Shades of Earl Grey

Chapter 4

“This,” said the enthusiastic manager of Spies Are Us, “is the slickest little device this side of the DOD.”

“What’s the DOD?” asked Drayton.

“Department of Defense, my friend. And this little baby provides your first wall of defense.”

Theodosia and Drayton stood in the high-tech electronics store gazing at a device that looked like a second cousin to a video camera. Around them were showy displays that featured motion detectors, security cameras, tiny cameras that fit into pens and lapel pins, as well as miniature microphones.

“How exactly does this work?” inquired Drayton. He had voiced his feelings to Timothy Neville about heightening security at the members-only party tonight and, surprisingly, had received a green light. The problem he and Theodosia now faced was to select the right security device from the hundreds for sale in the store. Security, it would seem, was very big business these days.

“This motion detector functions like the automatic range finder on a camera,” said the young store manager whose fccname tag read RILEY. “Basically, you set the perimeter via this keypad.” Riley’s fingers tapped lightly on the shiny keypad. “Then, once the device is programmed, it emits sonar pulses and waits for an echo. But if someone breaks the electronic beam, say they walk through it or even pass a hand nearby... then wham! The alarm goes off!”

“How large an area will this secure?” asked Theodosia.

“What are we talking, warehouse or retail?” Riley asked.

“Think of a smaller retail space,” said Drayton. “With glass cases.”

“A smaller area, I’d say you should probably go with two,” Riley told them. “If you decide later that you need to expand your protected area, you can always add a couple additional modules.” Riley smiled and nodded over the top of Theodosia’s head toward a customer. “Could you excuse me for a moment? I’ve got a customer who’s here to pick up a security camera. Poor guy owns a couple liquor stores and is constantly getting ripped off.”

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 trickytechy 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 freed 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 Hob-caw 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.

“Delaine,” gushed Theodosia, “have you seen the jewelry yet?” She gestured over her shoulder at the small gallery she’d just emerged from. “It’s absolutely fantastic!”

Delaine smiled wanly. “Not really. I’ve been gossiping with Hillary Retton and Marianne Petigru. You know, the two ladies who own Popple Hill Interior Design? Did you know they recently worked on the Lady Goodwood Inn? That superb tapestry in the foyer came all the way from France. I think it might have been hand-loomed by cloistered nuns or something.”

“Are you okay, Delaine?” asked Theodosia. Delaine was looking decidedly unhappy and her voice had taken on a shrill tone. She was undoubtedly still upset from the other night. The fact that she’d been discussing the decor at the Lady Goodwood probably didn’t help matters, either.

“I’m perfectly fine, Theodosia. I’ve just been trying to get another drink!” Delaine held up an empty glass and lifted her chin. “That fellow over there has been no help whatsoever. I’ve asked him twice now to bring me a Kir Royale and do you think I have yet to see my drink? Of course not!”

“Delaine,” said Theodosia, “the man’s a security guard, not a waiter.”

Delaine furrowed her brow and pulled her face into a petulant expression. “Well, he’s dressed like a waiter.”

“That’s part of the setup,” Theodosia explained patiently. “Remember, we told you the Heritage Society would have extra security on duty tonight?”

“Oh.” Delaine bit her lip as Drayton wandered up to join them, alone this time. “Yes, I guess you did mention that.”

But from the look on Delaine’s face, Theodosia knew she was still unhappy about not getting her drink. It was amazing that just yesterday morning Delaine had been worked up about possible thievery at tonight’s event and now she was consumed with trying to get a drink. Theodosia sighed. Delaine did tend to be a bit self-centered.

“Where’s Cooper?” Theodosia asked as Drayton joined them carrying a goblet half-filled with red wine.

Delaine shrugged helplessly. “Off somewhere. Mingling, I suppose.” She turned to Drayton and eyed the goblet in his hand. “What’s that?” she asked.

“A marvelous Bordeaux, Haute Emillion, ’ninety-two. Take it,” he offered generously. “It’s freshly poured and as yet untouched.”

