by Laura Childs
“Saved,” she breathed, jumping up to snatch it. “Hello?”
“Hello, gorgeous,” Max cooed into her ear. Her ex-boyfriend certainly knew how to get her attention.
“Hey there,” Theodosia said. “How are things in Savannah?”
“Could be better.” His teasing tone awakened a flutter of butterflies in her core. “You could be here.”
“Oh, really?” Max was both charming and glib. He was a keeper, but one she couldn’t keep.
His smooth chuckle rumbled over the line. “Definitely. In fact, I was hoping you might come down for the Festival of Lights in a few weeks. I know a great place you can stay.”
“I’m sure you do. The thing is, the holidays are our busiest time of year.”
“That sounds like a no.”
“No, it’s just a maybe.”
“I could dine out on your maybes,” Max said.
“Then I’ll really try to make it down there.”
“Can’t ask for much more. How are things in Charleston?”
“Oh, fairly interesting.”
“Don’t tell me you let yourself get pulled into some sort of crazy investigation again.”
“Then I won’t tell you.”
“I’m not sure if that sounds ominous or hopeful.” Max chuckled.
“Probably a little of both,” Theodosia said. She really didn’t want to get into a hot and heavy discussion right now on how a ring of international jewel thieves might be operating in Charleston. It was just . . . too much.
“Are you still running?” Max asked. “Keeping up those eight-minute miles?”
“I’m still at it. In fact, I’m going to take a run tonight.”
“Good girl. Just be careful. In the dark, you could twist an ankle on one of those pesky cobblestones. Or, you know . . .” His sentence hung unfinished in the air. He still worried about her. Theodosia wondered if that was a good thing or problematic.
“I’ll be careful,” she said. “I’m always careful.”
“Yeah, right.”
Theodosia hung up feeling a small void in her chest. Change wasn’t exactly her favorite thing. But it was certainly in the air. Changing leaves, changing seasons, changing times.
• • •
By seven thirty, Theodosia and Earl Grey were bobbing down the back alley. The evening was beautiful, an inky blue-black sky scattered with shards of bright stars. Streetlights glowed like miniature beacons as she beat a path through the neighborhood, Earl Grey keeping pace at her side.
They bounced along, cutting through an alley or two, even running down Stoll’s Alley, where narrow, rough-hewn stone walls closed in on them and a few withered ferns were attempting a heroic last stand.
As they hung a left onto Tradd Street, Theodosia experienced one of those serendipitous moments. There, up ahead of her, heading right for her, in fact, was a small woman handling two large Dobermans. It had to be Grace Dawson and her dogs.
Instead of giving the trio a wide berth, as she normally would, Theodosia stayed her course and gently slowed her pace. A few moments later, she and Grace were face-to-face, the dogs muzzle-to-muzzle.
There was the usual amount of sniffing and mingling, of doggy politics being played out. Then the dogs seemed to relax.
“You have a beautiful pair of Dobermans,” Theodosia said.
Grace Dawson’s brilliant smile was pageant-worthy. “Thank you. I totally agree. But, of course, I’m shamelessly biased. They’re family.” She patted her dogs’ heads—one, then the other. “Sultan and Satin, meet . . .” She trailed off. “I’m sorry, you’re both so familiar to me, I know I’ve seen you around . . . but I’m afraid I’m not very good with names.”
“This is Earl Grey and I’m Theodosia Browning.”
Grace beamed. “Of course you are. From the Indigo Tea Shop over on Church Street.”
“You’ve visited us?”
“No, but I’m definitely planning to drop by. I’ve heard the most marvelous things about your tea shop. I understand you have your own pastry chef right there on the premises?”
“Haley bakes all our scones, muffins, bars, and brownie bites from scratch.” And she would adore being called a pastry chef.
“Be still my heart,” Grace laughed.
Assuming this woman eats anything sweet.
Theodosia studied Grace. She had to be in her early fifties, but was lithe and almost fashion-model thin.
Probably lives on kale and wheat shooters.
Her skintight black leggings and purple hoodie were definitely more Neiman Marcus than Sport Shack, and her sneakers were pure Gucci. With her blond hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, she looked like an older, wealthier Barbie.
“You do a lot of running?” Theodosia asked.
“I try to take these energetic beasts out every morning and most evenings,” Grace said.
Theodosia forced herself to focus. She needed to get serious before Grace continued on with her run. “You know, I was introduced to a friend of yours yesterday,” she said. “Lionel Rinicker.”
“Oh, Lionel!” Grace said with great enthusiasm. “Isn’t he a dear? An absolute charmer?”
“I only met him for a few minutes, but he seemed like a very nice man.”
“Oh, he is,” Grace gushed.
Theodosia wondered if Grace might even mention something about the FBI coming to call on Rinicker. On the other hand, Rinicker probably hadn’t told her. He was fairly new in town, had been lucky enough to make the acquaintance of a fairly well-to-do woman, so why would he want to screw things up?
Grace put a conspiratorial hand on Theodosia’s arm. “Let me tell you something, dear. Lionel’s done a world of good for me since my husband passed away two years ago. He’s made me feel alive again.”
