Gunpowder Green

Chapter 18

Alone tern rode the crazed thermals, wheeling high above the yacht club where J-24s, Columbias, and San Jose 25s creaked up against silvered wooden pilings and tugged at their moorings as they pitched about in the roiling sea. The only sound, save the howling wind, was a sputtering bilge pump, somewhere out on the end of the long main pier.

Nobody home, thought Theodosia as she cinched her trench coat tighter about her and stepped onto the pier. In some places, the weather-beaten boards had two-inch gaps between them, so she had to really watch her footing. There didn’t appear to be anybody on this long, wet pier today, and the water looked cold and unforgiving. A misstep was unthinkable.

She’d first tried the door to the clubhouse and found that locked. Even pounding on the door and punching the doorbell hadn’t roused anyone. It was conceivable no one was here at all, that Billy Manolo didn’t work on Saturday or hadn’t come in because of bad weather or might be planning to show up later.

Theodosia did hold out a faint hope that someone might be hunkered down on the sailboat at the far end of the pier where the bilge pump sounded so noisily. It could be Billy Manolo, she mused, pumping out a leaky boat, working down below, trying to elude the wind’s nasty bite.

Halfway to the end of the pier, Theodosia gazed out toward Charleston Harbor. Only two ships were visible through the gray mist. One appeared to be a commercial fishing vessel; the other looked like a Coast Guard cutter, probably from the nearby Coast Guard station located just down from The Battery at the mouth of the Ashley River. It certainly was a far cry from almost a week ago, when the harbor had been dotted with boats, when the promise of spring had hung in the air.

“Anybody there?” She reached the end of the pier and saw that the pump was running full tilt, pouring a steady spew of frothy green water from a twenty-five-foot Santana into the harbor. She stepped down to the smaller pier that ran parallel to the moored boat. These side piers weren’t anchored by deep pilings like the main pier. Instead, they floated on top of barrels. Now, with the wind whipping in from the Atlantic at a good ten knots, the smaller, auxiliary pier pitched about precariously.

“Billy?” Theodosia called, fighting the rising panic that was beginning to build inside her as the small pier bobbed like an errant cork.

Get a grip, she admonished herself as she extended both arms out to her sides for better balance, then picked her way carefully back to the safety of the main pier. You’ve walked up and down piers your whole life. This is no time to get spooked.

Jory Davis’s boat was moored at slip 112, more than halfway back in the direction of the clubhouse, with side piers that were considerably more stable since they were sheltered. Theodosia walked out to Rubicon, the J-24 that he loved to pilot around Charleston Harbor and up and down the Intracoastal Waterway, put her hands on the side hull, and clambered aboard. Standing in the cockpit, she felt the rhythm of the boat, heard the noisy overhead clank of halyards against the mast. She leaned forward, stuck the key in the lock for the hatch, and turned it. Grabbing the handle, she braced herself and tugged it open.

Theodosia peered down into the boat. Jory had been right. Rubicon was seriously taking on water. At least three inches of green seawater had managed to seep inside and was sloshing around.

She searched for a bilge pump, found one, then wasn’t exactly sure how to connect the darn thing and get it started.

No, she finally told herself, leave well enough alone. The best thing to do was follow Jory’s advice. Find Billy Manolo and have him take care of this.

Still crouched on the deck, Theodosia searched for a clue that might tell her how to get in touch with the elusive Billy Manolo.

Flipping open one of the small storage bins, she found a clear plastic pouch that contained the boat’s user manual and a clutch of maps. Following her hunch, she unsnapped the pouch and rummaged through the papers.

On the inside cover of the user manual was a handwritten list of names. The fourth one down was Billy M. There was a phone number listed and an address: 115 Con-cannon.

Could this be Billy Manolo? The yacht club’s Billy Manolo? Had to be.