Shades of Earl Grey

Chapter 12

From the first day she’d found Earl Grey in her back alley, a shivering, whimpering puppy that some heartless person had abandoned, Theodosia had struggled with his food.

At first, the poor dog had been so starved he gobbled anything and everything she put in front of him, barely pausing to take a breath. She’d fed him a standard dog food with a teaspoon of olive oil poured over it, in hopes of improving his coat. But as Earl Grey had gotten older and started to feel more secure, came to realize he was much loved, and had finally found a permanent home, the dog had become a trifle picky. From gourmand to gourmet.

And so Theodosia began to experiment. Adding cooked vegetables to Earl Grey’s food and occasionally boosting his protein intake by giving him a raw turkey neck.

That had seemed to do the trick. The coat that Drayton continued to insist was salt and pepper but Theodosia saw as dappled gray had grown lush and thick, Earl Grey had added muscle tone in his chest area, too, but still remained properly lean so you could gently feel a faint outline of his ribs.

Tonight, Theodosia stirred a mixture of yogurt and steamed broccoli into Earl Grey’s food, then heated up a carton of gumbo for herself that she’d pulled from her freezer that morning. Duck and sausage gumbo was a staple all across the South, and no one made it better than her Aunt Libby, who lived out in the low-country. Aunt Libby had prepared gallons of the hearty stew earlier this fall and had given Theodosia at least a dozen cartons. Suffused with smoked sausage, tender breast of duck, okra, rice, celery, onion, hot peppers, herbs, and spices, the gumbo was an aromatic, heartwarming dinner. Especially since Theodosia had grabbed one of Haley’s blackberry scones to go along with it.

“What do you think the calorie content of that was?” she asked Earl Grey, who had fixed her with a baleful look as she finished her dinner. “Yes, I know,” she told him. “You dined on low-fat yogurt and florets of broccoli while I sated myself with a high-fat, high-carb dinner. Life isn’t fair, is it?”

Earl Grey sighed loudly, as if to say, You’re the one who said it, not me.

“Only one thing to do, big guy,” she told him. “Go for a run.”

Ah, the magic word. Run. Although walk, jog, and out were big-time favorites in Earl Grey’s lexicon, the word run seemed to evoke the most joy. For Earl Grey was instantly on his feet and pacing wildly as Theodosia dumped dirty dishes into the sink. He added a low whine to his repertoire as she changed into her running gear, and strained mightily as Theodosia struggled to clip the leash onto the overjoyed dog’s collar.

Then they were down the steps and out the door into the dark night.

The historic district on this October night was a thing of beauty. The atmosphere, heavy and redolent with mist, lent a soft focus to everything. Lights became shimmery, hard edges obscured.

After a fast walk down their alley, Theodosia and Earl Grey picked up the pace. They settled into a good rhythm as they cut across the interior of the peninsula on Broad Street, covering a good eight or nine blocks. Popping out near the Coast Guard station, Theodosia could make out the faint silhouette of bobbing sailboats and towering masts at the Charleston Yacht Club far off to her right.

Jogging down Murray, Theodosia and Earl Grey rounded the tip of the peninsula. For some reason it seemed darker out here. And lonelier. Fog, not just mist, but real cottony, wispy fog, was rolling in now from the Atlantic. Across the parkway, houses and lights that had merely looked soft focus before were suddenly being swallowed up in a wall of gray.

Passing near the Featherbed House, a bed-and-breakfast run by Angie and Mark Congdon, four squat orange pumpkins glowed like beacons from the front steps. Tiny candles flickered inside their carved grins, broadcasting a sinister welcome.

Halloween, thought Theodosia. It’s only a few days away.

Theodosia and Earl Grey slowed their pace, Theodosia deciding, at the last minute, to head down the Congdons’ private alley. It was a narrow cobblestone lane that wound past their garage then connected up with another walkway. That walkway would bring her, in a roundabout manner, back to Tradd Street. It sounded complicated, but wasn’t. The historic district was a maze of alleys, walkways, and connecting paths, the result of old carriage drives, servants’ entrances, and tradesmen’s lanes. Once you had it figured out, you were set.

