The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(40)

Jack and I sat down in the hard wooden chairs. “It looks like you’ve been busy,” Jack said. “I know I can always rely on you to find the information I need.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “One would think that by this time I’d have been mentioned in the dedication of one of your books.” She stared pointedly at Jack.

I stared at my husband. “I can’t believe that you’ve never done that despite all the help Yvonne has given us. Really, Jack.”

“Actually,” he said, and I noticed a tic in his jaw, “I was planning on dedicating the book I was working on when I met Mellie to Yvonne. And then the book wasn’t published.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Jack. Despite being a dyed-in-the-wool Episcopalian, I do believe in karma. Mark my words, Marc Longo will get what’s coming to him eventually. Hopefully we’ll all be lucky enough to witness it in full living color.” She grinned, her perfect dentures gleaming.

She turned to the books spread out in front of us. “So, let’s take a look at what I found. I was not fortunate enough to find the original blueprints for the Pinckney house on South Battery. However, I think I found something even better.” She spun an old leather-bound volume around to face us. “The blueprints for the house that stood there before it was built.”

Yvonne folded her arms primly in front of her as we examined the old sketch of a modest dwelling that had once occupied the lot where Jayne Smith’s house now stood on South Battery. “As you can see, the property was once fronted with swamp that led out to the Ashley River. Starting in 1909, city leaders had the swamp filled in and the level of the land raised and created Murray Boulevard.”

I kept silent, wondering what any of this had to do with anything.

“Let me guess,” Jack said. “The man who built it was a sea captain.”

Yvonne gave him an appreciative look. “You’ve been cheating on me and doing your own research.”

“Guilty as charged. I thought I’d do some poking around just in case I might find something that could lead to my next book, and I came across the deed to the original plot of land, owned by Captain Stephen Andrews.”

Yvonne looked at him expectantly.

“Gentleman Pirate,” he added.

“Although it was never proven; nor was he hanged at what is now White Point Gardens with Blackbeard and Stede Bonnett, as he easily could have been. Despite guards watching his house, he managed to escape to Barbados, where he lived out his long life. And had many children with younger and younger wives, into his nineties.” She set her mouth in grim disapproval.

I was getting impatient listening to the boring history of someone who’d died a long time ago and didn’t even own the house I thought we were investigating. “And the point of all this would be . . .”

Both Yvonne and Jack sent me a blank look, similar to the ones Sophie gave me when I was suggesting a cheaper, more sensible alternative involving replacing anything old in my house.

“Well,” Yvonne said patiently, “with Charleston Harbor leading right out to the Atlantic, having a house this near the water made illegal activities such as pirating and smuggling—and perhaps escaping to another country—a lot less complicated than if your house were farther inland.”

I sat up. “Like a tunnel or something?”

“Exactly,” Jack said. “And even when a house is leveled for whatever reason, and a new one is built over it, any tunnels and staircases leading to them might not have been destroyed.”

“But what does that mean?” I persisted.

“Nothing yet,” Jack said. “It’s just a piece in a puzzle. It may mean absolutely nothing, but we won’t know until we put all the pieces on the table.”

He had the old spark in his eyes and it made me happy to see it, and grateful that he was the writer in the family and I was just the Realtor who saw dead people. Because I found it very difficult to get excited about houses that no longer existed, and even those that still did. Unless I was selling them.

Yvonne slid a manila folder toward us and opened it to reveal several photocopied papers. She picked up the top sheet and put it in front of us. “I did find this write-up from 1930 when the house was renovated by none other than Susan Pringle Frost, the mother of the preservation movement here in Charleston. It was featured in Architecture magazine and includes a floor plan you might find helpful.”

Jack tapped his fingers on the tabletop while he studied the drawing. I pretended to look at it, too, but without my reading glasses—securely tucked into my nightstand—all I could see were fuzzy black lines.

“And this here?” he asked, pointing to a square drawing of more fuzzy black lines.

“That’s the first floor, otherwise known as a basement and only used for storage of nonperishable items, since it was prone to flooding,” Yvonne pointed out.

“Or for temporary storage of pirated items until they could be distributed elsewhere,” Jack added. “And if there was access to these storage areas during Prohibition, I’m sure they could have been used for contraband alcohol.”

“Without a doubt,” Yvonne said with her genteel smile as if we were talking about our favorite type of tea. “But from the documentation here, all access points from the house were sealed during the restoration, and the area filled in to reinforce the home’s foundation.”