Gunpowder Green

the pier where the bilge pump sounded so noisily. It could be Billy Manolo, she mused, pumping out a leaky boat, working down below, trying to elude the wind’s nasty bite.

Halfway to the end of the pier, Theodosia gazed out toward Charleston Harbor. Only two ships were visible through the gray mist. One appeared to be a commercial fishing vessel; the other looked like a Coast Guard cutter, probably from the nearby Coast Guard station located just down from The Battery at the mouth of the Ashley River. It certainly was a far cry from almost a week ago, when the harbor had been dotted with boats, when the promise of spring had hung in the air.

“Anybody there?” She reached the end of the pier and saw that the pump was running full tilt, pouring a steady spew of frothy green water from a twenty-five-foot Santana into the harbor. She stepped down to the smaller pier that ran parallel to the moored boat. These side piers weren’t anchored by deep pilings like the main pier. Instead, they floated on top of barrels. Now, with the wind whipping in from the Atlantic at a good ten knots, the smaller, auxiliary pier pitched about precariously.

“Billy?” Theodosia called, fighting the rising panic that was beginning to build inside her as the small pier bobbed like an errant cork.

Get a grip, she admonished herself as she extended both arms out to her sides for better balance, then picked her way carefully back to the safety of the main pier. You’ve walked up and down piers your whole life. This is no time to get spooked.

Jory Davis’s boat was moored at slip 112, more than halfway back in the direction of the clubhouse, with side piers that were considerably more stable since they were sheltered. Theodosia walked out to Rubicon, the J-24 that he loved to pilot around Charleston Harbor and up and down the Intracoastal Waterway, put her hands on the side hull, and clambered aboard. Standing in the cockpit, she felt the rhythm of the boat, heard the noisy overhead clank of halyards against the mast. She leaned forward, stuck the key in the lock for the hatch, and turned it. Grabbing the handle, she braced herself and tugged it open.

Theodosia peered down into the boat. Jory had been right. Rubicon was seriously taking on water. At least three inches of green seawater had managed to seep inside and was sloshing around.

She searched for a bilge pump, found one, then wasn’t exactly sure how to connect the darn thing and get it started.

No, she finally told herself, leave well enough alone. The best thing to do was follow Jory’s advice. Find Billy Manolo and have him take care of this.

Still crouched on the deck, Theodosia searched for a clue that might tell her how to get in touch with the elusive Billy Manolo.

Flipping open one of the small storage bins, she found a clear plastic pouch that contained the boat’s user manual and a clutch of maps. Following her hunch, she unsnapped the pouch and rummaged through the papers.

On the inside cover of the user manual was a handwritten list of names. The fourth one down was Billy M. There was a phone number listed and an address: 115 Con-cannon.

Could this be Billy Manolo? The yacht club’s Billy Manolo? Had to be.

Chapter 19

Upriver, on the west bank of the Cooper River, sits the now-defunct Charleston Naval Base. Decommissioned some ten years ago, it is technically situated in North Charleston, an incorporated city of its own and the third- largest city in South Carolina.

With sailors and officers gone, the economy forever changed, real estate had become more affordable, zoning more forgiving.

Theodosia drove slowly down Ardmore Street, searching each street sign for the cross street, Concannon. Here was an older part of Charleston, but not the part that showed up in glossy four-color brochures sent out by the Convention & Visitors Bureau. Instead, these small, wood-frame houses looked tired and battered, many in dire need of a coat of paint. Yards were small, often with more bare patches than tended lawn. Those places that were better kept were often surrounded by metal fences.

Just past a tire recycling plant, Theodosia found Con-cannon Street. She made a leap of faith, put the Jeep into a right turn, and searched for numbers on the houses.

She had guessed correctly. Here was 215, here 211. Billy’s home at 115 Concannon was in the next block.

A vacant, weed-filled lot bordered Billy Manolo’s house, a one-story home that was little more than a cottage. Once-white paint had been ground off from years of wind, rain, and high humidity, and now the weathered wood glowed with an interesting patina. As Theodosia strode up the walk, she noted that, aside from the paint, everything else appeared sturdy and fairly well kept.

Grasping a black wrought-iron handrail, she mounted the single cement step and rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

She hit the doorbell again, held it in longer this time, and waited. Still no one came to the door. Perplexed, Theodosia stood for a moment, let her eyes wander to an overgrown hedge of dogwood, then to a small brick walkway that led around the side of the house.

Why not? she decided, as she crossed wet grass and started around the house.

It was like tumbling into another world.

Sections of beautifully ornate wrought-iron fences and grilles danced before her eyes. Elegant scrolls, whimsical corn motifs, and curling ivy adorned each piece. Wrought-iron pieces that had been completed leaned up against wood fences and the back of Billy Manolo’s house. Other pieces, still raw from the welder’s torch and awaiting mortises and hand finishing, were stacked in piles and seemed to occupy every square foot of the small backyard.

Sparks arced from a welder’s torch in the dim recess of a sagging, dilapidated garage that appeared slightly larger than the house.

Billy Manolo lifted his welder’s helmet and glared at Theodosia as blue flame licked from his torch. “What do you want?” he asked. His voice carried the same nervous hostility he’d exhibited the other day at Oliver Dixon’s funeral.

Still in a state of delighted amazement, Theodosia peered past him, her eyes fixing on even more of the beautifully crafted metalwork. Most was stacked in hodgepodge piles, a few smaller pieces hung from the ceiling.

“These are wonderful,” she said.

Billy Manolo shrugged as he flicked the switch on his oxyacetylene torch. “Yeah,” was all he said.

“You made all these?” she asked.

Billy grunted in the affirmative. His welder’s helmet quivered atop his head like the beak of a giant condor.

“They’re beautifully done. Do you do a lot of restoration work?” Theodosia knew that Charleston homes, especially those in and around the historic district, were always in need of additions or repairs.

“Who wants to know?” Billy Manolo demanded.

“Sorry.” She colored slightly. “I’m Theodosia Browning. We met at the picnic last Sunday? You borrowed the tablecloth from me.” She moved toward him to offer her hand and almost tripped on a stack of metal bars.

“Careful,” Billy cautioned. “Last thing I need around here is some fool woman falling on her face.” He stared at her. “How come you came here?” he asked abruptly. “I don’t keep no pictures here. You got to go to Popple Hill for that.”

“Popple Hill?” said Theodosia. She had no idea what Popple Hill was or what Billy was even talking about.

“The design folks,” Billy explained impatiently as though she were an idiot child. “Go talk to them. They’ll figure out size and design and all. I just make the stuff.” Billy Manolo shook his head as though she were a buzzing