Shades of Earl Grey Read online

  Theodosia looked askance at the device in Drayton’s hand. “How much is this thing?” she asked.

  Drayton studied the price tag. “Ninety-nine dollars,” he told her. “I’m amazed this stuff is so affordable.”

  “Me too. But you know how much technology has come down in price. Look at DVD and CD players.”

  Drayton stared at her blankly. As a self-professed curmudgeon who was scornful of all things technologic, he still preferred his old Philco stereo and vinyl record albums.

  “Well, never mind,” Theodosia told him, deciding this probably wasn’t the best time to illuminate Drayton on the advances that had been made in the past ten years. “You think we’d need two of these?” she asked.

  Drayton studied the brochure and did some quick math, figuring square footage while he mumbled to himself. “Two should do it,” he decided. “The jewelry will be on display in the small gallery. That’s really our key area of concern right now.”

  “And Timothy approved this expenditure?” Even though Timothy Neville lived in baronial splendor in a huge red brick Georgian mansion, he was notoriously frugal when it came to expenditures for the Heritage Society.

  “When I spoke with him yesterday, he certainly agreed there was a potential for trouble. So yes, he did approve this. Tonight’s party is members-only, of course, and he didn’t seem to feel we should expect any problems. I think Timothy’s got more of an eye toward next weekend. That’s when there could be a security issue. I suppose he views tonight as a sort of dry run.”

  “But he’s agreed to security guards, too,” said Theodosia. She wasn’t about to pin all her hopes on two ninety-nine-dollar motion sensors.

  “Two security guards will be posted. But realize, we had to employ them anyway,” Drayton told her. “For insurance purposes. Anytime you have a traveling show like this European Jewel Collection, you’re contractually obligated to provide a certain amount of security.”

  They stood there silently, eyeing the device.

  “Are we overreacting?” asked Theodosia.

  “Probably,” admitted Drayton. “In the cold, clear light of day, when you stand in this store and see all this tricky-techy stuff that plays right into people’s paranoias, our cat burglar theory does seem awfully far-fetched.”

  “Right,” Theodosia nodded. Her hand reached out and touched the motion sensor. It had a black metallic surface with a matte finish. Very gadgety and Mission Impossible looking. “This is sort of crazy,” she admitted. “You turn this little gizmo on and it generates supersonic detector beams.”

  “It’s nuts,” agreed Drayton.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t buy it then,” said Theodosia.

  “Of course we should,” said Drayton.

  Rain swept down in vast sheets, a cold, soaking late October rain that lashed in from the Atlantic. Spanish moss, heavy with water, sagged and swayed in the branches of giant live oaks like flotsam from the sea. Heroic last stands of bougainvillea and tiny white blooms from tea olive trees were mercilessly pounded, their blossoms shredded then pressed into the damp earth as though some careless giant had defiantly strode through and flattened everything in his wake.

  Out in Charleston Harbor, waves slapped sharply against channel buoys as the Cooper and Ashley Rivers converged in Charleston Harbor to confront the driving tide from the Atlantic. The mournful sound of the fog horn out on Patriot’s Point moaned and groaned, its low sound carrying to the old historic homes that crowded up against the peninsula, shoulder to elegant shoulder, like a receiving line of dowager empresses.

  The lights inside the old stone headquarters of the Heritage Society glowed like a beacon in the dark as ladies clad in opera capes and men in tuxedos splashed through puddles in their evening finery and struggled frantically with umbrellas blown inside out.

  Standing in the entryway, Theodosia shrugged off her black nylon raincoat, gently shook the rain from it, then handed it off to a young volunteer, who seemed at a complete loss as to what to do with all these wet garments.

  Patting her hair and smoothing the skirt of her black taffeta cocktail dress, Theodosia composed her serene face in a natural smile as she made her way down the crowded hallway, trying to push her way through the exuberant throng of Heritage Society members.

  “Theo!” cried an excited voice. “Hello there!”

  Theodosia turned to see Brooke Carter Crockett, the owner of the estate jewelry store, Heart’s Desire, smiling and waving at her.

