"HOW'S IT GOING, DOC?"

It took a nanosecond to recognize the voice. Plankton.

"How did you get this number?"

"Pretty good, eh?"

"I don't do interviews, Mr. Winborne."

"Did you see my piece in the Post and Courier? The one on the Dewees stiff?"

I said nothing.

"Editor went batshit. Green-lighted me for a follow-up."

I said nothing again.

"So I've got a few questions."

I used my steely voice, the one I'd learned from cops and customs officials. "I. Don't. Do. Interviews."

"It'll take only a minute."

"No." Impermeable.

"It's in your interest to—"

"I'm going to hang up now. Don't call me again."

"I advise you not to do that."

"Do you still have that Nikon, Mr. Winborne?"

"Sure do."

"I advise you to take that camera and shove it where the sun don't shi—"

"I'm hip to the body you cut down in the Francis Marion."

That worked. I didn't disconnect.

"The guy's name is Noble Cruikshank, and he was a Charlotte cop."

So Plankton had a mole.

"Where did you get this information?" I asked, my voice pure ice.

"Doc." Mock disappointment. "You know my sources are confidential. But my facts are solid, right?"

"I'm confirming nothing."

Pete was throwing quizzical glances my way. I gestured that he should keep his eyes on the road.

"But something is bothering me." Slow. Ponderous. Winborne sounded like he'd watched way too many Columbo episodes. "Cruikshank was a PI, a former cop. He was probably on a case when he died. What could be so mind-blowing that it would cause a guy like that to string himself up?"

Silence hummed across the line.

"And the demographic." He pronounced it "dee-mographic." "Male, white, forty-something. Sound familiar?"

"Keanu Reeves."

Winborne ignored that. Or didn't get it. "So I'm checking out what Cruikshank was working when he hanged himself. You got any insight into that?"

"No comment."

"And I'm looking for links between Cruikshank and your bones on Dewees."

"For multiple reasons, I advise you to print nothing."

"Yeah? Gimme one."

"First, if the body from the Francis Marion is that of Noble Cruikshank, a man committing suicide is hardly a scoop. Second, as you know, Cruikshank was a cop. His former colleagues might not appreciate you dragging his name through the mud. And third, whoever the victim turns out to be, it is unethical to reveal information about a death before notification of next of kin."

"I'll think about it."

"I'm going to disconnect now, Mr. Winborne. If you take my picture again I will sue you."

I clicked off.

"Sonovabitch!" I came close to hurling the handset through the windshield.

"Lunch?" Pete asked.

Too angry to speak, I nodded my head.

Just past Shem Creek, Pete turned right from Coleman Boulevard onto Live Oak Drive, a residential side street lined with bungalows and shaded by, yep, you guessed it, live oaks wrapped with Spanish moss. Pete went left onto Haddrell, curved left, then turned into a gravel parking area.

Across the lot, between the Wando Seafood Company and Magwood & Sons Seafoods, stood a ramshackle structure that looked like it had been hammered together by a committee sharing no common language. The Wreck of the Richard and Charlene is known to locals as "the Wreck." Unmarked and unadvertised, the restaurant may be Charleston's best-kept secret.

The story goes something like this. During Hurricane Hugo, a fishing boat named the Richard and Charlene was tossed onto the restaurant owners' property. Seeing it as an omen, the restaurant owner's wife christened her establishment in honor of the wreck.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale…

That was 1989. The wreck is still there, and the Wreck is still there, its owners disdaining all forms of marketing and publicity. Even signs.

Concrete floors. Ceiling fans. Screened porches. An honor system for help-yourself beers in a deck cooler should you have to wait for a table. The formula works, and the place is always packed.

At four thirty in the afternoon things were uncharacteristically quiet. Service didn't start until five thirty, but we were seated. What the hell? The Wreck is that kind of place.

The Wreck's ordering system is as simple as its menu. With the crayons provided, Pete circled the shrimp basket, the gumbo, and the key lime bread pudding, and indicated that he wanted Richard-size portions. I chose a Charlene-size oyster basket. Diet Coke for me. A Carolina Blonde for Pete.

Dixie dining at its best.

"Let me guess," Pete said, when the drinks had arrived. "That call was from a journalist."

"The same rat bastard that snuck onto my site on Dewees."

"He's graduated to the crime beat?"

"Do I look like the little twerp's employment counselor?" I was still so angry it came out shrill. "But he's got far more information than he ought to."

"Must have an informant."

"Gee. You think?"

"Okeydokey." Pete took a swig of beer and leaned back in a posture suggesting conversation was terminated until I'd composed myself.

Through the screen, I watched gulls circle trawlers at the dock. Their buoyant, hopeful looping was somehow calming.

"Sorry," I said when our food was delivered. "I'm not annoyed with you."

"No problemo." Pete pointed a shrimp at me. "A lot of reporters monitor emergency frequencies."

"I thought of that. Winborne might have picked up police transmissions concerning the discovery of the body, but he couldn't have learned about the ID that way."

