Authors: Deeanne Gist
She jerked back, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“There’s a lot of stuff in that house more valuable than a bronze statue,” she said, resting her hand over the spot where they’d touched.
“Same with the box that was stolen from the Sebastians.”
“You know the Sebastians?”
“Yes. They’re a new client of mine.”
He made another note. “And the jewelry casket? You’d seen it before the theft?”
She shook her head. “I’d never been upstairs before that day. But Karl said it had been in his family for years.”
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of him.”
“You know what really bothers me?” A spark of irritation flashed through her. “How the thief donates his spoils to charity, and suddenly this . . . crime starts looking quaint. Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor. People think it’s funny.”
“It is pretty unique, you have to admit.”
“Well, you didn’t see the expression on Karl’s face when he discovered the box was missing. Whoever did this took more than a jewelry box from that family.”
He copied down a few of her phrases. She watched his hands form the letters in a surprisingly neat script.
Whoever did this took more than a jewelry box from that family.
“Look at this.” She dug through her shoulder bag and produced her key ring. It reminded her of the kind a jailer in an old movie would have swinging from his hip. She moved her fingers deftly through the stacks of color-coded keys, isolating a series set apart by pink adhesive dots. “Before the break-in, I had just the one key for the Bosticks, and now there’s three. Three locks on every door.”
Logan stared at the key ring. “So wait a second. You have keys to the Sebastian and Bostick places? You go in and out?”
“Of course I do. People don’t just meet me at the door and hand their dogs over. Some of them are out of town, some work during the day, some of my elderly clients have difficulty with the stairs. And some just don’t want to be bothered.”
“And all those keys.” He indicated the thick stack radiating around the ring. “Those are to other people’s places around town?”
She straightened, well aware of what he implied. “I offer a specialized service.”
“To Charleston’s elite.”
“I work south of Broad, if that’s what you mean.”
“Exactly. The old money.”
“And the new. A lot of my clients are out-of-towners who just come to Charleston as a getaway.”
“Pretty expensive weekend house.”
“Like I said, valuable is a relative term.” Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, she checked her watch. “Listen, I need to get going. Do you have what you need?”
“Sure. I appreciate you meeting me.” He hit the stop button on his recorder and stood.
He had to be around six foot one. She hadn’t noticed it when he was up on that statue. But standing next to him, she realized he topped her by several inches and she was five eight in her bare feet.
Tippy jumped up, tail wagging.
Rylee hesitated. “I did want to say that I’m sorry Toro chased you up that statue.”
He smiled. A boyish good-natured grin. “No problem.”
She moistened her lips, unsure if she should shake his hand or exactly what. In the end, she gave an awkward wave and led Tippy down the sidewalk in the direction of Market Hall.
Toro nosed the gate, anxious to begin their nighttime run.
“Rylee?”
She turned.
Mrs. Davidson stood at the threshold of the front door in a flowing silk caftan and matching house slippers. “Maybe you shouldn’t go out there alone, not with these robberies going on. A young woman, all by herself—” She shivered. “I hate to think about what could happen.”
Rylee answered with a broad smile, ruffling the fur at Toro’s neck. “I’ll be all right. Toro here will watch out for me.”
Waving, Rylee skated into the night, not giving Mrs. Davidson a chance to reply. Her concern was touching, but even at night, Rylee knew the city, knew its twists and turns, its hidden gardens, its alleyways and shortcuts.
Ducking under a low-hanging branch, she cut down a cobbled path, Toro surging forward. Now that she knew it had only been Logan and his photographer lurking in the shadows last night, her fears had mostly disappeared.
Then Toro stopped, bringing her up short.
A silhouette of a man at the other end of the alley ducked into the shadows. A streetlamp flickered, the swaying tree canopy baffling its light.
“Stay, boy,” she whispered, tightening her grip on the leash.
Goose bumps raised along her forearm.
She reached under the flap of her messenger bag, digging around until her hand gripped her flashlight. No way was she calling 9-1-1 again.