  “Brooke . . . hello,” she responded. But then she was carried along by a crowd of people and eventually found herself at the end of the great hallway in the suite of rooms the Heritage Society used for receptions such as this and as galleries to showcase items pulled from their vast storage vault in the basement.

  Making a mental note to get back to Brooke later when some of the initial hubbub had died down, Theodosia gazed around appreciatively at the interior of the building.

  The old stone building that housed the Heritage Society was definitely one of Theodosia’s favorite edifices. Long ago, well over two hundred years ago, it had been a government building, built by the English. But rather than exuding a residual bureaucratic aura, Theodosia felt that the building seemed more contemplative and medieval in nature. An atmosphere that was undoubtedly helped along by its arched wood beam ceilings, stone walls, heavy leaded windows, and sagging wooden floors.

  It was, Theodosia had always thought, the kind of place you could turn into a very grand home. Given the proviso, of course, that you owned tons of leather-bound books, furnished it with acres of Oriental rugs and overstuffed furniture, and had a passel of snoozing hound dogs to keep you company.

  It would be a far cry from her small apartment over the tea shop, she decided, which she’d originally decorated in the chintz-and-prints-bordering-on-shabby-chic school of design, and was now veering toward old world antiquities and elegance.

  On her way to the bar, which turned out to be an old Jacobean trestle table stocked with dozens of bottles and an enormous cut-glass bowl filled with ice, Theodosia met up with Drayton. He was chatting with Aerin Linley, one of the Heritage Society’s volunteer fund-raisers and cochair of the Treasures Show.

  “Theo, you know Aerin Linley, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said Theodosia as she greeted the pretty redhead who looked absolutely stunning in a slinky scoop-necked, cream-colored jersey wrap dress and an heirloom emerald necklace that matched her eyes. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Besides cochairing the Treasures Show, Aerin authored the grant request that helped secure funding to bring in the European Jewel Collection,” Drayton told her.

  “I’m impressed,” said Theodosia as the two women shook hands. “I’ve tried my hand at writing a few grant requests myself, mostly to try to obtain program support for Big Paws, our Charleston service dog organization, so I know grant writing is a fairly daunting task. Lots of probing questions to answer and hurdles to jump through.”

  “It’s awfully tricky,” agreed Aerin Linley. “And there does seem to be a language all its own attached to it, one that’s slightly stilted and bureaucratic. Not really my style at all,” she laughed. “I think I just got lucky with this one.”

  “You’re still working at Heart’s Desire?” asked Theodosia. She remembered that Brooke Carter Crockett, the shop’s owner, had mentioned something about Aerin being her assistant.

  Aerin Linley fingered the emerald necklace that draped around her neck. “Can’t you tell?” she said playfully. “This is one of our pieces.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” said Theodosia as she peered at it and wondered just how many cups of tea she’d have to sell to finance that little piece of extravagance!

  “Never hurts to show off the merchandise,” laughed Aerin. “You never know when somebody’s in the market for a great piece. But to answer your question, yes . . . and I’m absolutely loving it there. And now that I’m handling most of the appraisals, Brooke has been fre
ed up to focus more on acquisitions and sales. She just returned from a sales trip to New York, where she made quite a hit with some of the dealers at the Manhattan Antique Center. They went absolutely crazy over our Charleston pieces. I think they were thrilled to get some pieces with real history attached to them as opposed to flash-in-the-pan nouveau designer pieces.”

  “Of course they were,” said Drayton, the perennial Charleston booster.

  “I also turned Brooke on to some rather prime buying opportunities for heirloom jewelry down in Savannah,” said Aerin. “There are so many old families who have jewel boxes just brimming with fine old pieces. To say nothing of all the secret drawers and panels built into the woodwork of those old homes.”

  “Did you grow up in Savannah?” asked Theodosia. Savannah was just ninety miles south of Charleston. That great, vast swamp known as the low-country was all that separated the two old grande dame cities.

  “I did,” said Aerin. “But I moved here a few months ago after my divorce.” She flashed a wicked grin. “Savannah’s really an awfully small town when you get right down to it. And it certainly wasn’t big enough for the two of us, once we called it quits.”