"An insider at the coroner's or sheriff's office?"

"Maybe."

"Morgue staff?"

"It's possible."

"Unless…" Pete let the word hang.

A hushpuppy stopped halfway to my mouth. "Unless what?"

"What about your friend Emma? She have an agenda you don't know about?"

I'd thought of that. I'd remembered how Emma spoke up for Win-borne, argued that his presence on Dewees would do no harm.

I said nothing. But Pete had raised a very good point.

What about Emma?

We ate and chatted about other things. Katy. Pete's mother's hip replacement surgery. My family. A trip we'd made to Kiawah twenty years earlier. Before I knew it, my watch said 5:45.

Ooooookay.

Pete insisted on picking up the check. He paid in cash. No plastic at the ole Wreck.

"Want to help me go through Cruikshank's files?" Pete asked, pulling in at "Sea for Miles."

"Wish I could, but it's crunch time for my field school exams."

"They can't wait one more day?"

"Tomorrow is the deadline for grade submission, I have to write at least a preliminary report on the Dewees dig for the state archaeologist in Columbia, and who knows what else could pop up."

"Looks like I'm on my own." Sad Pete face.

I smiled and punched Pete's shoulder. "Use a lifeline. Call your buddy Rejewski."

Climbing to my room, I dialed Emma's number. Her machine answered. I left a message.

By eight I'd finished the last exam, calculated grades, and e-mailed the list to the department secretary at UNCC. She'd agreed to walk the form over to the registrar for me.

Again, I tried Emma. Hearing the same recording, I hung up.

By ten I'd composed a brief statement concerning the Sewee burial site on Dewees, including my opinion as to its value as a cultural resource. I e-mailed the document to the Office of the State Archaeologist, and sent copies to the South Carolina Institute of Archaeology and Anthropology, to the South Carolina Department of Archives and History, and to Dan Jaffer at USC-Columbia.

Then I sat back, debating. Dickie Dupree? The man was a weasel. No. That probably wasn't being fair to weasels. But the site was on Dupree's land, and my evaluation could affect decisions he might have to make. And, God forbid, Dickie's bottom line.

Birdie was curled on the desk to my left.

"What do you think, Bird?"

The cat rolled onto his back and stretched all four legs as far as they would go.

"You're right."

Using the Internet, I found an e-mail address and fired a copy off to Dupree.

Pete and Boyd were again in the den. The tube was on, though neither appeared to be watching. This time it was an old Bob Hope film.

Pete was on the couch, bare feet crossed on the coffee table, the Helene Flynn file open in his lap. He was making notes on a large yellow legal pad.

Boyd lay flopped on his side, back paws resting on his master's knee.

The file carton and eighth box sat side by side on the window seat.

On-screen, a man was describing zombies as having dead eyes, following orders, not knowing what they do, not caring.

"You mean like Democrats?" Hope inquired.

Pete threw back his lead and laughed.

"Not offended?"

"Humor is humor," replied Pete the Democrat.

The chow opened a sleepy eye. Seeing me in the doorway, he slunk to the floor.

Pete jabbed his pen at the TV "This movie has some of Hope's best one-liners."

"Title?" When Pete and I first met, and during the early years of our marriage, old films had been one of our passions.

"Ghost Breakers."

"Wasn't that the Bowery Boys?"

Pete made a buzzer sound. "Nnnnt! Wrong. That was Ghost Chasers."

I couldn't help but laugh. It felt so natural.

Seeing Pete at that moment, lamplight softening the lines of his face, it suddenly hit me. Though we'd been apart for some time, led largely separate lives, there wasn't a day I didn't think, at least fleetingly, about my husband.

The laughter died on my lips.

"What's the plot?" I asked, detached, forcing blasé.

"Paulette Goddard has inherited a haunted castle. Hope's lines are classic."

"Any progress with the code?"

Pete shook his head.

Crossing to the window seat, I collected Cruikshank's belongings and settled on the couch. With the box between my feet, I disengaged the flaps and began rifling.

The first thing I removed was a trophy featuring a tiny capped figure holding a bat. A plaque on the wood base read: LEAGUE CHAMPIONS, JUNE 24, 1983. I put the trophy on the coffee table.

Next, I pulled out a baseball, its outer surface covered with signatures.

I set the ball beside the trophy, wondering if the two items were related. My mind began drifting.

Cruikshank had played in a league. Where? What position? Had his team been consistently good, I wondered, or did the ball and trophy represent their one championship season? What had it been like on that June day? Hot? Rainy? Had the score been lopsided? Had Cruikshank's team won with one heart-stopping hit?

Did Cruikshank have the game ball because he drove in the winning run? Had his teammates pounded his back? Had they all gone for beer and rehashed the game?

Had Cruikshank relived that moment in the years that followed? Alone with his bourbon, had he seen the pitch, felt the bat's grip in his palms, heard the crack as the ball ricocheted from the sweet spot?

Had the man marveled at how life had gone so terribly wrong?