“That’s wonderful,” Theodosia said. Then, “What did your husband do?” she asked politely.
“Wilton owned a Mercedes-Benz dealership over on James Island.”
“A lovely area. I take it you used to live there, too?”
“Yes, but now I really prefer in-town living. I bought my house a year ago and I honestly haven’t looked back.” Grace laughed, making a vague gesture at the neighborhood. “Look at this. Simply gorgeous. I can chug along on the beach or run through these amazing streets, admiring the history and architecture. The harbor and the yacht club are nearby and the air is always that heady oxygen-rich mixture of sea brine and freedom. And if I hadn’t moved here, I never would have met Lionel.”
“He did strike me as a charmer,” Theodosia said.
“And very cultured. He’s lived so many places I’m fairly green with envy. We met at the Coastal Carolina Flea Market, you know. I found a portfolio of sketches I thought might be Norman Rockwell originals and the seller agreed. Just as we were negotiating a price, Lionel came to my rescue. He knew right off they were just prints. Restrikes, I think he called them.”
“So you didn’t lose any money,” Theodosia said.
“And I gained a boyfriend,” Grace said as the Dobermans strained at their leashes.
“You know,” Theodosia said. “My tea master, Drayton Conneley, and Lionel are on the board of directors together at the Heritage Society.”
Grace’s eyes twinkled. “So you’re probably looking forward to the gala Saturday night. For all the Gold Circle members?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Theodosia said.
• • •
Theodosia thought about her quick encounter with Grace Dawson as she jogged along. The woman definitely seemed enamored of Lionel Rinicker. So what did that mean? That he was a nice, okay guy, someone to be trusted? Or that he’d managed to pull the wool over Grace’s eyes?
Theodosia dodged down a narrow alley that led between two enormous mansions, and then burst out into White Point Garden
. Pounding across the dried grass, the blessed endorphins kicked in. There was nothing like the bliss of a runner’s high at the end of a busy, stressful day.
“What do you think?” she asked Earl Grey. “Do you feel it, too, boy?”
They ran along a narrow ridge where the Atlantic crashed in on shell-strewn sandy shores. Finally, after a good half mile at a blistering pace, Theodosia slowed. Memories of romantic strolls along the shore with Max flitted through her mind. This part of Charleston, the very tip of the peninsula, was the most romantic and spirited. Here you could tumble back in time, surrounded by elegant homes and the whoosh and whisper of the eternal sea.
Earl Grey nudged her hand with a cool, wet nose, bringing Theodosia back into the moment. She was moving at a comfortable jog-walk pace now, ambling along, heading in the direction of the Charleston Yacht Club.
Theodosia had sailed out of the yacht club many times and always felt inspired and uplifted by the bobbing of the boats and the clanking of the halyards against the masts.
So elegant, she told herself as she surveyed the little fleet. All these posh blue-and-white vessels bobbing and nodding to one another, probably exchanging price points and pedigrees.
As she neared the clubhouse, she wondered if anyone was there.
But no, it was too late. All the lights were off and . . .
Her eyes flitted across a sign. An intriguing sign she’d never noticed before. It said: GOLD COAST YACHTS.
She’d almost forgotten about Sabrina and Luke Andros. She of the jewelry debacle and he of the fancy yachts.
Theodosia approached the small building that served as the office for Gold Coast Yachts and peeked in the window. In the dark, all she could make out were a large desk and a few chairs. Colorful posters of megayachts hung on the walls.
She checked her watch and was about to turn for home when a light way out at the end of the far pier caught her eye. She gazed through the mist that was starting to roll in now and saw an enormous one-hundred-and-twenty-foot yacht bobbing majestically.
One of the Gold Coast yachts? Had to be. All the other sailboats here were of the smaller variety. Ensigns and O’Days and a few Hobie Cats.
Curiosity pulled at her, dragging her toward that yacht like a moth to the flame.
And then voices floated across the sea air, muffled by the dampness.
Theodosia pressed a finger to her mouth, warning Earl Grey to be quiet. He turned his doggy gaze toward the boat, as if in complete understanding. And then they both tiptoed along the shoreline in the direction of the far dock. Together they stepped onto it and tread softly along smooth, wooden planks. Earl Grey’s head bobbed sweetly as he seemed to make an effort to keep his toenails from clicking against the boards.
A voice grew steadily louder as they drew nearer the large craft, but Theodosia still couldn’t make out any actual words. Could the voice belong to Luke Andros, the newly arrived, wealthy yacht broker? Was he the one who was doing all the talking?
Theodosia inched closer, straining to understand the murmurs.
Am I investigating now? Yes, I do believe I am.
She stopped at the edge of the dock where the boat bumped up against a dozen plastic fenders. Now it seemed as if there was more than just a single voice. There were four or five people on that boat.
She bent in closer. Could she peer through a porthole? No, that wasn’t going to work. She was down here on the dock and that boat rode awfully high in the water.
Theodosia listened harder. Somebody with a deep voice was talking now.
Who?
She strained to pick up the words, but the incessant wind and lapping of waves made the voices sound like a bad radio signal that faded in and out.