  “Then you know the Buchanans,” said Theodosia.

  “Quite well, actually,” Aerin replied. “And such a tragedy about poor Corey Buchanan. Drayton’s been filling me in. Brooke, too.” She lowered her voice. “I can’t say we’re thrilled by these whispered allegations of a cat burglar. Heart’s Desire has a well-earned reputation for offering a stunning array of estate jewelry, so we do make an awfully broad target,” she said, widening her eyes in alarm.

  “There you-all are!” Delaine Dish, with Cooper Hobcaw in tow, edged up to the group. “Look, Coop, here’s our dear Theo and Drayton. And Miss Linley, too. Hello,” she purred.

  “Good evening,” Cooper Hobcaw said politely. “Hello, Miz Browning, Drayton, Miz Linley.” He executed a chivalrous half-bow in their general direction.

  Delaine gazed up at Cooper Hobcaw with studied intensity, then actually batted her eyelashes at him. “Don’t you just love a real Southern gentleman?” she cooed, seemingly entranced by his presence.

  Cooper winced and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Now Delaine, darlin’, most Southern gentlemen are gentlemen,” he joked and the rest of them laughed politely.

  Aerin Linley put a hand on Cooper Hobcaw’s arm to get his attention. “It was nice of you to call Lorna and Rex Buchanan the other night,” she told him. “According to Drayton here, you handled a very intense situation with a good deal of care and grace.”

  Cooper Hobcaw bobbed his head modestly. “I’m sure any one of us would have been glad to do the same thing.”

  “I take it funeral arrangements have been made?” asked Drayton.

  “Yes,” said Theodosia, “when is the funeral?”

  “Monday,” replied Delaine. “In Savannah, of course. Apparently it took some time to notify all of Captain Buchanan’s military friends. Some of them were out at sea, so they had to be pulled off their ships by helicopter.”

  “So sad,” murmured Theodosia.

  “It is,” agreed Delaine, who seemed to have gotten some perspective on the death of her niece’s fiancé. She was congenial, Theodosia noted, but her mood was tempered by a certain sadness.

  “I’ll be driving down Sunday night,” Delaine told them.

  “Celerie Stuart is going with me. She was a dear friend of Lorna Buchanan’s. They went to school together at Mount Holyoke.”

  “And what of Camille?” asked Drayton.

  “She’s down in Savannah now,” replied Delaine. “Staying with the Buchanans.” Delaine’s eyes suddenly glistened as tears seemed to gather in the corners. “It’s the best thing for her, really. To be surrounded by people who loved him.”

  Drayton nodded knowingly, reached out, and patted Delaine’s hand.

  The Treasures Show, once the installation was finally complete, would be a stunning display of some of the choicer pieces the Heritage Society had amassed over the years. Established as a repository for historical paintings, maps, documents, furniture, and antiques, the Heritage Society had been collecting antiquities for nearly 160 years. More recently, under the careful guidance of its president, Timothy Neville, the Heritage Society had staged several “appeal” campaigns, with subtle requests going out to Charlestonians asking them to kindly donate some of their more important paintings and pieces.

  And certain residents of Charleston, especially those with homes filled to the rafters with inherited treasures, had responded generously. Especially those who had a relatively high tax liability and wanted to get that all-important museum tax credit.

  That tax deduction loophole was perhaps one of the reasons the Heritage Society now had in its possession a tasty mélange of French empire clocks, eighteenth-century Meissen figurines, Queen Anne “handkerchief” tables, old pewter, fine sterling silver, and Early American paintings.

  A hand-picked assortment that included some of those very fine pieces would be installed during the coming week to make up the Heritage Society’s much-heralded Treasures Show.

  But for now it was the traveling exhibition of exquisite European jewelry that had captured Theodosia’s eye. This collection of jewelry was pure ecstasy, the kinds of pieces a woman could truly dream over.