She thumbed on the flashlight. A cone of light illuminated the wooden slats of a partition fence.
She swept the beam left and right.
Nothing.
But she could feel his presence.
Toro growled, crouching on his haunches, though he seemed reluctant to charge into the unknown.
“It’s okay, boy.” She smoothed his head. “Come on. Let’s turn around.”
They circled with caution, retracing their steps.
A rustle of branches. She whirled, shining the light again.
Nothing to see.
Her heart raced. Part of her wanted to turn and run. But she had Toro by her side. And she wouldn’t let her fears drive her off the streets she loved.
She switched the light off but kept it firmly in hand, then set a brisk pace, shaking the leash to get Toro moving. They made for the golden streetlamps of Meeting Street, away from the fragrant, secluded gardens tucked into the side alley.
More shuffling over her shoulder. A dash from tree to tree. A footstep sliding over the cobbles.
She imagined the shadow gaining on her, ghostly hands reaching out.
The hair on the back of her neck tingled, but she kept moving. Ready to shine her light on any noise too pronounced to write off as just the wind or a stray cat.
I’m being followed.
The thought seemed crazy. But this wasn’t her imagination. She’d seen the silhouette. She’d heard the movement, in spite of his effort to go unnoticed.
They reached Meeting Street and headed toward Broad, where even at this hour they were bound to encounter a stray tourist, some late-night partygoers, or even a couple out walking the dog.
She glanced behind, and there he was.
Just the crescent of a head eclipsing the light of a streetlamp. Lurking at the alley entrance. She was too far to away to make out any features. It could be anyone.
Then he was gone.
She felt a shiver run through her. All her strength ebbed away. Toro brushed her hip, panting softly, and she nearly fell.
They continued to Prices Alley, where the Davidsons lived, encountering no one. At the alley entrance, she stopped, gazing through the darkness for a glimpse of King Street.
He could have doubled back, cut through to King, and then made his way to the opposite end of Prices Alley.
She flicked the flashlight back on, throwing the beam ahead of her.
She saw nothing amiss, but these streets interconnected. They were full of nooks to hide in. He could stalk her like game and never reveal himself.
Taking a deep breath, she glided forward. Toro loped along, undisturbed by doubts, his bulk reassuring her.
She reached the gate, hustled the mastiff inside, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The ordeal was over. In the warm light of the Davidsons’ kitchen, she removed her rollerblades. Surrounded by familiar objects, she could almost convince herself it was all a mistake. Just a man out walking whose path had crossed hers.
“Are you all right?”
She looked up.
Mrs. Davidson stood in the archway, her silk tunic billowing about her ankles, her reading glasses perched at the end of her nose. In her veined hand, she held a closed paperback, her finger marking the page.
The last thing Rylee wanted was to appear as if she couldn’t do her job. If she couldn’t walk her dogs at night, the Davidsons and all her other clients would hire someone who could.
“I’m fine,” she said. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
A few minutes later, she headed for her car, Daisy. The old yellow Honda Civic was parked out on Meeting Street, which meant threading her way through the dark alley to get there. She flicked the flashlight up and down the lane, then set off. Her footsteps echoed on the uneven cobbles. Halfway to the street, she glanced behind her and froze.
There he was again. Just outside the Davidsons’ gate. Another snapshot of a man’s silhouette dashing from light to dark.
Her breath caught.
And then she ran, breaking through to Meeting Street, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached Daisy, jabbing the lock with her key. Finally she wrenched the door open and jumped inside.
The car came to life with a sputter, then threatened to die. Her headlights flared and dimmed.
Don’t die on me, Daisy
.
She crammed the car in gear and gunned it, mentally daring the man to step out of Prices Alley and show his face.
He didn’t.
She passed the entrance without so much as a glimpse of him.
Breathing hard, with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, she drove home, wondering what to do. Calling the police was out of the question.
Perhaps she should call Logan, but what would she tell him? She couldn’t identify the guy. No facial features. No distinguishing marks. Not even an ethnicity.