“. . . Four more days and then you guys can take off,” the deep voice instructed.
Four more days? Theodosia straightened up and tried to think. What was going to happen in four more days?
Worrying that she’d overstepped her bounds, that someone would come out on deck and catch her eavesdropping, Theodosia backed up, gave Earl Grey’s leash a tug, and hurried down the pier.
She was halfway back to shore when it hit her. The Rare Antiquities Show was in four days.
11
Theodosia slow-walked the last couple of blocks to her home, settling her pulse and trying to process everything she’d learned tonight. There was a lot to think about. And a lot to worry about, too.
Now, in keeping with the theme of the night—strange encounters—she spotted a familiar burgundy-colored Crown Victoria parked at the curb in front of her house.
Tidwell. What does he want? She sighed. She was about to find out.
When Tidwell saw her approach, the dome light snapped on and he squeezed himself out from behind the wheel. “Good evening,” he called out in his deep baritone.
“Staking out my home, are you, Detective Tidwell?” Theodosia asked. “See anything interesting? Stray cats? The neighborhood raccoons come to ransack my fishpond?”
He shut the car door and met her on the sidewalk. He was wearing slightly baggy pants and what looked like a frayed khaki fishing jacket that barely stretched across his weather balloon of a stomach. “I’m afraid I observed nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Good.” She smiled gratefully and motioned for him to follow her inside. “You might as well come in. I mean, you will anyway, right?”
“Thank you for your kind invitation,” Tidwell said.
Theodosia snapped on the light in the small tiled entryway. Then ducked into her living room and turned on a lamp. Warm light flooded the room, showing off the fireplace, parquet floors, and chintz-covered furniture to advantage.
“Cozy,” Tidwell said.
Earl Grey dashed into the kitchen and began to noisily drain his water bowl while Theodosia knelt in front of the fireplace. She added a handful of kindling and a new log, trying to coax the embers back into a robust flame. It seemed to be working. Finally, she dusted her palms together and turned to face Tidwell.
“Are you on or off duty?”
“Interesting question,” he said. “On, I suppose.”
“Then this is an official visit.”
He smiled. “But perhaps we should call it an off-the-record visit.”
“Off the record, then, would you care for a glass of wine?”
Tidwell brightened. “I’d enjoy that very much.”
Theodosia went into the kitchen, grabbed a half bottle of cabernet, and filled two glasses. She carried them back into the living room, to find Tidwell peering at a small, recently purchased oil painting that she’d hung above her fireplace.
“This is lovely,” he said. “Who is the artist?”
“Josiah Singleton.”
“Ah. Early American?”
“Well. Mid-eighteenth century, anyway.” Theodosia handed him his wine and settled into a chintz armchair while Tidwell took a spot on the love seat opposite her. “What brings you by, Detective?”
“The FBI paid you a visit today,” Tidwell said. He took a sip of wine and gazed at her expectantly.
“Yes,” Theodosia said. “They wanted my firsthand witness account from Sunday night.”
“Anything else?”
“They told me they’re on the lookout for one or more European jewel thieves who might have been involved in the robbery at Heart’s Desire.”
“The Pink Panther gang.”
“That’s right.”
“Doubtful,” Tidwell said.
“They showed me a bunch of photos. Drayton and I thought one of the men bore a striking resemblance to Lionel Rinicker.” She paused. “You know who he is?”
“I had much the same discussion with the FBI as you did. With a certain degree of reluctance on their part, they shared that same information with me and key members of my department.”
“Okay,” Theodosia said. “So you know what I know.”
Tidwell took a gulp of wine. “They’re very hot to point a finger at Mr. Rinicker.”
“And you’re not?”
“There’s simply no concrete evidence against him.”
“Other than the fact that he’s relatively new in town . . .” When Tidwell made a face, Theodosia added, “You know what Charleston is like. You’re considered a newcomer even if your parents were born here. You need to be able to trace your ancestry back to your great-great-grandpappy in order to be considered a dyed-in-the-wool Charlestonian.”
“And then it helps if your ancestors were French Huguenots.”
“That’s always best,” Theodosia said. “But getting back to Rinicker, there’s also the fact that he managed to schmooze a number of influential people in a very short time and make his way onto the board at the Heritage Society.”
“Probably a coincidence,” Tidwell said.
“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t. Unless there are too many of them.”
Theodosia drew a deep breath. “There’s something I should probably tell you about. It might even be considered . . . a clue.”
Tidwell cocked his head. “What is it? And why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because I didn’t think of it. This information only bubbled to the surface when my memory was jogged by those FBI guys who came and interrogated me.”
“They were forceful?”
“You mean did they drag me back to some deserted building and put me in handcuffs and leg irons? No, they did not. But they did project a certain, shall we call it, gravitas. In other words, I wouldn’t want to play games with them.”
“So what is it you remembered?”
“I remembered the hammer that one of the thieves used.”
Tidwell sat forward. “Tell me.”
“It was unusual-looking. Metallic and quite shiny. But not like any ordinary hammer I’d seen before. Not for pounding nails or anything like that.”
“A specialized hammer,” Tidwell said.
“Yes, but I don’t know which specialty.”