  Here, on a mantle of black velvet, was a diamond brooch that had once nestled at the ample breast of Empress Josephine, Napoleon’s one true love. And in this next case was a strand of giant baroque pearls that had reputedly been worn by the Duchess Sophia, when Archduke Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated in 1914. And Theodosia was utterly entranced by the jeweled flamingo pin that had been commissioned by the Duke of Windsor and worn by Wallis, his life-long love and the Duchess of Windsor.

  All thoughts of burglars and thieves creeping through the night vanished from Theodosia’s mind as she gazed in wonder at the radiant treasures that occupied the glass cases in the small, dark room. Lit from above with pinpoint spotlights to highlight the radiance of the gemstones, the jewelry simply dazzled the eye.

  As Theodosia gazed in wonderment, she was suddenly aware of Timothy Neville, the venerable old president of the Heritage Society, standing at her side.

  At age eighty-one, Timothy was not just the power behind the Heritage Society, but also a denizen of the historic district, first violin of the Charleston Symphony, collector of antique pistols, and proud possessor of a stunning mansion on Archdale Street that was furnished with equally stunning paintings, tapestries, and antiques. And interestingly enough, all that knowledge and power was contained in a small man, barely one hundred forty pounds, who had a bony, simian face, yet possessed the grace and poise of an elder statesman.

  “This is an absolutely stunning show, Timothy,” said Theodosia.

  Timothy Neville smiled, revealing a mouth full of small, pointed teeth. Any compliment directed at the Heritage Society was a personal triumph for Timothy. But it was not just ego that drove him, it was a sense of satisfaction that the Heritage Society had once again fulfilled its mission.

  “The show will be even more spectacular once the complete installation is in place,” replied Timothy Neville. “As you can see, we’ve only just utilized this one room. The furniture, decorative arts, and paintings will be displayed in the back two galleries.”

  Theodosia pointed to a necklace that featured an enormous pear-shaped sapphire accented by smaller sapphires. “This blue sapphire necklace is stunning,” she told him.

  “And the provenance is absolutely fascinating,” replied Timothy.

  Intrigued, Theodosia bent forward and read the description for what they were calling the Blue Kashmir necklace. “Originally worn by an Indian maharajah, then purchased in the twenties and made into a necklace by Marjorie Merriweather Post, the breakfast cereal heiress,” she read aloud. “Wow.”

  “Most people take jewelry at face value,” said Timothy, smiling faintly at his small joke. “What they don’t
realize it that jewelry is often an intrinsic part of history as well. Jewelry speaks to us, tells a story.”

  Timothy pointed to a case that contained a stunning group of black and gold brooches and pins. “Take this mourning jewelry, for example. Belonged to Queen Victoria. After Prince Albert died of typhoid fever in 1861, the old girl was so distraught she went into mourning for the next three decades. In fact, her mourning policy was so strict that she allowed only black stones to be worn in the English court. Jet, onyx, bog oak, that type of thing, set in silver and gold.”

  “I had no idea,” said Theodosia.

  “Most people don’t,” replied Timothy.

  Theodosia turned to face him. “I’m sorry if we alarmed you,” she said. “About the possibility of a jewel thief.”

  Timothy grimaced, pulled his slight body to his full height. Dressed in his European-cut tuxedo, he looked like a martinet, but his eyes were kind. “Yes, Drayton was in a bit of a flap over the accident at the Lady Goodwood Inn the other night. Who knows what really happened, eh? The police are investigating, are they not?”

  “Yes, they are,” said Theodosia. “At least I hope they are.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to wait and see what their assessment of the situation really is,” replied Timothy. “And in the meantime, bolster our security around here. I actually like the idea of having electronic gizmos. We have security devices on our doors and windows, of course, but I never thought to use them in conjunction with our various exhibits. Of course, the Heritage Society doesn’t put on all that many blockbuster shows that are advertised widely to the public. Mostly we’re a quiet little place. People find their way to us in ones and twos.” Timothy hesitated. “Sad about young Buchanan, though. I never met the fellow, but I knew his grandfather. Fine family.” Timothy shook his head and the overhead spotlights made his bald pate gleam. “Hell of a thing,” he murmured quietly.