Seizure(15)

THE DOORS BANGED shut behind me.

I sped down a red-carpeted hall, past trophy cases, model ships, and massive murals depicting ancient ocean voyages.

The setting barely registered. My emotions were on tilt.

Get away. Get calm.

The cowardly mantra kept looping inside my head.

Get away. Get calm.

Eventually the hallway dumped me into a lavish dining hall. A gigantic mahogany table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by chairs adorned with embroidered cushions. On the far wall, sunlight poured through huge windows overlooking the harbor. The air reeked of wood polish and fresh linen.

The grandeur of the chamber stopped me in my tracks.

“Swank.” The empty room swallowed my whispered comment.

Hands on hips, I breathed deep, trying to regroup mentally. Slowly, my shaking legs steadied.

I considered my options. Return to the party? No chance. I was done with awkward circling for the day.

Bail? Sure, but how? My ride wasn’t due for an hour.

As I dithered, undecided, a painting caught my eye. Bold and colorful, it stood out from all others decorating the walls.

I stepped closer for a better look.

Oil on canvas. Cedar frame. Old, more weathered than the surrounding paintings, but somehow more vibrant as well. All blues and reds and splashes of yellow. Eye-catching, but clearly not a masterpiece.

Unlike the dour males staring down around me, the subject of this portrait was a woman—a lady swashbuckler dressed in men’s clothing. She stood on the deck of a ship at sea, auburn hair streaming, a pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other.

Captivated, I tried to make out the vessel’s name. No go. I checked the portrait’s curved wooden frame for a nameplate, title, artist, anything.

“Admiring young Bonny, eh?”

I started at the voice. Turned.

A man dressed in a butler’s uniform stood behind me. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt, coat, and vest. A ridiculous white bowtie topped off the outfit. He’d entered so silently I hadn’t heard a sound. Weird.

“You have a good eye.” The man drew close, nodding toward the painting. I guessed his age at somewhere north of seventy. He had a full head of white hair and thick, bushy eyebrows. My mind sent up an image of Colonel Sanders.

Bushy Brows smiled, eyes locked on the canvas. “It’s not the priciest picture in the collection, but it has the most character.” He clenched a fist for emphasis.

I stared, at a loss for words. The old coot seemed to have sprung straight from the carpet.

“Sorry, my manners aren’t what they should be.” Bushy Brows extended a hand. “Rodney Brincefield. Caterer. Bartender. Amateur historian. Jack of many trades.”

I reflexively took his hand, but my guard stayed up. Way up.

“I work part-time for the Palmetto Club.” Brincefield winked. “I love to sneak in here and see my girl.”

Excuse me?

Slight step backward.

Brincefield jabbed a gnarled thumb at the painting. “Anne Bonny. You’ve heard of her, of course?”

Ah. The codger was an art lover. Fair enough.

I shook my head. “I just moved to Charleston a few months ago. Was she local?”

“Some might argue. Others would strongly disagree. No one can say for sure.”

Um, what?

“Anne Bonny was a fearsome pirate. Practically a legend.” Brincefield frowned to himself. “They need to teach these things in school.”

“Pirate?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice. “I thought that was a boys’ club.”

“Mostly, but Bonny was special. An original feminist, if you will. Centuries ahead of her time. But I won’t bore you with the details.” He sighed. “Today’s youth have no interest in history. It’s all video games and the Internets, or whatever you call them.”

“No, no. Please go on. I’m interested.” I was.

Brincefield gave me an appraising look.

“You know, you look a bit like Bonny,” he remarked. “And not just the red hair.”

I said nothing. The intensity of his gaze was making me slightly uncomfortable.

Brincefield rubbed his chin. “Where to start?”

I waited, feeling awkward.

Admittedly, I did look a bit like the woman in the picture. Red hair. Tall, slender build. And she was pretty, thank you very much.

I liked Bonny’s eyes the best. Emerald green, like mine. The artist had given them a mischievous glint, as though their owner was challenging the world. As if Bonny knew a joke the rest of us didn’t.

I could see why the old guy admired the painting so much.

“Bonny worked the Atlantic during the early 1700s,” Brincefield began abruptly. “Sometimes she dressed like a man, sometimes she didn’t. In this portrait Bonny is on the deck of Revenge, a ship she crewed under a pirate named Calico Jack.”

Brincefield tapped the side of his nose. “Rumor has it, they had a thing. And he was not her husband.”

I nodded. What else was I supposed to do?

“Revenge terrorized a swath of ocean from the Caribbean to the North Carolina coast. Her crew liked to hijack vessels entering or exiting Charleston Harbor. Easy pickings … for a while.”

Another pause.

“A while?” I prodded. I suspected Brincefield’s mind had a tendency to wander.