She could call Karl, but again, she didn’t want her clients thinking she couldn’t do her job.
She sighed. There was nothing she could do. No one she could call. No one she could lean on. She was in this all alone.
While his mom banged pots together in the kitchen, Logan stood on the deck with his dad. The backyard of his childhood, a damp and muddy patch of ground that sloped down to a vast marsh, had been fenced in with wrought iron. The swing set was gone, the ground now carpeted with stone pavers and exotic plants.
“The next thing is gonna be lights all around the perimeter.” Dad drew a line in the air with his index finger. “I had them already picked out, but your mom said they looked too modern.”
They stood over a water feature. A slender stream gushed out through a rock wall, tumbling into a pool with glowing bulbs underneath.
Dad slid his hands into his pockets. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you at church.”
Logan glanced at him. “I do make an effort. It’s just with the job, I work some crazy hours, and when I’m not on the clock there’s the book to work on.”
They gazed down onto the water’s rippling surface, their heads tiny and their legs huge.
“I know how it is, son. You get so busy, you think you can do it all, then suddenly you don’t have time for anything else in life. I’ve been there. The thing is, you can’t do it all, not alone.”
“I know that, Dad.”
“Now your mom, she’d be happy as a clam if you’d just attend church. But I didn’t raise my boy to be one of those one-day-a-week Christians. I’m talking about starting every morning in a sit-down with your Bible and the good Lord above.”
Logan tilted his head back and looked into the huge branches of an oak he’d spent many an hour climbing. From anyone else the words might’ve sounded like a sermon, but he knew how important it was to his father. Knew how the old man actually lived what he believed. And besides, it was true he hadn’t spent any time reading his Bible lately or driven down to James Island these past few Sundays—maybe more than that, come to think of it.
But the omission wasn’t intentional. His hands were full at the moment, that’s all. Still, his dad was right. He needed to get his priorities in order.
“Okay, Dad. I’ll do better.”
“That’s great, son.” He gave an approving nod. “So tell me what’s going on with this Robin Hood stuff. Everybody at the office is talking about it. I should be pumping you for inside information.”
“I’m working on a new draft of my manuscript,” Logan said.
“With the Robin Hood story right at the center.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“Yeah? I thought so, too, at first, but now I’m having doubts.
I’d be tying my future to a story that hasn’t ended yet, one that might not ever have a proper end if the police don’t figure out who’s behind the burglaries. Not only that, I’m beginning to think the crime angle sort of cheapens the rest, if you know what I mean.”
“In what way?”
He shrugged. “I started off with this idea about the city, all the history, the eccentric people. The ones in my book just happen to be criminals. But they’re
Charleston
criminals. To me, the Robin Hood story doesn’t fit. It’s not a Charleston crime.”
“What’s a Charleston crime, then?”
Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. A crime of passion, I guess.”
“Just because nobody’s been killed doesn’t mean there’s no passion behind it, son. Think about what has to go into crimes like these. Somebody knows these houses or has a way of researching them. He chooses these specific items to steal. Like they have meaning, only it isn’t monetary. Whatever’s behind this, I bet it’s fascinating. I bet it is a Charleston crime.”
“So you think I should do it?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.
“You want to know my opinion?” Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing you choose is gonna cheapen your book, so long as it’s you doing it.” They turned to go back inside, Dad’s hand still gripping his shoulder. “You know what would really sell some books, don’t you?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “What would sell some books, Dad?”
“If you somehow managed to solve the crime yourself. Ahead of the police.”
Logan eyed him curiously. “Seth told me the same thing. I’m not too sure I could manage it.”
“Sure you could. You’re an investigative reporter.”
“Technically, I’m not.”
Dad smiled, putting his hand on Logan’s chest. “In here you are.”
Driving home, Logan could still feel the pressure of his father’s fingers against his sternum. His heart quickened at the memory. For all his spreadsheets and interest schedules, Dad was sentimental to the core, much more so than Mom, despite appearances.