“No thanks,” said Delaine. “I’m trying to get a real drink.”

Drayton, sensing the impending onslaught of World War III, suddenly decided to take matters in hand.

“Pardon me,” he said, flagging down a waiter who was hustling by with a tray of drinks in his hand. “Could you fetch us a drink?”

The young, ginger-haired waiter stopped in his tracks, bobbed his head. “Of course, sir.”

“Here you go, Delaine. This young fellow here...” said Drayton.

“Graham, sir,” said the waiter.

“Tell Graham what you’d like, Delaine. He’ll take care of you.” Drayton fumbled in his pocket for a few dollars, pressed them into the waiter’s hand. “For your trouble, young man.”

“No problem, sir,” replied the waiter.

“I’d like a Kir Royale,” Delaine told the waiter. “Cassis and champagne?”

The waiter nodded. “Of course, ma’am. Be back in a moment.”

“Evening, ladies,” boomed a rich male voice.

Jory Davis, Theodosia’s on-again off-again boyfriend, grinned at them. Tall, well over six feet, with a square jaw, sun-tanned complexion, and curly brown hair, Jory Davis had a slightly reckless look about him. He didn’t look the way a traditional lawyer was supposed to look, all buttoned up and slightly pompous. Instead, Jory Davis had an aura of the outdoors about him. Dressed in casual clothes, he could have passed for a trout fishing guide. Or maybe a wealthy landowner whose life’s love was training thoroughbred horses.

Jory Davis snaked an arm around Theodosia’s waist and pulled her close to him, touched his chin to the top of her head. Pleased, she snuggled in against him.

The move was not lost on Delaine. “I see you two are still very cozy,” she said.

“Mmm,” said Jory. “And why not?” He smiled down at Theodosia. “I was thinking about taking Rubicon out tomorrow. What do you think? Are you up for an ocean sail?”

Jory Davis’s sailboat, Rubicon, was a J-24 that he kept moored at the Charleston Yacht Club. He was an expert yachtsman and regularly competed in the Isle of Palms race as well as the Compass Key yacht race.

“Isn’t it still raining?” asked Theodosia.

“Tonight it is,” said Jory, “but the weather’s supposed to clear by tomorrow. If there’s a chop on the water, it’ll just make our sail all the more interesting. And challenging,” he added.

Clear weather and a chance to clear my head, thought Theodosia. Truly a heavenly idea. The past two days had been fairly fraught with tension, what with the terrible accident at the Lady Goodwood and Drayton’s fear that something might go wrong here tonight. Jory’s suggestion of a sail in Charleston Harbor and the waters beyond would be a perfect way to put it all behind her.

“You’re on,” she told him.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll pick you up around nine, then we’ll go rig the boat. And bring that goofy dog of yours along. We’ll turn him into a sea dog yet.”

“Sailing sounds like fun,” said Delaine. The note of wistfulness in her voice was not lost on the two of them.

“Say,” said Jory, “I’m going to slip across the room and have a word with Leyland Hartwell. He’s representing the Tidewater Corporation in a zoning dispute and I’m second chair. Be back in a couple minutes, okay?”

“Sure,” said Theodosia as she watched her tall, tanned boyfriend navigate his way through the crowd.

Ligget, Hume, Hartwell, the firm Jory Davis worked for, was also her father’s old firm. He had been a senior partner along with Leyland Hartwell before he passed away some fifteen years ago. Her father had become a distant memory now, but he was always in her heart. As was her mother, who had died when Theodosia was just eight.

“What kind of law does Jory Davis practice again?” asked Delaine.

“Mostly corporate and real estate law,” said Theodosia. “Deeds, foreclosures, zoning, leases, that sort of thing.”

“So he’s never faced off against Cooper in a courtroom,” said Delaine.

The thought amused Theodosia. She could see Cooper Hobcaw with his arrogant stance arguing torts against a bemused Jory Davis. But no, that would never happen. Cooper Hobcaw was a criminal attorney, Jory Davis a real estate attorney.

