Chapter 29
29
But ten minutes later there hadn’t been a break in the parade, and they hadn’t moved an inch.
“This is interminable,” Drayton said. “I feel like I’m playing the lead in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot .”
“You realize only a handful of people would understand your reference?” Theodosia said.
“You did.”
“Sure, because I hang around with you. Your erudite musings occasionally rub off on me.”
“Is there nothing we can do concerning this parade?” Drayton asked.
Theodosia took a look around again. She couldn’t go forward; she couldn’t go backward. On the other hand…
“I have an idea,” Theodosia said. “If I could inch past the car ahead of us, I could hang a left, go down Bedon’s Alley, and come out on Elliott.”
“Bless you for remembering that charming little alley. But can you do it?”
“It’s going to be tight, but…”
Theodosia pulled out and started nosing past the car ahead of her. Scraping by with only inches to spare.
“Good thing that fellow’s driving a small car,” Drayton said. “If it were an SUV…no way.”
SQUEAL.
“My left tires are rubbing the curb. Let me get all the way up there,” Theodosia said as her Jeep tilted noticeably but continued to ease carefully past the car. “Wow. If I get any closer, we’ll end up in someone’s living room. How am I on your side?”
“The occupants of that car are staring at us as if we’re about to rip their car open like it’s a tin of sardines. But you’re going to make it. Keep going, there’s only a couple more feet to go.”
Then Theodosia was cranking her steering wheel left as she turned down Bedon’s Alley and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”
Bedon’s Alley was one of Charleston’s many hidden lanes and alleyways. It dated back to Revolutionary War times, when it had been a cobblestone alley lined with warehouses and small shops. Now it was a cobblestone alley with those same warehouses and shops restored as private homes.
“Look at this,” Drayton crowed as they slipped past the half dozen cozy-looking brick structures, where lights glowed inside. “We’ve got smooth sailing ahead. Nothing can go wrong now!”
Which was when a ding on Theodosia’s mobile phone punctuated his words.
Reaching into her jacket pocket, Theodosia fished out her phone, then rolled to a stop under an old-fashioned streetlamp. She looked down, saw the text message that had just arrived, and said…
“Whoa!”
“What?” Drayton asked.
Theodosia’s answer was to hold up her phone and show Drayton the text message. It said: R U coming?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
But Theodosia’s fingers were already working as she texted back: Who is this?
Seconds later, a message came back to her: time 2 find out. Then the rest of the message appeared: if u dare.
Tension starting to creep in, Theodosia texted back: Who are you? Where are you?
They both held their breath, waiting for an answer, until a final text message appeared: buzz buzz.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Drayton asked. “Another dreadful clue?” Then, a moment later, cried, “Oh my stars, this is just like the anonymous phone call you received during the podcast!”
Theodosia nodded as a dark, ominous feeling rolled over her. “It’s exactly like that. Someone’s trying to taunt me with that same buzz clue.”
“Who do you think sent that text?”
Theodosia was still looking at her phone, but there were no other messages. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it’s Jamie’s kidnapper.”
“Why would he text you and not Bettina?”
“Because…I’m the one who’s been investigating?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“Both?”
“Huh,” Drayton said.
“You know, Drayton, this might be our only chance.”
“What? To get Jamie back alive?”
Theodosia lifted a shoulder. “Not sure. But we do know that this person, whoever they are, has killed once before.”
“Celeste,” Drayton said slowly.
Theodosia thought for a few moments. “Are you willing to try a long shot?”
“Depends on what you’re talking about. And how dangerous it is.”
“I have a book I borrowed from Lois that details a couple of old sawmills in the area,” Theodosia said.
“Right. Because of the buzz reference.”
Theodosia reached around and plucked the book from the back seat, cradled it in her hands.
“Please tell me you don’t want to go driving around in the dark looking for Jamie, who may or may not be held hostage at an old sawmill,” Drayton said. “I mean, it’s way too much of a long shot.” He was talking rapidly, his voice starting to quaver. “It would be like driving up and down back alleys looking for a lost puppy.”
“If your little dog, Honey Bee, were lost, you’d never give up looking for her, would you?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton sat rigid for a few moments, staring straight ahead. Finally, he said, “No, I…of course not.” He reached over, gently took the book from Theodosia’s hands, and ruffled a few pages. “Like you said, Jamie’s missing and this might be all we have to go on.”
“Bless you,” Theodosia breathed.
* * *
Drayton sat there for another few moments, holding the book, obviously thinking things over, before he said, “So where to?”
“What’s the book say?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton thumbed through the book’s index, turned back several pages, studied one page in particular, and said, “There’s an old sawmill located near the Wheeler Plantation.”
“That’s the closest one to Charleston proper?”
He tilted the book to catch a glint of streetlight. “I believe so.”
“Then that’s where we’re going.”
Theodosia drove down Spring Street and crossed the Ashley River Bridge onto James Island. “If my recollection is correct, the Wheeler Plantation is just off Highway 61, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Drayton said. “It’s one of the older plantations that’s still standing, a rice plantation dating back to the mid-seventeen hundreds.”
“But nobody lives there.”
“Not for at least fifty or sixty years. Now it’s an historical site, a museum.”
