Shades of Earl Grey (11 page)

Tidwell chewed thoughtfully. “From their perspective, the first incident at the Lady Goodwood Inn seems more like an unfortunate accident.”

“And the second incident?” asked Drayton, suddenly deciding to join the conversation. “The missing necklace at the Heritage Society?”

“That
is
a clear-cut robbery,” said Tidwell. “No one's disputing that.” He swiveled his head toward Theodosia and bore into her with small, intense eyes. “But according to the rather rambling e-mail you forwarded to me,
you
believe there is some mysterious cat burglar prowling the historic district.”

“I think it's a distinct possibility,” Theodosia said. “And I do think the two cases are related.” She looked at Drayton, who hovered nearby, for confirmation.

“We both do,” he said.

Tidwell sat back in his chair with an air of finality. “And you'd like me to expound on what I know concerning the phenomenon known as the cat burglar,” he said with a sigh.

“Could you?” asked Theodosia with an encouraging smile.

Tidwell reached one paw up, absently brushed stray bread crumbs from the lapels of his tweed jacket. “Closest thing you can compare it to is a great white shark,” he said.

“What a strange analogy,” Theodosia said, looking perplexed.

Tidwell grimaced. “In my experience, which admittedly is quite limited, a cat burglar tends to be a territorial creature. If the feeding is plentiful in one place, he will tend to stay put.”

“And the feeding should be mighty plentiful in Charleston,” murmured Theodosia. “Think of all the estate jewelry that's here. Or the priceless antiques and oil paintings that grace so many of the homes in the historic district.”

Tidwell nodded. “A tasty treasure trove, indeed. Old families, old money. There is a lovely synchronicity at work.”

“So we have to just sit around and wait for this cat burglar to strike again?” asked Drayton somewhat peevishly.

Tidwell reached for a second slice of persimmon bread, took a large bite, chewed with great enthusiasm, swallowed. “If he strikes at all,” said Tidwell. “Let me again emphasize that my experience is limited. However . . .”

“However what?” asked Drayton.

“There is another breed of cat burglar,” said Tidwell. “And that is the migratory kind.”

“Versus the territorial kind,” said Drayton. Now his lined face betrayed a fair amount of skepticism.

“Exactly,” said Tidwell. “This migratory version follows the goods.”

Theodosia and Drayton exchanged puzzled looks. “Which means . . .” prompted Theodosia.

Tidwell rocked back in his chair and the ancient wood creaked in protest. “For openers, there's the summer social season in the Hamptons, opera season in New York, then a long stretch of charity balls in Palm Beach.”

Drayton's mouth opened then closed. “Oh,” he finally said. “I see what you mean.”

Theodosia deftly slid the plate of baked goods closer to Tidwell. “If you had a gut feeling, how would you characterize our fellow?” she asked.

“If I listened to my gut, I wouldn't help myself to a third pastry,” said Tidwell with a rueful smile. He reached for a croissant, slid it onto his plate. “Alas, dear girl, I can offer you no great insight.”

Drayton and Theodosia sat there looking slightly deflated.

Tidwell saw their distress. “What I may be able to parcel out,” he added, “is a small amount of information. The robbery division is working up a guest list from both functions. If something strange rears its head, I'll let you know. How would that be?”

“Good enough,” said Theodosia. “Thank you.”

Tidwell raised a furry eyebrow and cast a warning glance at her. “You can keep your eyes open,” he told her, “but I warn you right now, do not make
any
attempt whatsoever to track, trail, or apprehend anyone you deem a potential suspect.” He continued to gaze steadily at Theodosia. “Is that clear?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Of course,” Tidwell repeated. “Miss Browning, your voice carries such a tone of innocence. But why do I sense a certain degree of insincerity in your promise?”

“No, I'll be careful,” Theodosia assured him. “Really I will.”

 

“When are we going to talk about the open house?” asked Haley. She'd emerged from the kitchen and now stood hands-on-hips, staring at Theodosia.

