RYAN AND I WERE EATING CAP'N CRUNCH WHEN WE HEARD Pete's bedroom door open.

"Lucy, I'm home!" Desi Arnez boomed across the house. "What's that Jeep" — Pete bounded into the kitchen — "ers creepers."

Boyd jumped up. Ryan did not. The cop and the chow did the eyebrow thing. The counselor shot his to the hairline. Like Desi.

"And who's this nice young man?" A smile tweaked the corners of Pete's mouth.

I made introductions. Ryan half rose and the men shook hands.

Pete was in running shorts, a sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck cut off, and Nikes. Turning his back to the counter, he palmed himself up and sat facing us, lower legs dangling.

"Interesting time at GMC yesterday?" I asked.

"Not as interesting as yours." Pete's gaze slid to Ryan, back to me. The corners of his mouth again twitched.

I narrowed my eyes in a "don't you dare" warning.

Pete's face went Lucille Ball innocent.

Ryan's attention remained focused on the Cap'n.

"Money in. Money out," Pete said. "I'm of the growing opinion that Daddy Buck needs an accountant, not an attorney."

"Did you speak to Herron?"

"Damndest thing. The rev had to make an unscheduled trip to Atlanta. Unavoidable. So sorry. The staff will do everything they can to help."

"Everything except talk about Helene."

"They talk. What they say is, she was here, she's gone, we don't know, we haven't heard. Maybe California." Pete's feet were swinging, his heels thunking the under-counter cabinets. "Oh. And pray God she's well."

"Have they offered insight on how one of their brethren vanishes leaving no trace?"

"They're sticking with the gospel according to California. There are dozens of street clinics in the land of fruit and nuts, many operated, not surprisingly, by fruits and nuts. They suspect Helene may have abandoned the gospel for the teachings of crazoids and slipped outside the system."

Thunk. Thunkety-thunk-thunk went the Nikes.

"It's possible to effectively disappear if she's in some communal living arrangement, using no credit cards, paying no bills, car insurance, taxes, or social security."

"Which would explain the truncated paper trail. Cruikshank reported to Daddy Buck that he'd found nothing postdating last November. At least nothing up until his own disappearance. Anything new on Cruikshank?"

Thunk. Thunk.

I shook my head. "Stop banging Anne's cabinetry."

Pete's legs went still for a full ten seconds. He turned to Ryan.

"You drive that Jeep all the way from Canada?"

"Her name's Woody."

"Long trip."

"Tough on her. Her heart's back in the Adirondacks."

Blank stare.

"Must be a tree thing."

"Funny." Pete's face came back to me. "He's a funny guy."

Now I gave Ryan the eye squint warning.

"Did you learn why Cruikshank had that other guy's wallet?" Pete asked.

Thunk. Thunk.

"Chester Pinckney. No, we didn't."

"Good day yesterday?"

I described the recovery of the woman in the barrel.

"A gator's no match for you, sugar pants."

"Do not call me that."

"Sorry."

Thunk. Thunk.

I told Pete about the strangulation, the cat, the chip, and Dinh. Ryan listened and watched. I knew his philosophy. People speak two languages, only one verbal.

"How's Emma?" Pete asked.

"She took a pass."

"Still bad?"

"I've got to call her."

Pete hopped down, raised a heel to the counter, and began stretching. Ryan fluttered his lashes at me, a swooning deb. I repeated my eye squint.

"What's your next move?" I asked Pete.

"Beach run with Boyd. Then golf."

"Golf?"

Pete switched legs. "Tomorrow is Sunday, Herron will be back for the big show. That's when I climb into the ring for some divine intervention."

"Your metaphor is mixed."

"My results won't be."

"You're feeling pretty cocky."

"Relax, I'm wearing a jock strap." Lowering his leg, Pete winked in my direction.

Major league eye roll.

Seeing the leash unpegged, Boyd went wild. Pete squatted, hooked his collar, then rose and pointed in my direction.

"Have a really special day."

Pete and chow disappeared.

From beyond the door. "Sugar britches."

===OO=OOO=OO===

We took Ryan's Jeep into Charleston. He drove. I directed. On the way, I told him about my long friendship with Emma, about the curious rapport that kept us bonded, despite long periods of noncommunication. I shared the secret of Emma's lymphoma. He suggested a visit after we'd been to Isabella Halsey's house.

I also told Ryan about Dickie Dupree and Homer Winborne. He asked my level of concern, on a one-to-ten scale. I gave the developer a five, the journalist a minus two.

I remembered a comment from our discussion the night before.

"What's anomalous monism?"

Ryan gave me a look of feigned disappointment at the gap in my schooling. "It's a type of dualism in the philosophy of mind and action. Mental processes have genuine causal powers, but the relationships they enter into with physical entities can't be explained by the laws of nature."

"Like our relationship."

"There you go."

"Hang a left here. Why Woody?"

Ryan shot me a questioning look.

"When did you name your Jeep Woody?"

"This morning."

"You made that up."

"Inspired by GI Joe."

"Pete was a Marine. And don't say ridiculous things to him. I don't want him thinking you're a clown."

Isabella Halsey lived on King Street, deep in the heart of old Charleston. As usual, that district was crowded with people who looked like they'd arrived on the Donald Duck parking shuttle. Women in designer sundresses, or in shorts that barely covered their cheeks. Men with large bellies and mesh baseball caps blankly gazing, or talking on cell phones while wearing golf shirts and eighteen-hole tans. Sunburned kids. Hand-holding newlyweds, or weds-to-be.

