Laura Childs - Shades of Earl Grey

“Theo,” said Drayton as he put a hand on her shoulder, “a moment of your time, please.”

“You’re looking dapper tonight,” cooed Delaine as Theodosia turned her attention toward Drayton.

“And you, Miss Dish, are as ravishing as ever,” Dray-ton said to Delaine, favoring her with a genteel half-bow.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being obsequious?” Theodosia asked him as they hurried down the corridor together.

“Me? Never,” declared Drayton with a sly grin. “Obsequious is my middle name. Drayton Obsequious Conneley. In fact, you can just call me Drayton O.”

At the end of the corridor, Drayton steered Theodosia around a corner, slipping past the purple velvet cord that kept visitors in line, and led her into the largest of the two galleries.

It was a sight to behold.

The large gallery, paneled in cypress wood, gleamed with a welcoming glow. Tables and glass cases displayed the finest treasures from the Heritage Society’s sizable collection. A collection of antique pewter tankards rested on a Hepplewhite sideboard. Silver candlesticks and gleaming bowls adorned a revolving Sheraton drum table. On a French Empire card table reputed to have once belonged to Napoleon was an antique Japanese Imari bowl.

Entranced, Theodosia’s eyes drank in the various displays. Here was a portrait by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, an eighteenth-century painter who had immortalized many of the old Carolina rice plantations in her moody, sienna-tinged paintings. And here were a dozen original Audubon prints. And hung on the back wall, a half-dozen painted portraits from the mid-seventeen-hundreds done by Charleston artist Jeremiah Theus.

“Oh, my,” said Theodosia, “this is very impressive. You and Timothy and the rest of the crew have worked absolute wonders.”

“Tasty pickings, no?” said Drayton. “And look over here.” He guided Theodosia to a fall-front mahogany Chippendale desk that was lit from above by pinpoint spotlights. On it sat a collection of antique desk ware—a silver inkwell and matching pen, an ornate French clock of gilded bronze, a silver snuffbox. Propped in front of those accouterments was a bound leather stamp album and displayed on a tiny glass pedestal next to it was the one-cent Z grill stamp. In the dim room, with just the lights from above, the blue stamp with the somewhat stern portrait of founding father Benjamin Franklin did look rather tantalizing. Especially in light of the rather boastful write-up it had received.

Theodosia’s mouth twitched in a grin. “It’s perfect,” she declared.

“Does it look like bait?” asked Drayton under his breath.

Theodosia nodded. “I’m itching to grab it myself.”

Reaching into the pocket of his gray wool suit, Drayton pulled out an antique pocket watch. “Eight o’clock on the noggin,” he said. “So everything is in place for our little game?”

“Jory Davis is stationed outside Claire Kitridge’s house even as we speak,” said Theodosia. “Jory’s got his cell phone, so he’ll call and let us know if anything’s going on. We don’t expect Claire to show up here tonight, but if she does leave her house and heads for the Heritage Society...or anywhere, for that matter... we’ll be the first to know.”

“Outstanding,” said Drayton. He gazed about the room, let his gray eyes settle once again on the display case that held the rare postage stamp. “Well,” he said. “We know that Graham Carmody is here tonight—”

“You’ve seen him?” interrupted Theodosia. “You’re sure he’s here?”

Drayton nodded. “Last I peeked he was restocking crackers and tidbits of cheese at the buffet table.”

“And we know Cooper Hobcaw is here because we just saw him with Delaine.”

“Right,” said Drayton. “So . . . we’ve got all our bases covered.”

“We hope they’re covered,” said Theodosia as her cell phone beeped from inside her beaded evening bag.

She fished the phone out and pushed the receive button. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” said a voice on the other end of the line.

“It’s Jory,” Theodosia whispered to Drayton. “You’re still at Claire Kitridge’s house?” she asked with a shiver of anticipation.

“Not exactly,” replied Jory. “Claire came out of her house about twenty minutes ago and jumped in her car.”

“She’s headed here!” cried Theodosia.

“No,” said Jory, chuckling. “I tailed her for a couple miles until she pulled into some church parking lot. The Divine Redeemer, I think it was. Anyway, I think Claire’s in there with some women’s tatting group.”

“You’re sure she didn’t sneak out the back?” asked Theodosia.

“Her car’s still here.”

Theodosia suddenly felt deflated. She’d been sure that if Claire was on the move, she’d be heading for the Heritage Society. “You’re positive she’s still inside?” she asked, disappointment in her voice.

“Yes, I’m sure she’s in there,” said Jory. “There’s lacy stuff spread out all over the place.”

Theodosia slid her cell phone back into her purse and looked around for Drayton. He seemed to have disappeared somewhere, but Timothy Neville was standing nearby, giving a glowing history of the Napoleon French Empire card table to a young couple.

“Timothy,” she called.

Timothy excused himself and came over to Theodosia.

“Everything looks wonderful,” she told him.

“Appearances are so deceptive, are they not?” he said as he pulled a letter from his jacket pocket. “Because things are not wonderful in the least.”

“Timothy, what’s wrong?” asked Theodosia.

“I received an envelope via messenger a few minutes ago. From Claire Kitridge.” He handed the envelope to Theodosia. “Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself.”

Theodosia flipped open the envelope. Inside a folded letter was a faded photograph, a black-and-white photo of two women standing in front of what looked to be a car from the early sixties. Big hood ornament, fins on the rear fenders. Theodosia continued to study the photo carefully.

“Oh no,” she said finally.

“Oh yes,” said Timothy.

Theodosia stared into Timothy’s old face and saw sadness. “She’s wearing the antique brooch,” said Theodosia.

“In a photo that appears to have some age on it,” added Timothy.

“So this is pretty much proof positive that the brooch did belong to Claire Kitridge.”

“Read the letter. She states how the brooch has been in her family for quite some time. Passed down from her great-aunt.”

“This still doesn’t explain why Delaine’s watch was found in her desk drawer, but it certainly clears her on the rumor of possibly selling stolen goods,” said Theodosia slowly. She bit her lip. Still... this was not good. Not good at all. A lot of people had jumped to conclusions and now Claire Kitridge was left to pay the price. Feeling a bit sheepish, she decided she’d have to call Jory immediately and tell him to abandon his vigil at the church.

“I should never have listened to the executive committee,” lamented Timothy. “I feel totally responsible for this.”

“It’s not your fault, really,” said Theodosia. “A lot of us jumped to conclusions.”

Timothy continued to look unhappy.

“Do you think you could persuade Claire to return to her job at the Heritage Society?” asked Theodosia. “Once this watch business is cleared up?”

Timothy shrugged. “Claire may still be upset and feel that unfair accusations will always be hanging over her head.”

“Then what?” asked Theodosia.

“Then it’s our profound loss,” said Timothy.

Two hours rolled by and still nothing happened. Graham Carmody and the rest of the waiters began packing up all the dirty serving platters and leftover food and carried everything out to a white caterer’s van that said BUTLER’S EXPRESS on the side. Now, as Theodosia and Drayton peered out the window at Graham Carmody, he was standing in a puddle of light with two other waiters, smoking a cigarette.