is up there? Theodosia wondered. She hesitated, then approached the tree cautiously. It was an enormous old tree, a live oak, draped in banners of gray-green Spanish moss. It was the kind of tree that was easy to climb. Which meant anything could be up there. Squirrel, possum, porcupine, person.

  Earl Grey gave a quick sniff at the base as though to once again confirm his suspicions, then rose up on his hind feet and planted his front paws on the base of the gnarled trunk.

  Still curious as to what exactly had caught the old boy’s attention, she peered up the gnarled base, expecting to see... what?

  Glinting green eyes peered back at her.

  A cat! There was a cat up the tree! Probably one of the old tabbies that lived at the Featherbed House. Angie was a soft touch for strays and always joked about how a network of hobo cats had put the word out on her. Psst! Come to the Featherbed House for a little R and R. No kitty ever gets turned away.

  Theodosia whistled softly and Earl Grey turned his attention back to her. They continued down the alley past the carriage house and turned right where the alley connected with the back drive of another home, the Ebenezer Stagg House, an Italianate mansion that had once been a private boys’ school. The two of them picked their way carefully on glistening cobblestones, taking care where they stepped. The fog really had them surrounded now, London style, and the only thing that kept Theodosia moving forward at a fairly good clip was her firsthand knowledge of these old alleyways.

  As they passed behind the Stagg House, Theodosia could hear footsteps coming from the right. She stopped in her tracks and Earl Grey sat down, a move they’d both practiced during obedience training. But the person, whoever it was, crossed right in front of them without noticing them, and headed down a different alley, an alley that angled back toward King Street.

  Who was that? she wondered. Who else is out creeping around in this fog? Was it Cooper Hobcaw on one of his jogs? Maybe. But this man, and she was pretty sure it was a man, hadn’t been jogging. Even though the alley he’d gone down was a nice, even pavement that had been fairly well lit with glowing lamps.

  An uneasy feeling began to steal over Theodosia and she shivered under her layers of sweatshirts. Cooper Hob-caw had joked that he went out jogging every night in the historic district. Does he just prefer the historic district? she wondered. Does he drop in on Delaine every night?

  Or is he up to something else? That last thought stunned her. Does Cooper Hobcaw have another reason for prowling the historic district at night? Could Cooper Hobcaw be casing the area?

  Theodosia couldn’t get home fast enough.

  She reeled Earl Grey in close to her and kept to the middle of the pathways until she came upon the familiar lights and sights of Church Street.

  So, of course, the phone was ringing as she climbed the back stairway.

  “Hello?” she answered, slightly out of breath.

  “Theo, it’s Jory,” came a familiar, upbeat voice.

  “Oh, hi there,” she answered. “Hang on a minute, will you?” She unclipped Earl Grey’s leash, shrugged out of her sweatshirt, kicked off her running shoes. Then she settled down cross-legged on the overstuffed couch, comfy in her T-shirt and sweat pants.

  “Okay, I’m back,” she told him.

  “Good. I called to see if we’re still going to the symphony Thursday night. We talked about it, but I’m not sure we ever made it formal.”

  “The symphony. Thursday. Hmm... Thursday’s the open house.”

  “Right,” he said. “Your tea bag products.”

  “T-Bath.”

  “Exactly. But that’ll be over... when?”

  She considered this. “Maybe four-thirty, five at the latest.”

  “Excellent,” said Jory. “The concert doesn’t start until eight. Which should give you ample time to recoup, recover, and get gorgeous.”

  She laughed. Jory Davis did have a way with words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.

  “Hey,” he cajoled, “this is supposed to be fun. We’re talking major league date here.”

  Good heavens, she thought to herself, I’m acting like an idiot. As Haley would say, this is one cute guy!

  “Sorry,” she told him. “An evening at the symphony sounds wonderful. No, better than that . . . fabulous!”

  “Over-the-top enthusiasm. That’s more like it,” he laughed, but a moment later turned sober. “Hey, this thing that happened at the Heritage Society last Saturday night... you’re not getting all tangled up in Drayton’s and Timothy Neville’s problems, are you?”

  How could she, really? she wondered. She hadn’t found a solid clue to go on yet. All she had were hunches. “No,” she told him. “Not really. You just caught me at the end of a busy day and a long jog.”

  “I thought so,” he said. “That dog is running you ragged. I told you to get a bulldog or a dachshund. Those guys have little, short legs. Means you’d travel a much shorter distance. But no, you had to go and hook up with a... what is he again? A doberarian?”

  She giggled. “A dalbrador. Thanks, Jory. Good night.”

  “ ’Night, kiddo.”

  Hanging up the phone, Theodosia decided maybe the better part of valor was to turn in early. She paused, thinking of Jory and their date Thursday night. She was looking forward to spending time with him. As she meandered through her apartment, pulling the draperies across and turning off lights, her mind wandered back to the man she’d seen tonight. Had it been Cooper Hobcaw out loping along in the fog? She’d thought the figure had looked a little like him, long legs, slightly haggard frame. But now she wasn’t sure. She supposed the fog could make anything a little hazy. Including her memory.