The Old City Market was a hive of activity. Ice cream peddlers jangling their bicycle bells. Black ladies selling flowers and sweetgrass baskets, or offering to cornrow your hair. Husbands shooting footage of Mom and the kids. Retirees puzzling over walking-tour maps. Teens pointing throwaway Kodaks at each other. Vendors hawking beans, pralines, and peach preserves.

Halsey's address was just off the Battery, a harbor-front commons complete with statues, cannons, and a Victorian bandstand. The little park always strikes up a Sousa march in my head.

It also strikes up memories of fourth grade history with Sister Mathias. It was from the Battery, in April of 1861, that Charlestonians watched Confederate soldiers battle Union troops holed up across the water at Fort Sumter. Bonjour, Civil War. Some historical preservationists have yet to say adieu, and fight to preserve the Confederate flag and to sing "Dixie."

After parking, Ryan and I headed south on East Bay. Past Rainbow Row, we took Tradd three blocks inland to a narrow brick-paved portion of Church.

Unlike Cruikshank's humble digs, Halsey's home would have warranted the name "Magnolia Manor." Window boxes overflowed with flowers, and the side yard was crowded with the spreading breadth of the grand old trees.

Though realtors would use the terms "authentic," "original," and "uncorrupted" to describe the house itself, "handyman's delight" popped into my mind. The beige stucco, black shutters, and wrought iron fencing all needed paint. The walkway and courtyard pavers were green with infiltrating moss.

Approaching the gate, Ryan and I were enveloped in the fabled blossom scent.

"Washington log some Z's here?" Ryan asked in a low voice.

"The general did sleep around."

Through the magnolias, I could see a woman sitting at a side yard table, her white hair dappled with sunlight. The woman was knitting. Though her jaw, neck, and arms had the loose, wrinkled tissue of the elderly, her hand movements were strong and confident.

"The lady in the barrel was around forty," I said. "If the victim is Halsey, that could be her mother."

Ryan laid a hand on my shoulder. I looked at him. The Viking blues held an expression I couldn't read. A recognition of my caring? An acknowledgment that I did, indeed, feel things deeply?

Ryan nodded encouragingly.

"Excuse me," I called into the courtyard.

The woman's head came up, but she didn't look our way.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am." I hesitated, unsure what words to use. "We're here about Cleopatra?"

The woman turned toward us. Sunlight on her glasses masked the expression in her eyes.

"Ma'am? May we speak with you a moment?"

The woman hunched forward and her mouth tightened into an inverted U. Setting her knitting on the table, she waved us into the yard. As Ryan and I crossed to her, the woman pulled smokes from a pocket and lit up.

"Join me?" The woman offered a pack of Davidoff mini-cigarillos.

Ryan and I declined.

"Lord in heaven with all his angels and saints." The woman flapped a blue-veined hand. "You young folk run from tobacco, take the caffeine outa your coffee, the cream outa your milk. Sissies. That's what I call y'all. Sissies. Want some sweet tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Cookie?"

"No, thank you."

"'Course not. Might be real butter in those cookies. From a real cow." To me. "You a model, buttercup?"

"No, ma'am." Why was I always targeted for nicknames?

"Oughta be. You're skinny enough." The woman placed her free hand under her chin and smiled up through lowered lids, Lana Turner posing for a studio shot. "Miss Magnolia Blossom, 1948." Chuckling, she drew a cigarillo hit. "A few of my parts sag a touch now, but this old gal had every chin in Charleston wagging back then."

The woman pointed at a wrought iron bench. "Set yourselves."

Ryan and I sat.

"Lemme guess. You and this young man are researching the lifestyles of Dixie's rich and famous?"

"No, ma'am. I—"

"I'm pulling your leg, buttercup. Get to it. Why are you and handsome asking after dead Egyptians?"

"I'm speaking of a cat."

The wrinkled eyes narrowed, then widened behind their lenses.

"You referencing my Cleo?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You found my wandering cat?"

Leaning forward, I placed a hand on the old woman's knee. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this. Cleo is dead. We located your address through an ID chip implanted beneath her skin." I took a deep breath. "Cleo's body was found with that of a woman. We suspect the dead woman was Cleo's owner."

A glint came into the wrinkled old eyes. I braced for tears.

"Isabella Halsey?" the woman asked.

"Yes."

I expected heartbreak, anger, disbelief. I got none of those.

The woman chuckled again.

Ryan and I glanced at each other.

"You think this old gal's shuffled off."

I sat back, confused.

"You're right and you're wrong, buttercup. Poor Cleo may be pushing up daisies with her mistress. But that unfortunate soul sure as the Lord in heaven isn't me."

Déjà vu. Wadmalaw Island. Chester Pinckney.

Twice in one week? I felt my face redden.

"You are Isabella Cameron Halsey?" I guessed.

"Alive and kickin'." Pulling wadded tissue from her décolletage, Halsey blotted her cheeks. "Or at least knittin'. About all that's tolerable on a scorcher like this."

"Cleopatra was your cat?"

"She surely was."

"You had the chip implanted?"

"I surely did." Theatrical sigh. "Sadly, Cleo loved another."

"What do you mean?"

"Hard as I tried, that cat was never content with me. Just had to roam, the furry little slut." Halsey eyed Ryan coyly. "Pardon my French, sir."

"Pas deproblème, madame." No problem. Ryan's accent was over-the-top Parisian.

Halsey fluttered her lashes. Ryan beamed her a smile.

"What happened to Cleopatra?" I asked.

"I tired of unrequited love. One day, I just opened the door and set her free."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

"She took up with another."

"Do you know who?"

"'Course I do. I used to see them together at the park."

The name provided our first big break.