On-screen Hope was quipping, "The girls call me Pilgrim, because every time I dance with one I make a little progress."

Pete was chuckling as I pulled a pair of framed photos from among Cruikshank's belongings. The first showed five uniformed soldiers, smiling, arm-draping one another's shoulders. The photo's owner was last on the left.

I studied the small figure. Cruikshank's hair was short, and he was squinting, probably facing into the sun. The crags in his face were softer, but already foretold the older man he'd become.

More drifting.

Had Cruikshank done a hitch in the army? The National Guard? He'd been too young for Vietnam. Where had he served?

The second framed photo showed darkly uniformed men stacked in formal, straight rows. I guessed it was Cruikshank's police academy graduating class.

A round metal tin held other police memorabilia. Collar brass from the different units in which Cruikshank had served. Colored bars that I assumed were departmental recognition awards. A duplicate shield.

A corrugated brown folder held a police academy diploma, several certificates from specialty training courses, and more photos. Cruikshank shaking hands with some high police official. Cruikshank with three men in suits. Cruikshank and another cop standing in front of a church with Billy Graham.

I fished some more.

A Zippo lighter with a CMPD logo. A key chain, pocketknife, and tie tack with the same logo. A CMPD badge. Handcuffs. Keys. A frilly garter. An old Sam Browne belt buckle. A scuffed holster. A speed loader for a revolver.

Everything went onto the table.

At the bottom of the box lay a book and several envelopes. Choosing a large brown one, I unwound the string and dumped the contents into my lap.

Snapshots. Grainy and fading to sepia at the borders. Scooping them up, I worked my way through.

Every photo included the same blond woman. Upturned nose, freckles, a classic Little House on the Prairie face.

In some shots, the woman was alone. In others, she was with Cruikshank. In a few, the two were part of a larger group. Christmas party. Ski trip. Picnic. Based on hairstyles and clothing, I guessed the photos had been taken in the late seventies or early eighties.

I checked the back of each print. Only one had writing. In it Cruikshank and the woman wore swimsuits and lay side by side on a blanket, chins propped on their fists. I read the notation: Noble and Shannon, Myrtle Beach, July 1976.

I picked up the last photo. Noble and Shannon, smiling like the world would always be young. I was not smiling. My mind was circling to a very dark place.

This Kodak moment captured Cruikshank and Shannon facing each other, hands outstretched, fingers intertwined. She was wearing a short white sundress and flowers in her hair. He was in a pale blue jacket. Above their heads, a banner identified the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. In front of them, down on one knee and mugging for the camera, was a faux Elvis, complete with shades and sequined white satin jumpsuit.

I stared at the image, a frozen moment at the birth of a doomed marriage. Once a treasured memento, the picture had become nothing more than a memory packed away in an old brown envelope.

My eyes wandered to Pete. I felt my lids burn. I wrested my gaze back. It fell on Cruikshank's possessions. Small comfort.

These items represented a life, a man who had enjoyed friendship, served his country, been a cop, played baseball, married. A man who had, in spite of it all, chosen to end that life.

Or had he?

My eyes dropped to the Myrtle Beach photo. Shannon and Noble. A marriage lost. A life lost.

On-screen, someone asked Hope if he thought Goddard should sell the castle.

"My advice is to keep the castle and sell the ghosts."

The sound of Pete's laughter pierced the armor of my phony nonchalance. How many times had he laughed with me? Clowned for me? Bought flowers when we had no money? Done the underpants dance when I was angry? Why had the laughter stopped? When?

Looking down at the heartrending collection spread before me, I was overwhelmed by the ruin of Noble and Shannon. By the finality of Cruikshank's death. By the calamity of my own lost marriage. By the confusion of emotions churning inside me.

I lost it.

Chest heaving, I pushed from the couch.

"Tempe?" Pete. Confused.

I stumbled over Cruikshank's box and lunged from the room, mindless of where I was going.

Ocean air. Stars. Life.

I threw open the front door and raced down the steps.

Pete was right behind me. In the front yard, he grasped one of my shoulders, spun me, and wrapped me in a hug.

"It's OK. Hey, Tempe. It's OK." Stroking my hair.

At first I resisted, then I yielded. Pressing my cheek to Pete's chest, I let the tears come.

I'm not sure how long we stood there, me sobbing, Pete making comforting noises.

Seconds, maybe eons, later a vehicle rolled up Ocean Drive, paused, then turned in at "Sea for Miles." I looked up. Silvery white moonlight illuminated the interior enough to show that the driver was alone.

The vehicle came to a stop. Maybe a Jeep? A small SUV?

I felt Pete tense as the driver's door opened. A man got out and circled the hood. I could see that the man was tall and thin.

And something more.

Oh, God!

The man froze, a silhouette in the headlights.

My heart flew into my throat.

Before I could call out, the man retraced his steps, slid behind the wheel, threw the car into reverse, and gunned down the drive.

I watched the beams swing wide.

Tires squealed.

The taillights shrank to tiny red specks.