“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t. Unless there are too many of them.”
Theodosia drew a deep breath. “There’s something I should probably tell you about. It might even be considered . . . a clue.”
Tidwell cocked his head. “What is it? And why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because I didn’t think of it. This information only bubbled to the surface when my memory was jogged by those FBI guys who came and interrogated me.”
“They were forceful?”
“You mean did they drag me back to some deserted building and put me in handcuffs and leg irons? No, they did not. But they did project a certain, shall we call it, gravitas. In other words, I wouldn’t want to play games with them.”
“So what is it you remembered?”
“I remembered the hammer that one of the thieves used.”
Tidwell sat forward. “Tell me.”
“It was unusual-looking. Metallic and quite shiny. But not like any ordinary hammer I’d seen before. Not for pounding nails or anything like that.”
“A specialized hammer,” Tidwell said.
“Yes, but I don’t know which specialty.”
“If you saw a picture of that hammer, do you think you could identify it?”
“Maybe. I think it had a little claw on one side.”
Tidwell shifted in his seat. “We received notice from the police over in Hilton Head about a fellow, at least we think it’s a fellow, who is a kind of second-story guy.”
“You mean like a cat burglar?” Theodosia asked.
“We don’t call them that anymore. Anyway, a couple of homes on Hilton Head Island were robbed, but no one was ever apprehended.”
“Robbed, you say. You mean they were robbed of jewels?”
“Jewelry, watches, a strip of gold Krugerrands. The thief even took two small oil paintings off the wall in one of the homes.”
“Maybe that same guy is operating here,” Theodosia said. “Maybe he’s gotten himself organized and put together a gang.” Fresh in her mind was the image of the robbers dressed in black and wearing red devil masks.
“That’s a possibility.”
Earl Grey wandered out and gave Tidwell an uninterested sniff. Then he walked over to the fireplace and curled up on a little rag rug next to the hearth.
“There’s something else,” Theodosia said. “Something I kind of stumbled upon tonight when I was out running.”
“You do have the most productive jogs, Miss Browning.”
“Listen.” Theodosia took a quick sip of wine. “When I was jogging tonight, I happened to run past the Charleston Yacht Club and the office for Gold Coast Yachts.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Tidwell asked.
“Yes and no. Gold Coast Yachts is owned by Sabrina and Luke Andros. They were both supposed to be at Heart’s Desire that night, but only Sabrina showed up. After the robbery she seemed sort of . . . matter-of-fact about it. You know what I mean?”
Tidwell was studying her, listening to every word.
“Everyone was crying or walking around in a daze,” Theodosia said. “But Sabrina was just kind of taking stock of the situation.”
“Interesting,” Tidwell said. “And you think this relates . . . how?”
“When I was at the yacht club, I walked out onto the dock where one of the Gold Coast yachts was moored. It was all lit up and a bunch of guys were talking onboard. I heard one of them say something to the effect of ‘In four more days, you guys can take off.’”
“And what do you think that means?” Tidwell asked.
“Well, the Rare Antiquities Show happens in four more days,” Theodosia said.
Tidwell finished his wine, set down his glass, and kneaded his hands together. “You’ve been busy.”
Theodosia shrugged. “This all just kind of happened. It certainly wasn’t planned.”
“Do you intend to inform the FBI about the conversation you overheard?”
“Do you think I should?”
Tidwell thought for a moment. “Perhaps you should let me handle this particular aspect. At least for a day or two.”
“Okay, if you say so.” Theodosia peered at him. “Now that I’ve shared some information with you, how about a little quid pro quo?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Brooke told me there was a party crasher at her event. That you guys were going to try and make an identification.”
“We did identify him,” Tidwell said.
Theodosia waggled her fingers at him. “And?”
“Professor Warren Shepley.”
“That’s nice. What’s a Professor Warren Shepley?”
“Professor of eighteenth-century Russian literature at Savannah State University,” Tidwell said.
Theodosia frowned. “Savannah. That’s where the stolen SUV came from. So why did this Professor Shepley crash Brooke’s event? How do you think he figures into all of this?”