“You are, really?” Brooke sounded jazzed and anxious.
“I’ve been talking to Detective Tidwell as well as those two FBI agents.”
“I’d put more faith in Tidwell,” Brooke said. “The FBI agents don’t seem to have a handle on any of this.”
“They’re actually further along than you think they are.”
“Really? That is good news. Can you . . . elaborate?”
“Not yet,” Theodosia said. “But I promise, the minute I have something concrete you’ll be the first to know.”
“Bless you, Theodosia.”
“I went by your shop last night when I was out jogging.”
“Yeah,” Brooke said. “What’s left of it.”
“You’ll put the pieces back together. I know you will.”
“Only if I don’t cave under all the pressure that’s being put on me by the various jewelers, collectors, and museums.”
“I’m so sorry, Brooke.”
“You know I’m counting on you, Theodosia.”
Theodosia bit her lower lip as her heart did a slow flip-flop. “I know that, Brooke. I know you are.”
9
Once the lunch crowd had departed, once all the scone crumbs had been swept up and the teapots put back on their shelves, Theodosia and Drayton took off for the Heritage Society.
“We won’t be long,” Theodosia promised Haley.
“No problem,” Haley called back.
Drayton tugged a brown ivy cap over his gray locks, then pushed the back door open for Theodosia.
A brisk autumn wind suddenly whipped in, scattering a pile of papers from Theodosia’s desk and tossing her auburn curls against her cheeks.
“Gracious.” Theodosia wrapped a light-blue pashmina around her shoulders, tugged it tight, and stepped out into the sun. Sheltered from the wind, it felt like a decent sixty degrees. But when the wind gusted in off the Atlantic . . . well, that was another story. Autumn in Charleston was sometimes two seasons jumbled together. The stubborn fingers of summer clung to each day with sheer Southern determination, while Old Man Winter rode into town at night and did his best to spread his chilly mantle. Currently, the two were at a standoff.
“Haley and I are already debating the Christmas tea menus,” Drayton said as they stepped along Church Street. Ever the gentleman, he’d positioned himself on the outside of the sidewalk, tucking Theodosia safely between himself and the buildings. “She thinks we serve the same items every year and wants to rotate in some new scone varieties and entrées. But I think most customers look forward to our regular menu items. They’re a fine tradition that folks can count on, like Christmas carols and wreaths hung on the door.”
Theodosia smiled. She hadn’t gotten her mind past Thanksgiving yet, but she was delighted that Drayton and Haley were thinking ahead. They were a powerful team, the perfect mix of creative passion and traditional wisdom. Now, if she could just keep them from killing each other.
“Have you started your holiday shopping yet?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton never broke stride. “Everyone gets tea.”
“Of course.”
As they followed the narrow walkway around St. Philip’s Church, Drayton asked, “Are we absolutely positive we want to do this?”
“Don’t tell me you changed your mind,” Theodosia said. “You were the one who was so hot and bothered by the FBI showing up this morning. You were the one who decided we should go tell Timothy about Rinicker. To kind of warn him about the possibility of the Pink Panther gang.”
“Yes, I suppose. I just hate to blindside Timothy.”
“Think of it as a precautionary warning.”
“Ah. That’s a more reasonable way of putting it.”
? ? ?
Tiny hurricanes of scarlet and amber leaves swirled past them as they headed into the cemetery, and Theodosia was hit with a twinge of anticipation. There was something so enchanting about this well-beaten path that wound its way between ancient headstones and linked one historic churchyard to the next. This was where the rich history of old Charleston enveloped you, this final resting place of elder statesmen, brigadier generals, fine Charleston ladies, and ordinary citizens. A great peacefulness pervaded this place, too, where Spanish moss draped the trees like lace on Southern belles and live oak trees were bent and gnarled with age.
“So what’s our plan?” Drayton asked as they strolled along. “I’ve been trying to figure this out but I think my train of thought left the station without me.”
“There’s no set plan,” Theodosia said. “I think we have to just lay everything out for Timothy and let him draw his own conclusion.”
“You don’t think we should sort of help him along? Guide him?”
“Well,” Theodosia said. “There’s always that.”
Five minutes later, they arrived at the front door of the Heritage Society, where a gardener poised with his trimming shears was sculpting two large shrubs into topiaries.
“What are they supposed to be?” Theodosia asked him.