They drove through a bit of post–World War II urban sprawl, where apartments and smaller homes snugged up with gas stations, fast-food restaurants, big-box stores, insurance agencies, and pizza parlors. Then they hit a nicer neighborhood of several planned communities where plantation-style homes sat like miniature principalities on manicured lawns. Another twenty minutes and they were out in the countryside, passing a few praise houses, shrimp stands, and the occasional house or small farm. It was full-on dark now as Theodosia’s headlights cut through the gloom.
Some twenty minutes later, Drayton said, “I believe the turnoff to the Wheeler Plantation is up ahead on our right.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.”
Moments later, Theodosia saw a sign that said Wheeler Plantation, Open to the Public Tuesday–Saturday . And underneath, ⒈／⒉ Mile Ahead . As she slowed and turned in the driveway, the venerable Georgian-style plantation came into view.
“Thank goodness it’s closed for the day,” Drayton said as he studied the main house. With its massive size and four front columns, the place looked stately and grand, as though hoop-skirted ladies should be lounging on the front veranda and sipping iced tea.
“And the parking lot looks deserted, so hopefully no guides or docents are working late.”
“Let’s hope there’s no snoopy caretaker, either,” Drayton said as they rolled into the car park. “Or gardener, since they have an absolutely spectacular azalea garden here.”
“But where’s the sawmill? Oh wait, I see a sign.”
It read Wheeler Plantation Museum , with an arrow that pointed straight ahead to the old plantation, and Historic Buckthorn Sawmill , with an arrow that pointed left. But there was no sawmill in sight.
“Fingers crossed,” Theodosia said as they bumped down a narrow gravel road, disappearing into a dark grove of trees. The trees grew thicker the deeper into the forest they drove, tires crunching underneath, leaves brushing the windshield and tickling the sides of her Jeep.
“I’m guessing from the denseness of this forest that the sawmill is no longer a working sawmill,” Drayton said.
Another five hundred yards and they came to the end of the road, where a gravel lot had room for a half dozen cars.
“Still no sawmill,” Theodosia said as they exited her Jeep.
“I’m guessing down that pathway,” Drayton said.
They started down the path just as the moon sailed behind a bank of gray clouds.
“Dark out here,” Theodosia said.
“And spooky,” Drayton said.
A rustle in the nearby bushes made Theodosia swerve to her left just as her phone rang.
Ding.
“Hello?” Theodosia said, not knowing who to expect. But it was Riley. “Did you get him? Slide?” she asked.
“I’m waiting to hear,” Riley said. “We sent one of our undercover agents over to make a buy. Bobby Kern.”
“The one you guys refer to as Harold Teen? Who looks like he’s about nineteen years old?”
“Except he’s really twenty-eight.”
“Let’s hope you get lucky and catch Mr. Slide.”
“Say,” Riley said, “I wanted to tell you that Martin Hunt checked out. He was in Atlanta on the day of Bettina and Jamie’s wedding. Attending a men’s sportswear show. We got that confirmed.”
“So Hunt’s off the hook as a suspect?”
“Completely,” Riley said.
“But no word on Jamie yet?” Theodosia asked.
“Nothing.” Then, “Where are you, anyway? You sound funny.”
“Just hanging out with Drayton.”
“Well…be careful.”
“Sure. You know me.”
Riley laughed. “I do. That’s why I’m telling you to be careful.”
When Theodosia hung up, she turned to Drayton and said, “That’s one down.”
“How so?”
“Riley got confirmation that Martin Hunt was in Atlanta the day of the wedding. Some kind of buying trip.”
“That narrows it down. Somewhat.”
“And nothing on Jamie yet.” Theodosia hunched her shoulders against the chill that was starting to creep in and wished she’d worn a heavier jacket. “But Jamie could still be here. Held captive by…someone.”
“A one-in-a-million chance, but we’ll still take a look.”
They continued down the path as the wind rose, whistled eerily, and blew away a few clouds. Now smaller puffs of clouds flew past the low-hanging moon like witches on broomsticks.
“It definitely feels like Halloween,” Drayton said. Even he looked nervous and chilly.
Then, like a gray hovel rising up out of the earth, the old sawmill came into view.
“There it is,” Theodosia whispered.
“Looks deserted,” Drayton said.
“More like dilapidated.”
They tiptoed along a trail that grew narrower and a little damp. Off to their left were a few odd plips and plops from a nearby swamp that threatened to encroach on them.
“This is awful,” Drayton said. “I’ve probably ruined my church shoes. Obviously, my socks are soaking wet, too.”
Walking up to an open-sided building, they could see nothing. No people, no saws, just a gray, weathered shell of a building with a small pile of lumber stacked inside. No Jamie, no kidnapper, no nothing.
Theodosia shook her head. “This isn’t working. It was a bad idea from the get-go.”
“But what about those texts you got?”
“Like you said before, maybe a prank—that jackhat Adam Lynch. If he can design websites and write code, chances are he’s a competent phone hacker as well.”
In silent agreement, they turned and walked back to Theodosia’s Jeep and climbed inside. Theodosia turned on the engine and cranked up the heat.
“This was always a long shot,” Drayton sighed. “Time to call it a night?”
Theodosia hated to give up but didn’t know what else to do. With a heavy heart she said, “I think so.”
That’s when her phone dinged again.