"Mourning brooch?"

"Yes. It's an old Victorian one Paul's mother gave me. I always wear it with that red cape. You know the one I mean?"

Rylee nodded as comprehension dawned. "Of course. The onyx one. Did he take anything else?"

"Nothing."

"And you're sure you didn't misplace the pin?"

"Positive."

Rylee deflated, remembering Officer Quince's description of Robin Hood's m.o. He took only one thing, and not the most valuable. He'd definitely struck again. "How did he get in?"

"Right through these doors." She indicated the French doors overlooking the garden. The pane next to the bolt was nothing but jagged edges.

"It wasn't like that when I left last night. I'm positive." Tin Man brushed against Rylee's arm. She ran her hand over his head, back, and tail. "Well, I can't see Paul standing still for all this. He'll make sure the whole thing is investigated properly. Have you called him?"

Sighing, Latisha fell back, resting her head against the chair. "He's still in London and not answering his cell phone."

Rylee glanced at her watch. "What time is it there?"

"Past midnight." She drew in a shaky breath. "Our bedroom's a mess." Her eyes filled again. "I don't want to sleep in there. I don't want to sleep in the house at all. Especially not by myself."

Rylee stood. "Well, don't you worry about a thing. I'll stay with you until Paul returns."

A wobbly smile touched Latisha's lips. "No need for that. My sister's driving in from Asheville, and I've left a message for my girlfriend Cheryl. I expect to hear back from her any minute."

"Good. For now, though, I'll make you some tea, then start straightening your room."

Latisha reached out and grasped Rylee's hand. "You're so good to us. Thank you." She straightened. "Oh, I almost forgot. The detective wants you to call him." She picked up a business card off the side table and handed it to Rylee.

Nathan Campbell. Detective Division. Charleston Police Department. Rylee fingered the card. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"Just routine things, I imagine. He had lots of questions about who all has access to the house and their comings and goings. Probably wants to confirm that the doors were secured when you left last night." She looked at the broken glass on the floor. "I guess they're following up a little, anyway."

"Does he want to speak with Carmel? And George?"

Latisha crinkled her brow. "Actually, he didn't leave cards for them-though I did tell him we had a housekeeper and a gardener.

Should I have them call, too?"

Swallowing, Rylee shook her head. "No. I'm sure he'll let you know if he needs to speak with them."

Tucking the card into her pocket, she moved into the kitchen to brew some tea. .

Rylee stood at the threshold of the master bedroom, eyes wide, hands covering her mouth. Family photos had been knocked off the bureau, shattered glass studding the carpet. Drawers ripped free of the mahogany dressers, their contents dumped everywhere. Designer clothes flung from the closets and trampled in a frenzy of destruction.

She felt as if she were falling into a great abyss. Four houses had now been hit. Three were her clients. Detective Campbell would want to know why.

But he'd have to do the calling. Just because he wanted a convenient suspect didn't mean she had to volunteer.

The chaos in the room was so great she didn't know where to start. Finally, she moved to the bed and righted a jewelry box. She picked up a strand of pearls and placed them in a compartment. So smooth. So cool to the touch.

Whoever did this didn't care about money. A person could pay a lot of bills with what they could get from hocking the baubles strewn across the white coverlet.

She fingered a tasseled key hanging from the keyhole of the jewelry box. The thought of a stranger being in the house, in this very room, filled her with the same vulnerability she'd experienced at the Sebastians'.

The doorbell rang, jolting her out of her thoughts.

"I'll get it," she hollered, hurrying down the stairs. "It's probably Cheryl."

She looked through the peephole, pulled back, then looked again. He sure didn't waste any time.

She watched Logan lean to the right, trying to see inside the window of the dining room, before he punched the bell once more.

She'd looked him up in her yearbook. His photo showed the awkwardness typical of school pictures, but his features were attractive even then. He'd matured in the intervening years, though, making the leap from boy to man with flying colors.

She opened the door. He wore his work clothes-an oxford shirt, striped tie, blue jeans and Jack Purcells. Same thing he'd worn to the coffee shop.

His eyes widened, then a slow smile began to form. The grooves around his mouth came into full play, transforming his face. His dark hair begged for a comb's attention, the unruly locks going every which way.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

She raised a brow. "I was wondering the same thing about you."

