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 mayfly that was irritating him. He leaned forward, slid a grimy hand into a leather glove that lay atop his forge. There was a hiss of air and immediately flame shot from his welder’s torch again.
“I see,” said Theodosia, averting her eyes and making a mental note to ask around and find out just who these Popple Hill designers were. “Actually, I just came from the yacht club,” she explained. “Jory Davis in slip one twelve wanted me to give you these.” She reached into her purse, grabbed the keys, and dangled them at Billy. “The keys for Rubicon.”
Billy Manolo sighed, switched the torch off again.
“He wants you to turn on the bilge pump,” said Theodosia, this time putting a tinge of authority into her voice. “He’s stuck out of town on business, and he’s afraid his boat is taking on water. Actually, it is taking on water. I was just there.”
Billy Manolo pulled the welder’s helmet from his head and strode toward her. He reached out and snatched the keys from her outstretched hand and stared stolidly at her.
“Great,” she answered, a little too heartily. She gazed about the backyard, realizing full well that Billy Manolo was an ironworker by trade, that he’d probably made some of the gates, grills, and balcony railings that adorned many of Charleston’s finer homes.
And along with that realization came the sudden understanding that Billy Manolo, with his knowledge of metals and stress points and such, could easily have been the one who had tampered with the old pistol. Billy Manolo, whose fingerprints had certainly turned up on the rosewood box that the old pistol had been housed in.
“Look,” Theodosia said, caught somewhere between losing her patience at Billy’s rudeness and a small insinuation of fear, “the very least you can do is be civil.”
He tilted his head slightly, gave her a surly, one-eyed glance. “Why should I?”
Theodosia lost it. “You might want to seriously consider working on your people skills,” she told him. “Because should you be questioned by the Charleston police, and the possibility is not unlikely, the inhospitable attitude you have just shown toward me will not play well with them.”
Billy Manolo snorted disdainfully. “Police,” he spat out. “They don’t know nothin’.”
“They are not unaware of your little public to-do with Booth Crowley two days ago,” said Theodosia.
“Booth Crowley has a lot to hide,” snarled Billy.
“From what I hear, Billy, you might have a few things to hide,” Theodosia shot back. She was fishing, to be sure, but her words were more effective than she’d ever thought possible.
Stung by her innuendo, Billy bent down, picked up an iron rod, and glared at her dangerously. “Get lost, lady, before you find yourself floating facedown in Charleston Harbor!”