Laura Childs - Shades of Earl Grey

Theodosia considered Drayton’s question. “I think,” she said, “it would appeal to their sense of play. Now... are you in or not?”

Drayton rolled his eyes, plucked nervously at his bow tie. “Of course I’m in,” he replied finally. “After everything that’s happened, how could I not be?”

The moon, still a fat round globe with barely a scant wedge missing from it, slid into the night sky above Charleston and shone down through skeletal tree branches. On most every step, stoop, and piazza of the elegant homes in the historic district, fat, orange pumpkins squatted, their innards replaced with flickering candles. Trick-or-treaters in fluttering capes and costumes ran wildly down cobblestone lanes, drinking in the excitement and magic that was All Hallows’ Eve.

At exactly seven o’clock, Drayton exited his house, a one-hundred-sixty-year-old brick and wood home that had once been owned by John Underwood, a Civil War surgeon. He made a big production of locking his front door, then stepped jauntily down Montagu Street toward the Heritage Society. Two of his friends, Tom Wigley and Clark Dickerson, would be waiting for him there. He’d phoned them earlier and arranged to hold an elaborately staged meeting that had absolutely nothing to do with Heritage Society business.

The only thing the three men were going to do was talk, shuffle papers, and sit in one of the meeting rooms with the lights blazing like mad, maintaining the illusion of an important, productive meeting. Anyone peering in from the street would see Drayton participating in this meeting. And know that he was, therefore, not at home.

Theodosia, on the other hand, had been sequestered in the small closet in Drayton’s study for the last half-hour or so.

She had assured Drayton that she was going to phone Detective Tidwell on her cell phone, explain exactly what they were up to, and request that he send over a couple of uniformed police officers to keep watch over Drayton’s house.

But she hadn’t.

Instead, Theodosia was crouched in the confines of the small closet with Earl Grey snuggled beside her, his elegant head resting gently in her lap.

Outside the closet, barely six feet from where she sat, was Drayton’s desk where one of his stamp albums lay enticingly open. Rows of plastic-encased stamps that hearkened back to Revolutionary War days filled its pages. This album was propped up against a second leather-bound stamp album. Next to these albums was a smattering of first-day covers, rare stamps that had been postmarked on their first day of issue, and of course, Aunt Libby’s Z grill stamp. At the last minute, Drayton had added a few extra props to make it look, as he put it, “not so much like a stage set.” A pack of gum, silver letter opener, a leather box filled with paper clips, Haley’s bottle of superglue, and a small notepad with some random scribbles on it.

This desk top still life was lit by a single Tiffany lamp that sat on Drayton’s desk, which was not really a desk at all but a sturdy old oak library table. The rest of the small twelve-by-fourteen-foot room was lined with bookcases that sagged with all manner of books—fiction, history, poetry, gardening, and cooking. In one corner was an overstuffed leather chair. On the wall opposite the closet where Theodosia sat waiting was a small window that looked out over the back garden.

Theodosia knew that if their cat burglar was going to show tonight, there was a very good chance he’d come in through that window. On the other hand, because Drayton had a prize collection of Japanese bonsai trees, a tall wooden security fence had been constructed around the backyard to make it virtually impenetrable.

So... Theodosia told herself, the cat burglar would have to scale the wooden fence, then come in through the window. Not exactly a difficult feat for someone who had leapt to her window ledge or climbed the live oak tree outside the Hall-Barnett House or clambered across the glass roof at the Lady Goodwood Inn.

Minutes ticked by slowly as Theodosia sat in the darkness, wondering who, if anyone, might show up.

A few moments ago, there had been knocking at the front door. Small, tentative knocks at first that had escalated into a couple of real whaps. Unhappy trick-ortreaters, no doubt, who’d been hoping for a handout of candy bars or popcorn balls.

Now there was only silence.

Theodosia put her hand to the old brass doorknob on the inside of the closet door, turned it slowly, heard the catch release. Slowly, she pushed the closet door open. An inch at first, then two inches. Now she could see the desk and the little puddle of light that lit the stamp and the stamp albums. Next to it was the office clutter that Drayton had arranged.

Theodosia pushed the door open another two inches. Now she could see part of the window.

Better, she thought as she rested her head against the back wall of the closet and slid a piece of remnant carpet underneath her so the sagging old hickory floor wouldn’t be quite so hard. Earl Grey, trying to get comfortable himself, had pushed away from her and snuggled himself into the far corner of the closet. Now the dog was curled up in a ball, nose to tail, behind an old leather foot stool that had been shoved in the closet.

Theodosia had sat with her eyes closed for the better part of forty minutes when she heard a faint sound. She watched as the tips of Earl Grey’s ears lifted slightly, then relaxed again.

Must be nothing, she told herself.

Scrtch scrtch.

There it was again. A faint scratching.

What is it? She strained to hear. Dry leaves sliding across patio bricks? Kids running down the back alley, their witches capes and superhero costumes rustling in the wind?

Probably.

And yet... there it was again. Not really footsteps. But... something.

Theodosia glanced over at Earl Grey. Now the top of his nose was visible above the foot stool. She held her hand out toward him, palm forward. The hand signal that told him to stay. She could see one of his shiny brown eyes watching her intently.

Then she heard it. A small creak. The outside shutter on the window being moved just so? Moved by the wind? She thought not.

Fear suddenly gripped her heart and she had to remind herself that the window was locked. If someone intended to break in, they’d have to break the glass. And if that happened, she’d hit 911 on her cell phone.

Now a different sound. Faint, almost imperceptible.

The window in Drayton’s office slid up with a low groan.

Ohmygod. Someone must have inserted some kind of tool in the lock and popped it. Probably the same kind of flexible metal bar that police use when you lock your keys in your car!

She hadn’t counted on this. Now, any movement in the closet, any dialing of 911, would be immediately detected.

Theodosia held her breath. This was not good, she decided. Not good at all.

She leaned forward slowly, peering through the darkness at the window.

A leg eased itself slowly over the sill and down toward the floor. A leg encased in black lycra. Wearing a shoe of soft brown leather. The kind of shoe that looked very sporty, but could also be worn for rock climbing.

In that instant, Theodosia suddenly understood the identity of the mysterious cat burglar.

It wasn’t Cooper Hobcaw, who’d roused her suspicions with his late-night runs through the historic district. And it sure as heck wasn’t the waiter, Graham Carmody.

The realization of who had caused Captain Buchanan’s death, who had stolen the Blue Kashmir necklace at the Heritage Society, who had been an intruder in her house last night, caused her to inhale sharply. And in that instant, she felt a subtle change in the room.