“Cooper Hobcaw seems like a nice fellow . . .” began Theodosia when, suddenly, every light in the place went out. Whoosh. Extinguished like the flame on a candle.

Oh no, thought Theodosia, her heart in her throat. Not again!

Plunged into complete darkness, the room erupted in chaos. Women screamed, a tray of drinks went crashing to the floor. Across the room, something hit the carpet with a muffled thud. Disoriented by the dark, people began to lunge to and fro. Theodosia felt an elbow drill into her back, a sleeve brush roughly against her bare arm.

Suddenly, mercifully, from off to her left, someone flipped on a cigarette lighter and held the flame aloft like a tiny torch. There was a spatter of applause, then a deep hum started from somewhere in the depths of the building.

“Generator,” murmured a male voice off to her right. “Emergency lights should kick on soon.”

Ten seconds later, four sets of emergency lights sputtered on.

They blazed weakly overhead, yet did little to actually illuminate the room. The lighting felt unnatural and fuzzy, like trying to peer through a bank of fog.

“Hey!” called a voice that Theodosia recognized as belonging to Jory Davis. “Someone’s down over here!”

Theodosia quickly elbowed her way through the crowd in the direction of Jory Davis’s voice.

Ten feet, fifteen feet of pushing past people brought her to just outside the small gallery. In the dim light she could see one of the security guards sprawled on the floor. Jory Davis was already on his hands and knees beside the man, making a hasty check of his airways, trying to determine if he was still breathing.

“Is he okay?” asked Theodosia.

“He’s still breathing,” said Jory, “but he’s for sure out cold.” Jory put a finger to the top of the security guard’s head, came away with a smear of blood. “Looks like he took a nasty bump to the noggin.” Jory glanced up at Theodosia. “Somebody sapped this poor guy, but good,” he added in a tight, low voice. Then Jory Davis scrambled to his feet. “Can someone please call an ambulance!” he shouted.

With Jory Davis’s forceful lawyer voice ringing out across the room, no fewer than twenty people responded instantly. Cell phones were yanked from pockets and evening bags, and twenty fingers punched in the same 911 call, completely swamping the small crew that manned Charleston’s central emergency line.

“Theodosia!” Timothy Neville was suddenly at her side and clutching her arm. “It’s gone!” he told her in a tremulous voice. “Vanished!”

“What’s gone?” she asked, momentarily confused.

“The Blue Kashmir,” Timothy hissed. “The sapphire necklace. It’s disappeared from its case!” Timothy clapped a wizened hand to the side of his face and seemed to collapse in on himself.

Theodosia stared at Timothy in disbelief. When the power went out, the sensor beams had stopped working, too, she realized. Oh, no...we didn’t even consider that possibility. Had someone cut the power deliberately? Or had the storm just knocked it out?

No, she decided, if a guard’s been injured, the power had to have been disabled on purpose.

In the dim light Theodosia could see that Timothy was dangerously on the verge of passing out.

“Are you okay, Timothy?” she asked.

“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly, although perspiration had broken out on his face and his breathing had suddenly turned shallow.

Ohmygosh, Theodosia thought to herself. Heart attack? Not Timothy. Please, Lord, not Timothy. Not now.

Pushing his way over to them, Drayton took one look at Timothy Neville’s face, grabbed him firmly by the arm, and steered him to a nearby chair a few feet away. “Are you all right, Timothy?” he asked as Timothy sat down gingerly, looking paler than ever.

“Yes, I think so . . .” rasped Timothy, “. . . just let me catch my...”

Theodosia whirled about and threw herself down next to Jory Davis. He had once again taken up his position next to the fallen security guard and had bunched up his jacket and put it under the poor man’s head. A woman whom Theodosia recognized as Dr. Lucy Cornwall, Earl Grey’s veterinarian, was administering CPR to the downed security guard, while Jory Davis continued to monitor the man’s pulse.

“There’s something wrong with Timothy,” Theodosia told them in a rush. “I think he’s having a heart attack!”