  The one thing she was sure of, however, was the nagging feeling that something strange was definitely going on. That a cat burglar, or whatever you’d call him, was definitely on the loose out there.

  So instead of turning in, Theodosia decided to do a little investigatory work. On the Internet. Surely she’d find something about cat burglars. Everything else was there, for goodness’ sake.

  As it turned out, the Internet search proved very productive. When she typed CAT BURGLAR into one of the search engines, hundreds of hits came up. A few were for a rock band and some for a kind of cat burglar game that sounded similar to the old Dungeons and Dragons-type fantasy game.

  But she also found good, solid information, too. Newspaper articles about cat burglars who had struck in places like Malibu, New York, Palm Springs, and Palm Beach.

  That chilled her. It was exactly what Burt Tidwell had said. The migratory
type of cat burglar follows the goods.

  There was information posted by different law enforcement agencies, too. And as she scanned the various MOs, one profile seemed to emerge. Cat burglars were bold, even fearless. They were adrenaline junkies who thrived on danger. Apparently, some cat burglars even preferred to ply their trade when a home, hotel room, or shop was occupied. The thrill of someone sitting downstairs, sleeping in the next room, or eating dinner nearby seemed to add an extra touch of danger, an extra dimension to a game they relished. It also appeared that cat burglars often circumvented security systems by scaling buildings or power poles and shutting off electricity.

  Shutting off electricity.

  That’s what happened at the Heritage Society. Or had that been a storm-induced power failure that a thief simply took advantage of? She didn’t know.

  From everything she read, cat burglars also appeared to be smart. Very smart. One cat burglar, known as the dinner hour burglar, entered homes while the residents were downstairs eating their dinner. Another selected his targets by reading magazines like Town & Country and Architectural Digest. And still another savvy cat burglar with a predilection for gold and silver carried a test kit along with him. That way he could pass on the candlesticks and platters that were merely gold- or silver-plated and concentrate on stealing only the finer pieces!

  Like Camille’s wedding ring? Or the silver at the Lady Goodwood Inn? she wondered. Holy cow.

  Theodosia quickly scanned the rest of the hits. Several law enforcement officials had gone so far as to speculate on the type of person who turns to cat burglary. They tended to be strong and agile, often with gymnast backgrounds, always bold.

  She thought about this. Cooper Hobcaw was certainly bold enough. Bold bordering on brash. And as a criminal attorney, he courted danger in a manner of speaking. He could be looking for another outlet from which to get his thrills.

  Was Claire Kitridge bold and agile? She wasn’t that old, maybe late thirties. And she looked like she was in good shape. Maybe all those weekend jaunts into the countryside looking for antique linens were really . . .

  No, not Claire. It couldn’t be Claire, could it?

  Tired now, eyes stinging from peering at the monitor so intently, Theodosia exited the Internet and shut down her computer.

  Enough, she told herself. Time to turn in. Earl Grey was already snuggled in his dog bed, snoring softly. It was time she did the same.

  But as cozy and comfortable as Theodosia’s bedroom was, with the down comforter and the Egyptian cotton sheets, it was a long while before she was able to fall asleep.

  Chapter 13

  Last evening’s fog, which had grounded planes at Charleston International Airport in North Charleston, had been dissipated overnight by strong winds swooping in from the Atlantic. The sky was a deep cerulean blue with just a few wisps of errant clouds, and the sun shone brightly, gilding the brick facades, wrought iron artistry, and wooden shutters that made the shops of Church Street so very quaint and picturesque.

  But as Delaine Dish strode down Church Street, past the Chowder Hound, the Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, the Antiquarian Bookstore, and the Peregrine Building, which housed the newly opened Gallery Margaux, she barely noticed the magnificent day that had dawned in Charleston.

  Delaine was a woman on a mission.

  She had driven back from Savannah last night with her friend, Celerie Stuart, feeling upset and more than a little helpless. Captain Corey Buchanan’s funeral had been a blur. She’d been introduced to a kaleidoscope of solemn-faced, tight-lipped Buchanans, who had all seemed to regard her with the same measure of cool detachment.

  After all, it was her niece who had been engaged to Captain Buchanan. And the tragic accident had occurred at the engagement party she had thrown!

  They had looked at her with accusing faces. Did they not know she felt positively tortured by the terrible circumstances? How could she ever forget what had happened? How could anyone forget?

  As if the death of Captain Buchanan wasn’t enough of a tragedy, the issue of the missing ring had also been a sore point. She’d been informed by one of the Buchanans that they had been in contact with the Charleston Police Department and were awaiting a complete report on the accident.

  Thank goodness the entire Buchanan clan seemed to believe the whole thing had been an accident! Delaine thought to herself. A tragic accident that could be chalked up to an old greenhouse and an unfortunate lightning strike.

