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.

“By the 1720s, colonial authorities were cracking down on pirates. The predators became the prey. Eventually, Calico Jack and his band were caught and put on trial. All were hanged.”

“Hanged?” I was shocked. “Bonny was hanged?”

My eyes flicked to the canvas. This devil-may-care woman died at the end of a rope?

Brincefield chuckled at my dismay.

“No one knows,” he said. “After the trial, Bonny disappeared from her prison cell.”

“Disappeared?”

“Poof.” He curled then splayed his fingers. “Gone.”

“So it’s not certain she was hanged.”

Brincefield shrugged. “Who knows? Some say Bonny escaped, dug up her treasure, and lived out her life in luxury. Maybe right here in Charleston.”

“Treasure?”

“I had a feeling that might interest you.” Brincefield’s lips turned up in a grin. “The other part of Bonny’s legend is her buried riches. A fortune. Never found.”

“Really?”

“Really. Hundreds have searched, but without success. Some never returned.” Brincefield’s eyes drifted to a point somewhere between us. “My older brother Jonathan was one,” he said softly.

Though curious, I didn’t want to pry. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Brincefield snapped back into focus. “That was a long, long time ago, in the forties. Jonathan was almost twenty years my senior. I rarely saw him.”

The old man strode to the windows and gazed at the harbor. Boats glided past. Gulls dove and splashed. It was a gorgeous afternoon.

But I hardly noticed.

An idea was taking shape in my mind. A crazy one.

I wanted to grill Brincefield on Bonny’s legend. Extract every detail. I had one thought, and one thought only.

I could really, really use a pirate treasure.

But Brincefield seemed to have closed down. Not wanting to unearth painful memories, I remained mute. But I made a mental note to research, to tap other sources.

Finally, the old man stirred.

“Jonathan fixated on Bonny’s treasure,” he said. “Talked about it incessantly. The adults all thought he was cracked. Eventually, he shared only with me.” Brincefield looked down at his hands, chewing the corner of his lower lip. “Then one day he vanished. I never saw him again.”

“I’m sorry.”

Lame. But I meant it. I understood how it felt to lose family. To miss someone. Daily. Terribly. To have a hole in your life.

“Enough about that.” Brincefield’s smile snapped back into place. “The treasure! It’s said to be worth millions! And it’s rumored to be right here in Charleston.”

Okay. Seriously? Was this a cosmic joke?

Lost treasure. Worth a fortune. Possibly in Charleston.

Against all reason, I found myself growing excited.

“Where in Charleston?” I asked, casual as possible.

“Oh ho!” Brincefield laughed. “A kid actually caring about history!”

“Someone should find that treasure,” I said. “Why not me? If it’s out there, it’s a free fortune. And historically important,” I added quickly.

“Well, yes. I suppose someone should find it. Of course.”

“Where can I learn more? Are there books? Clues to the treasure’s location?”

“I assume so.” A bit less jovial. “Probably useless. Remember, in all these years, no one’s discovered anything.”

“But you said there were rumors,” I pressed. “Legends. Where can I get more information on them?”

“Oh, here and there.” Brincefield’s hands dropped into his pockets. “Around.”

Odd. He’d been so excited before.

Whatever. I wouldn’t hound the old guy. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s digging up dirt. I was eager to get started.

For the first time since Kit’s news dropped, I had a glimmer of hope.

Okay, barely a flicker. Pirate treasure? Even I couldn’t take it seriously. It was ridiculous. Comical. A story for moon-eyed five-year-olds.

But at least now I had a purpose. Any plan, however farfetched, was better than no plan at all. Right?

Step 1: learn everything I could about Anne Bonny.

“Thanks for the history lesson, Mr. Brincefield. First chance, I’m going to read up on Miss Bonny. She sounds like an interesting lady.”

“Truly?” Brincefield looked startled. “What’s your name? I’m sorry, I never caught it.”

“Tory Brennan. Pleased to meet you, sir. And thanks again.”

“Yes of course,” he said distractedly.

Anxious to get started, I snapped a pic of the painting with my iPhone and headed out the door.