Theodosia, standing up on tiptoes with her right arm extended, stopped in mid-stretch. She'd almost finished arranging her display of teacups.

The finished T-Bath products had all arrived, the shipping cartons stacked so high in her office it made it almost impossible to navigate her way to her desk. And the invitations for this Thursday's afternoon reception had been mailed out well over two weeks ago. So far almost three dozen people had responded with RSVPs and she was confident quite a few more people would just spontaneously drop by. But drop by for what? Their big event was now three days away and it still needed to be finalized!

“I'm sure nobody feels like planning this thing,” continued Haley in a somewhat plaintive tone of voice, “but it
is
on our schedule.”

“You're right,” said Theodosia. “And it's not that we don't want to plan it, we've just been caught up in other things.” She glanced across the room at Drayton. “Drayton?” she called.

He looked up from where he was pouring a warm-up cup of tea for two women seated near the front door and held up a finger. “Be there in a sec,” he answered back.

“What I thought,” said Haley moving into her take-charge mode, “was that we'd try for a kind of Zen-like atmosphere. Try to capture the feeling of relaxation and renewal that the T-Bath products are supposed to impart.”

Theodosia nodded. “That sounds like a great idea. We could use a stress-free zone around here.”

“And if we brought in some of Drayton's Japanese bonsai trees, they'd make cute accent pieces for all of the tables.”

“You think he'll let us?” asked Theodosia. “He's awfully protective of those trees of his.”

Drayton had joined them now and was nodding enthusiastically. “Only the Fukien tea plant and the jade tree stay at home. They're the most sensitive. As for the others, the maples, junipers, and larches . . . well, you know I never miss a chance to show off my bonsai,” he added with a modest grin.

“Great,” continued Haley. “Then, what if on the main table, the buffet table, we have a real knockout floral arrangement. Something very Asian looking. I don't know what you call those arrangements, but they're quite artsy and contemporary looking. I was thinking we could do something with orchids surrounded by stalks of bamboo?”

“I believe the correct term is ikebana,” said Drayton. “It's Japanese flower arranging at its most fanciful. In fact,
ikebana
literally translated means ‘fresh flower.' You might call it the bonsai of flower arranging.”

“Okay,” said Haley. “Great.”

“We'll ask Hattie Boatwright over at Floradora to design something for us,” suggested Drayton. “She took an ikebana workshop with me a few years ago and her arrangements turned out far better than mine.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “But then, she's a professional.”

Haley continued ticking off ideas in rapid-fire succession. “And the refreshments at our main table should include Japanese green tea, some sushi, nothing too exotic, maybe some California rolls, and some of those little kushiyaki sticks. You know grilled chicken and vegetables with teriyaki sauce?”

“Can you make the California rolls?” asked Theodosia, “or should we ask Miyako's Sushi to do the catering?”

“I can do it,” said Haley. “Once I cook the rice and season it properly with wine vinegar, the rest should be a snap.”

“Listen to her,” said Drayton. “She doesn't even need
us.
”

“Oh, yes I do,” said Haley. “You two have to figure out where to display all our nifty products. Then you should probably make up some gift baskets for sale, probably using those extra sweetgrass baskets we have in back. And—” she looked around “—oh yeah, dig out those tiny little Japanese cups we've got stored around here somewhere.”

IN 1929, WITH
an eye to the future and their collective hearts set squarely in the past, Charleston's city council passed the nation's very first zoning ordinance to protect many of their city's historic buildings. Two years later, they went a step further and set aside a full twenty-three square blocks of the peninsula—what is known today as the historic district—containing a rich assortment of historic homes as well as significant commercial, religious, and civic buildings.

The result is a breathtaking architectural preserve. The historic district is replete with Colonial, Georgian, Italianate, Greek Revival, and Federal-style buildings, as well as many examples of the ubiquitous Charleston single house, that have remained unchanged for well over a century. And even though the occasional hurricane blows in to rearrange things (such as Hurricane Hugo did in 1989), the streets are still lined with graceful live oaks, enormous mulberry bushes, and flowering magnolias, and the hundreds of hidden, backyard private gardens are nothing short of breathtaking.