  But the whole time she’d been in Savannah, the conversation she’d had with Drayton and Theodosia had spun hopelessly about in her head, playing like an endless loop on a VCR. She recalled their hunch, their supposition, that someone could have come crashing through the old greenhouse roof and landed squarely atop Captain Buchanan’s head.

  There were about a million times during the visitation, the funeral service, and the sad reception afterward when she felt she’d simply burst with this knowledge. There were a thousand times when she thought she should just sit down and share these terrible suspicions with Captain Buchanan’s family.

  But then what?

  Then she’d have to prove everything. Maybe they’d even expect her to try to find the person responsible. And bring them to justice!

  Delaine touched her right hand to her temple as if the very thought was enough to trigger a migraine.

  She couldn’t resolve any of this mess. Of course not. There was no way she could ever accomplish that type of Herculean task.

  But Delaine had the proverbial ace in the hole. Theodosia and Drayton had searched high and low for the missing wedding ring and, in so doing, had become intrigued by the mystery of its disappearance.

  Especially Theodosia. She had an adventuresome heart and a fearless soul, Delaine reminded herself. And Theodosia commanded the ear of Burt Tidwell, one of Charleston’s finest detectives!

  Thank goodness!

  Tidwell, bless his snoopy, inquisitive little heart, had stopped by her shop this morning. Early, just after she’d first arrived, before she could even steam the wrinkles from that new line of hand-knit sweater jackets and get them out on the floor. Tidwell had pussyfooted around a bit, asking her this and that. Inquiring whether she remembered anything unusual, asking about any strangers hanging around that terrible night, and did she know the waiters who had worked the party?

  Of course she hadn’t. But Tidwell’s probing had stirred in her a germ of an idea. And given her a ray of hope.

  If Theodosia had been guardedly persuasive in her argument about a possible intruder—and now Burt Tidwell was snooping around—then there must be something to it!

  Of course, Theodosia was completely convinced that Burt Tidwell hated her. That Tidwell regarded her as a bit of an airhead.

  Delaine knew that nothing could be further from the truth. She’d seen the way Burt Tidwell looked at Theodosia Browning.

  Not because he had any silly romantic notions. Oh no. Absolutely not. Burt Tidwell was far too professional for that. But Tidwell did admire Theodosia, did respect her thoughts and opinions. Valued her keen intelligence and remarkable intuition.

  Which meant Burt Tidwell might just go out of his way to help her.

  Delaine clutched her buttercup yellow cashmere cardigan around her as though it were protective garb. No, she couldn’t venture to dream of getting to the bottom of this all by herself. But if she enlisted Theodosia’s aid, really encouraged her to keep investigating, then... then she just might have a fighting chance.

  “Delaine, you’re back from the funeral.” Haley stood holding a green Staffordshire teapot, pouring a stream of amber tea into white take-out cups.

  Delaine smiled a sad smile, touched a delicately manicured finger to her lips in a gesture that said shoosh. Then, choosing the small table closest to the counter, she slid quietly into a chair. “I don’t really want to talk about it with everyone in the place,” she told Haley. “I’m keeping a low profile for now.”

  “Theodosia and
Drayton have been worried about you,” continued Haley. “We all have.” Gee, Haley thought to herself, this is one bristly lady when she wants to be. And what’s this low-profile stuff? Delaine has never kept a low profile in her life!

  “But I would like to speak with Theo and Drayton,” she told Haley. Delaine glanced down at the bare wooden table as though she expected to find a teacup, linen napkin, and silverware all set up for her. “Just a cup of black tea this morning, dear. Irish breakfast tea.”

  “Sure thing,” said Haley.

  “How was the funeral?” asked Theodosia. Sitting in her office, she had heard Delaine’s voice and immediately come out to speak with her.

  Delaine plucked a handkerchief from her leather bag and daubed at her eyes. “Heartbreaking. Captain Buchanan’s mother and sisters never stopped crying for one instant.”

  “Oh, no,” said Theodosia as she slipped into the chair across from Delaine.

  “At the church, they had poor Captain Corey’s casket covered with an American flag and a military honor guard standing by. The service was very somber, of course, and his brother read a poem by Walt Whitman. I think it was In Paths Untrodden. Afterwards, the honor guard escorted the casket out of the church to the cemetery. After the minister said his final words, they fired a twenty-one-gun salute. Then a lone bugler played taps. Such a mournful sound.”

  Theodosia nodded. On the few occasions she’d attended military funerals, the playing of taps at the end had always seemed so sad and lonely. The bugler’s haunting notes a signal that the service was over, the deceased committed to the earth for eternity.

  “What’s Camille going to do now?” asked Haley.

  Delaine glanced down at her wrist nervously and Theodosia noticed she wasn’t wearing her usual jewel-encrusted Chopard watch. Probably left it at home for the funeral. Too showy.