As Theodosia slipped slowly past the Featherbed House with its second-story bridge that connected the main house with two rooms over the carriage house, Earl Grey gave a low growl. He strained at his leash, jerking Theodosia toward a nearby tree. Then the dog gazed sharply upward on full alert.

What is up there? Theodosia wondered. She hesitated, then approached the tree cautiously. It was an enormous old tree, a live oak, draped in banners of gray-green Spanish moss. It was the kind of tree that was easy to climb. Which meant anything could be up there. Squirrel, possum, porcupine, person.

Earl Grey gave a quick sniff at the base as though to once again confirm his suspicions, then rose up on his hind feet and planted his front paws on the base of the gnarled trunk.

Still curious as to what exactly had caught the old boy’s attention, she peered up the gnarled base, expecting to see... what?

Glinting green eyes peered back at her.

A cat! There was a cat up the tree! Probably one of the old tabbies that lived at the Featherbed House. Angie was a soft touch for strays and always joked about how a network of hobo cats had put the word out on her. Psst! Come to the Featherbed House for a little R and R. No kitty ever gets turned away.

Theodosia whistled softly and Earl Grey turned his attention back to her. They continued down the alley past the carriage house and turned right where the alley connected with the back drive of another home, the Ebenezer Stagg House, an Italianate mansion that had once been a private boys’ school. The two of them picked their way carefully on glistening cobblestones, taking care where they stepped. The fog really had them surrounded now, London style, and the only thing that kept Theodosia moving forward at a fairly good clip was her firsthand knowledge of these old alleyways.

As they passed behind the Stagg House, Theodosia could hear footsteps coming from the right. She stopped in her tracks and Earl Grey sat down, a move they’d both practiced during obedience training. But the person, whoever it was, crossed right in front of them without noticing them, and headed down a different alley, an alley that angled back toward King Street.

Who was that? she wondered. Who else is out creeping around in this fog? Was it Cooper Hobcaw on one of his jogs? Maybe. But this man, and she was pretty sure it was a man, hadn’t been jogging. Even though the alley he’d gone down was a nice, even pavement that had been fairly well lit with glowing lamps.

An uneasy feeling began to steal over Theodosia and she shivered under her layers of sweatshirts. Cooper Hob-caw had joked that he went out jogging every night in the historic district. Does he just prefer the historic district? she wondered. Does he drop in on Delaine every night?

Or is he up to something else? That last thought stunned her. Does Cooper Hobcaw have another reason for prowling the historic district at night? Could Cooper Hobcaw be casing the area?

Theodosia couldn’t get home fast enough.

She reeled Earl Grey in close to her and kept to the middle of the pathways until she came upon the familiar lights and sights of Church Street.

So, of course, the phone was ringing as she climbed the back stairway.

“Hello?” she answered, slightly out of breath.

“Theo, it’s Jory,” came a familiar, upbeat voice.

“Oh, hi there,” she answered. “Hang on a minute, will you?” She unclipped Earl Grey’s leash, shrugged out of her sweatshirt, kicked off her running shoes. Then she settled down cross-legged on the overstuffed couch, comfy in her T-shirt and sweat pants.

“Okay, I’m back,” she told him.

“Good. I called to see if we’re still going to the symphony Thursday night. We talked about it, but I’m not sure we ever made it formal.”

“The symphony. Thursday. Hmm... Thursday’s the open house.”

“Right,” he said. “Your tea bag products.”

“T-Bath.”

“Exactly. But that’ll be over... when?”

She considered this. “Maybe four-thirty, five at the latest.”

“Excellent,” said Jory. “The concert doesn’t start until eight. Which should give you ample time to recoup, recover, and get gorgeous.”

She laughed. Jory Davis did have a way with words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.

“Hey,” he cajoled, “this is supposed to be fun. We’re talking major league date here.”

Good heavens, she thought to herself, I’m acting like an idiot. As Haley would say, this is one cute guy!

“Sorry,” she told him. “An evening at the symphony sounds wonderful. No, better than that . . . fabulous!”

“Over-the-top enthusiasm. That’s more like it,” he laughed, but a moment later turned sober. “Hey, this thing that happened at the Heritage Society last Saturday night... you’re not getting all tangled up in Drayton’s and Timothy Neville’s problems, are you?”