As Theodosia stepped across the patio of the Heritage Society, she was delighted to see that some craftsperson had pieced together the beginnings of what would probably be a splendid-looking wrought iron bench.

Based on the design of a Victorian love seat, the bench was fashioned in a graceful S-curve, with one seat facing one way and another seat facing the opposite way.

Theodosia noted the sections where additional scroll-work would be added and decided the new bench was pretty and whimsical and would be a perfect addition to the patio outside the Heritage Society, since so many of their parties seemed to spill outside anyway.

“That's going to be a lovely bench,” she told Claire Kitridge, one of the Heritage Society secretaries, who was seated at the massive wood reception desk. Claire had worked at the Heritage Society for several years and always seemed extremely dedicated.

Claire nodded her frizz of grayish hair. “Isn't it?” she responded. “I'm just crazy over anything that's wrought iron?” she said, allowing her voice to rise at the end of her sentence, making her statement sound like a question.

Sitting at the desk with her blue oxford shirt tucked into a plain navy skirt, Claire looked busy and efficient. She wore nary a speck of makeup and had her glasses strung around her neck on a practical silver chain. Theodosia had always thought Claire to be a straightforward, no-nonsense type of woman. But she also knew that Claire was a devotee of antique linens and had amassed a spectacular collection.

“Still sorting through flea markets, Claire?” Theodosia asked.

Claire fixed her with an eager gaze. “You wouldn't believe the luck I've had. I just stumbled upon some spectacular linen napkins? Damask, woven back in the twenties for the ocean liner, the
Queen Mary?
Wonderful,” she declared. “So crisp and smart. They certainly don't make them like that anymore.” Claire paused expectantly. “I found some old tea towels, too, if you're interested?”

“I am, but I'm going to have to find a bigger house,” bemoaned Theodosia. Tea towels were another one of her passions. Just like her collection of teacups.

“Tell me about it,” laughed Claire. “Between my linens, eiderdowns, and antique lace, it's
really
getting out of hand. My house looks like a Victorian parlor run amuck. Think I can stop, though? Hah!” She suddenly spun her chair a half-turn, snatched up the phone. “You're here to see Timothy?” Claire asked.

“Yes, would you see if he can spare a few moments?” Theodosia asked.

“Of course,” said Claire. She punched a couple buttons. “Mr. Neville? Miss Theodosia Browning is here at the front desk? Could you . . . of course, I'll tell her.” Claire hung up the phone and smiled at Theodosia. “Mr. Neville said to come right in. You know which office is his?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Theodosia.

“Let me know about those tea towels,” called Claire as Theodosia started down the hall.

 

“What do you think?” Timothy asked Theodosia as she stepped into his office. “An authentic Sully or a very good copy?” His arm made a sweeping gesture to indicate a portrait of a woman framed in gilt.

Theodosia took a few steps forward and studied the portrait that lay on Timothy's desk. She knew that Thomas Sully was a distinguished painter who had lived and worked in Charleston for many years. He had produced a fairly large body of work, but he'd had his imitators, too. Then again, what successful artist didn't?

Theodosia studied the surface of the painting. It was aged and the glaze crackled, that was for sure. So the painting certainly wasn't recent. The signature looked good and the subject, a young woman sitting beside a fireplace, did seem to emit a certain glow from within. Still . . .

“May I?” she asked. Timothy nodded abruptly as Theodosia picked up the portrait and turned it over. It had been painted on canvas, she noted, not just on a wooden board. And the wooden canvas stretchers looked old and weathered, which was often a good giveaway of authenticity.

“I'd say it's real,” she told Timothy. “And a fine example, at that.”

Timothy Neville beamed at her. “Well done, Miss Browning. May I ask what aspect of this painting most convinced you as to its authenticity?”

“The canvas looks old,” she said. “A little dry, in fact. And the stretchers are the slot and groove kind. That usually indicates late-eighteenth or early-nineteenth century.”