"You don't live here, I'm assuming."

"No. The Petries are clients of mine."

"You're kidding." He glanced nervously into the house. "What kind of dog do they have?"

Suppressing a smile, she leaned against the doorframe, blocking the view. "Don't worry, Wonderboy. No ferocious dogs here.

Just cats."

"I didn't think cats needed walking."

She let out a huff of air. "I feed their cats. Now, what can I do for you?"

Tucking his hands in his back pockets, he leaned his head to the side. "That kind of makes you three-for-four, doesn't it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Three of the houses hit by the Robin Hood burglar are clients of yours."

She stiffened, all humor snuffed completely out. "What do you want, Logan?"

"No offense. I was just making an observation."

"Well, I have things to do, so if you would excuse me-"

He stopped the door with his hand. "I really didn't mean to imply anything, Rylee."

She gave him a tight-lipped nod.

"Are the Petries home?"

"They're not available right now."

He pulled a card from his shirt pocket. "Would you just let them know I'm here? It'll only take a minute."

She didn't take the card. She still had the one he'd tossed her last week while quivering atop the Confederate Memorial.

He extended the card into her space. "I'll even stay on the porch, if they'd prefer. I just have a couple of questions."

"Maybe I can answer them for you."

He hesitated. "Were you here when the robbery took place?"

"No."

"Then I'd prefer to speak to them. I got my facts wrong last time, remember?"

"They weren't here during the robbery, either."

"I'd still like to talk to them."

She hesitated.

His blue eyes exuded appeal. He definitely had the all-American-boy-next-door look down to an art. And try as she might, she wasn't immune to it.

Snatching the card, she took a step back. "Wait here."

She'd barely closed the door when Latisha reached the entryway. "Is it Cheryl?"

"No, a reporter from the paper." She handed the card over.

"He wants to talk about the robbery?"

"I was just fixing to chase him off."

Latisha bit her lip. "Hold on a second. I should talk to him. Maybe it would wake the neighborhood up, so the police start taking these robberies seriously."

Rylee wasn't so sure. Talking to the press was a very slippery slope. Just like talking to the police. "How about I have him call your office and make an appointment?"

Latisha shooed Rylee's suggestion away with a fanning of her hand. "Nonsense. You show him on in to the parlor."

"You sure you don't want to wait until Paul gets back?"

"The sooner we get the news out, the better."

Rylee watched her until she disappeared from sight. Then she took a deep breath and reopened the front door.

Chapter Eight.

Logan found Latisha Petrie installed in a floral print club chair, one of a pair upholstered in the same fabric as the open drapes. For a woman whose house had just been burgled, she seemed quite composed. But as she rose to greet him, her outstretched hand trembled, giving the lie to her impression of calm.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to have to meet under these circumstances, Mrs. Petrie."

"I'm glad you're here," she said, a waver in her voice. "Please have a seat."

He crouched on the edge of the sofa, his knees nearly touching the coffee table, while she resumed her place by the window. Rylee stationed herself behind Mrs. Petrie's chair, like a lioness waiting to pounce.

"Mrs. Petrie-"

"You can call me Latisha."

"Thank you." He placed his recorder on top of an oversized picture book on the table-Paris Interiors. "Do you mind?"

"Go right ahead.

In response to his questions, Latisha described coming home this morning from the airport, then discovering the broken door. Without thinking, she'd rushed through the house, finally ending up in the bedroom. Only then did she realize the danger she was in.

"For all I knew, he could've still been in the house." She studied her cupped hands. "But he wasn't. I called the police."

"When did you realize what had been taken?"

Her face slackened. "It took a while. The burglar didn't just dig through my drawers-he ripped them out. When I walked in, I didn't even recognize the room."

"And all he took was a brooch?"

"All? My husband's mother gave that brooch to me." She swallowed. "She's not with us anymore. We lost her last year."

"I'm sorry."

She dabbed at her eyes. "It was a Victorian mourning brooch.

There's a cape I wear it with, and I just leave it pinned to the side.

The burglar dumped out all my jewelry, but had to tear through the closets before he found the brooch."