How could she, really? she wondered. She hadn’t found a solid clue to go on yet. All she had were hunches. “No,” she told him. “Not really. You just caught me at the end of a busy day and a long jog.”

“I thought so,” he said. “That dog is running you ragged. I told you to get a bulldog or a dachshund. Those guys have little, short legs. Means you’d travel a much shorter distance. But no, you had to go and hook up with a... what is he again? A doberarian?”

She giggled. “A dalbrador. Thanks, Jory. Good night.”

“ ’Night, kiddo.”

Hanging up the phone, Theodosia decided maybe the better part of valor was to turn in early. She paused, thinking of Jory and their date Thursday night. She was looking forward to spending time with him. As she meandered through her apartment, pulling the draperies across and turning off lights, her mind wandered back to the man she’d seen tonight. Had it been Cooper Hobcaw out loping along in the fog? She’d thought the figure had looked a little like him, long legs, slightly haggard frame. But now she wasn’t sure. She supposed the fog could make anything a little hazy. Including her memory.

The one thing she was sure of, however, was the nagging feeling that something strange was definitely going on. That a cat burglar, or whatever you’d call him, was definitely on the loose out there.

So instead of turning in, Theodosia decided to do a little investigatory work. On the Internet. Surely she’d find something about cat burglars. Everything else was there, for goodness’ sake.

As it turned out, the Internet search proved very productive. When she typed CAT BURGLAR into one of the search engines, hundreds of hits came up. A few were for a rock band and some for a kind of cat burglar game that sounded similar to the old Dungeons and Dragons-type fantasy game.

But she also found good, solid information, too. Newspaper articles about cat burglars who had struck in places like Malibu, New York, Palm Springs, and Palm Beach.

That chilled her. It was exactly what Burt Tidwell had said. The migratory type of cat burglar follows the goods.

There was information posted by different law enforcement agencies, too. And as she scanned the various MOs, one profile seemed to emerge. Cat burglars were bold, even fearless. They were adrenaline junkies who thrived on danger. Apparently, some cat burglars even preferred to ply their trade when a home, hotel room, or shop was occupied. The thrill of someone sitting downstairs, sleeping in the next room, or eating dinner nearby seemed to add an extra touch of danger, an extra dimension to a game they relished. It also appeared that cat burglars often circumvented security systems by scaling buildings or power poles and shutting off electricity.

Shutting off electricity.

That’s what happened at the Heritage Society. Or had that been a storm-induced power failure that a thief simply took advantage of? She didn’t know.

From everything she read, cat burglars also appeared to be smart. Very smart. One cat burglar, known as the dinner hour burglar, entered homes while the residents were downstairs eating their dinner. Another selected his targets by reading magazines like Town & Country and Architectural Digest. And still another savvy cat burglar with a predilection for gold and silver carried a test kit along with him. That way he could pass on the candlesticks and platters that were merely gold- or silver-plated and concentrate on stealing only the finer pieces!

Like Camille’s wedding ring? Or the silver at the Lady Goodwood Inn? she wondered. Holy cow.

Theodosia quickly scanned the rest of the hits. Several law enforcement officials had gone so far as to speculate on the type of person who turns to cat burglary. They tended to be strong and agile, often with gymnast backgrounds, always bold.

She thought about this. Cooper Hobcaw was certainly bold enough. Bold bordering on brash. And as a criminal attorney, he courted danger in a manner of speaking. He could be looking for another outlet from which to get his thrills.

Was Claire Kitridge bold and agile? She wasn’t that old, maybe late thirties. And she looked like she was in good shape. Maybe all those weekend jaunts into the countryside looking for antique linens were really . . .

No, not Claire. It couldn’t be Claire, could it?

Tired now, eyes stinging from peering at the monitor so intently, Theodosia exited the Internet and shut down her computer.

Enough, she told herself. Time to turn in. Earl Grey was already snuggled in his dog bed, snoring softly. It was time she did the same.

But as cozy and comfortable as Theodosia’s bedroom was, with the down comforter and the Egyptian cotton sheets, it was a long while before she was able to fall asleep.