11

Theodosia slow-walked the last couple of blocks to her home, settling her pulse and trying to process everything she’d learned tonight. There was a lot to think about. And a lot to worry about, too.

Now, in keeping with the theme of the night—strange encounters—she spotted a familiar burgundy-colored Crown Victoria parked at the curb in front of her house.

Tidwell. What does he want? She sighed. She was about to find out.

When Tidwell saw her approach, the dome light snapped on and he squeezed himself out from behind the wheel. “Good evening,” he called out in his deep baritone.

“Staking out my home, are you, Detective Tidwell?” Theodosia asked. “See anything interesting? Stray cats? The neighborhood raccoons come to ransack my fishpond?”

He shut the car door and met her on the sidewalk. He was wearing slightly baggy pants and what looked like a frayed khaki fishing jacket that barely stretched across his weather balloon of a stomach. “I’m afraid I observed nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Good.” She smiled gratefully and motioned for him to follow her inside. “You might as well come in. I mean, you will anyway, right?”

“Thank you for your kind invitation,” Tidwell said.

Theodosia snapped on the light in the small tiled entryway. Then ducked into her living room and turned on a lamp. Warm light flooded the room, showing off the fireplace, parquet floors, and chintz-covered furniture to advantage.

“Cozy,” Tidwell said.

Earl Grey dashed into the kitchen and began to noisily drain his water bowl while Theodosia knelt in front of the fireplace. She added a handful of kindling and a new log, trying to coax the embers back into a robust flame. It seemed to be working. Finally, she dusted her palms together and turned to face Tidwell.

“Are you on or off duty?”

“Interesting question,” he said. “On, I suppose.”

“Then this is an official visit.”

He smiled. “But perhaps we should call it an off-the-record visit.”

“Off the record, then, would you care for a glass of wine?”

Tidwell brightened. “I’d enjoy that very much.”

Theodosia went into the kitchen, grabbed a half bottle of cabernet, and filled two glasses. She carried them back into the living room, to find Tidwell peering at a small, recently purchased oil painting that she’d hung above her fireplace.

“This is lovely,” he said. “Who is the artist?”

“Josiah Singleton.”

“Ah. Early American?”

“Well. Mid-eighteenth century, anyway.” Theodosia handed him his wine and settled into a chintz armchair while Tidwell took a spot on the love seat opposite her. “What brings you by, Detective?”

“The FBI paid you a visit today,” Tidwell said. He took a sip of wine and gazed at her expectantly.

“Yes,” Theodosia said. “They wanted my firsthand witness account from Sunday night.”

“Anything else?”

“They told me they’re on the lookout for one or more European jewel thieves who might have been involved in the robbery at Heart’s Desire.”

“The Pink Panther gang.”

“That’s right.”

“Doubtful,” Tidwell said.

“They showed me a bunch of photos. Drayton and I thought one of the men bore a striking resemblance to Lionel Rinicker.” She paused. “You know who he is?”

“I had much the same discussion with the FBI as you did. With a certain degree of reluctance on their part, they shared that same information with me and key members of my department.”

“Okay,” Theodosia said. “So you know what I know.”

Tidwell took a gulp of wine. “They’re very hot to point a finger at Mr. Rinicker.”

“And you’re not?”

“There’s simply no concrete evidence against him.”

“Other than the fact that he’s relatively new in town . . .” When Tidwell made a face, Theodosia added, “You know what Charleston is like. You’re considered a newcomer even if your parents were born here. You need to be able to trace your ancestry back to your great-great-grandpappy in order to be considered a dyed-in-the-wool Charlestonian.”

“And then it helps if your ancestors were French Huguenots.”

“That’s always best,” Theodosia said. “But getting back to Rinicker, there’s also the fact that he managed to schmooze a number of influential people in a very short time and make his way onto the board at the Heritage Society.”

“Probably a coincidence,” Tidwell said.

“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?”

“We don’t know. We plan to question the man tomorrow.” Tidwell pushed himself up off the love seat, his knees making a popping sound as he stood up. He looked troubled. “The FBI is trying to block me, Theodosia. Trying to keep me out of the investigation. I don’t like it one bit.”

“So make a stink,” Theodosia suggested. “You’re good at that.” Then, “Is there anything I can do to help?” She wouldn’t mind getting Tidwell’s blessing, especially since Brooke was counting on her to investigate.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Tidwell said. “But please be careful.”

“Always,” Theodosia said, even though she was well aware that she was a risk taker and that she had a history of dashing in where angels feared to tread.

“I mean it,” Tidwell said as they walked out to his car. “Listen to the rumors, keep an ear out for gossip, but do not take any unnecessary chances.”

“Sure,” Theodosia said as she followed him into the night, scuffling down her front walk. Rumors and gossip? She was going to need a lot more than that to resolve this case. To find closure for Brooke and justice for Kaitlin.

Tidwell stopped abruptly in front of his car and scowled. “Did you know that the Ford Motor Company stopped making Crown Victorias? It’s a crying shame.”

“What are you going to do when this one starts to fall apart?” Theodosia asked.

“Do the sensible thing, I suppose. Get it repaired.”

Theodosia grinned. “Why do I have the feeling there’s going to be a whole cadre of police detectives who are driving around in antique cars? It’s going to be like all those cars from the fifties that the people in Cuba are still driving.”

“Those are collector’s pieces. Just wait until trade relations are finally normalized. All the classic car collectors and auto restorers are going to swoop in and strip that poor island bare.”