"I just had a few questions. You see, there's an anomaly I just wanted to follow up on."

"Anomaly?" Miss Delia asks.

"Yes, it's means there's something unexpected or unusual."

Miss Delia leans forward, pursing her lips. "I know what it means, young man. What I don't understand is why you've come bothering me about it."

"You gave us a box of pirate doubloons from The Dagger, a pirate ship that sank off the tip of Coffin Point in the eighteenth century."

"Yes?"

"It's a remarkable find. Tell me, how did you come to possess such a treasure?"

She leans back in her chair. "I dug it up. In my front garden." She points a gnarled finger toward the catnip bushes in the far corner.

He laughs, gripping his midsection with his spindly hand. "Really? Imagine that."

She smiles. "Yes, indeed."

"Over there?" He puts his briefcase down then steps his wing-tipped feet through a cl.u.s.ter of juniper, past a row of dwarf holly, then leaps over some echinacea to the catnip. Bending down, he scoops up a teeming handful of dark brown earth, then sifts it with his fingers. "It's hard to believe something so valuable was just lying here, waiting to be discovered."

Miss Delia shrugs. "Not really, seeing as it came out of the ground."

He stares at the soil in his hand. "It's rich and moist." He sniffs it. "I believe the term is loamy, isn't? Clumps when you squeeze it."

"And your point is?" Miss Delia is clearly losing her patience with him, his anomaly, and his fascination with the quality of her dirt.

Grinding the last bit of grit between his two forefingers, he seems not to have heard her question. "The secret is plenty of humus. Without it, this would be just another dry patch of ground unable to grow anything."

Miss Delia and I exchange bewildered looks. Did he really come out here to do a soil a.n.a.lysis?

Taneea shifts her hip and crosses her arms. "Um, who cares about her dirt? I thought you were here to talk about her donation."

I'm not sure whether to be happy or insulted that she and I on the same wavelength.

"Oh, I am." He finally pulls his attention away from the dirt and stands. "You see, I can't understand how a wooden box could have stayed so pristine buried in such moist conditions. Surely it would have deteriorated and likely fallen apart after nearly three hundred years."

A wave of relief floods over me. Finally something I can answer. "That's because it was encased in a tabby box. I helped uncover it myself." The words fly from my lips before I can think. Miss Delia's good eye stabs in my direction. She doesn't need words to let me know she thinks I've made a giant mistake.

His smile broadens as his slick brows arch. "Tabby? I didn't think that old concrete was used this far inland. Seems much easier to mix oyster sh.e.l.ls and sand along the sh.o.r.e."

My stomach flitters, filled with nerves. Despite Miss Delia's obvious preference to the contrary, I can't clam up now. I've got to answer his questions so he'll hit the road and leave us alone. I shrug. "I don't know about that. All I can say is the box was definitely hidden in a hunk of tabby. But it doesn't matter as much as the fact that Miss Delia gave it to the King Center, right? I mean, it's a piece of St. Helena history. Do you think she should have given it to someone else?"

"How about keeping it for herself and fixing this place up?" Taneea casts a disapproving glance at Miss Delia's house.

"Oh, don't misunderstand me, Miss..." Claude pauses, expecting me to fill in my last name. But judging by the way Miss Delia's brows are knit in a stern and not-so-subtle warning, I keep my mouth shut. An awkward moment later, he continues. "The King Center greatly appreciates Miss Whittaker's bequest. It's an exquisite addition to the collection." He sidesteps some spindly heather, weaves through some lavender bushes, then crosses over the juniper. "Our curator has already planned a seafaring exhibit around it."

"That's nice to know," Miss Delia says. "You be sure to let me know when it's up and running and I'll try to visit sometime. Now, unless you want to trample the rest of my garden, I think we're done."

"It is a lovely plot. Very well stocked. And now that you've explained about the tabby concrete, everything seems so clear." He picks up his briefcase. An ultrawhite smile slides across his face. "Thanks again for your time, Miss Whittaker." He turns around and steps toward the white picket fence. I sigh, glad to finally be rid of his weird energy. But then he pauses and pivots on his heels. "Oh, there's one more thing I forgot to ask." He lifts a slender finger to his chin.

Miss Delia sighs. "What's that?"

"Do you have any idea why the engraving on the box matches an artifact that was recently stolen from the museum?" His voice is as smooth as a polished stone. Spreading his hands about twelve inches apart, he adds, "It was a knife, about yay big. Made from the same type of wood as the box. Our curator thinks they were made around the same time, too. Perhaps even by the same hand."

My stomach plummets as I strain to keep my eyes from popping out of my head.

Sucking her teeth, Miss Delia shakes her head. "Can't say I do."

"Sounds kind of hinky to me," Taneea says.

Claude's eyes flit in Taneea's direction. "Perhaps it's just a coincidence. Though it's funny that one object would show up so soon after the other went missing."

Miss Delia shrugs. "Ain't nothing predicable about the Lowcountry."

His thin lips bend at the ends. "True enough. Well, I've taken enough of your time, ladies. Miss Taneea, I hope you visit the King Center sometime." He bows slightly, then turns his attention back to Miss Delia. "You're not planning on going anywhere, are you? In case I have further questions."

She gestures toward her wheelchair. "Can't go too far." She holds his gaze as their eyes lock in some sort of strategic stare-down, neither one wanting to be the first to look away.

An awkward moment later, he gives in. "Good to know. Have a nice afternoon." He turns on his heels and heads to his car.

Frozen, I watch as he tugs open the door, then slides into the front seat. After he's pulled out of the yard and rounded the bend in the road, I exhale, purging my lungs of stale air. Sucking for breath, the garden's sweet scent does nothing to revive me. Instead, a sense of doom encroaches like the incoming tide.

I made a giant mistake all right. Claude wasn't here for a social call. And he didn't give a rat's tail about Miss Delia's garden. He clearly suspects she was involved in the museum break in, and now, thanks to my blabbering about finding the box in tabby concrete, he knows I'm involved, too.

Chapter Seven.

The gray clouds part, revealing the bright sun once again.

Taneea sighs. "He was nice. But now I'm bored. I guess I'll paint my nails again." She stomps back up to the house and slams the screen door.

Swallowing hard, I step close to Miss Delia. "What the heck just happened? Who was that guy?"

She shakes his head. "An investigator. He said so himself."

"Yeah, but he was way weird. And creepy."

"That he was. But I don't want you to worry your head over him. So long as you keep out of his sights, you'll be fine."

Despite the rising heat, a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, powered by the growing sense of foreboding that's swirling in my gut. "But he obviously suspects you, and probably me now, of being involved in the museum robbery."

She swats her hand. "Shh, never you mind about him. Let me handle him. In the meantime, you've got clippings to prepare for me." She points to the basket I left on the porch.

"Okay. Sure." I pivot on my heels and head up to the house, trying to squelch my worry. But that's almost like telling an ice cube not to melt in this heat, especially since I know something she doesn't: we never got rid of the dagger like we planned.

Inside the safety of Miss Delia's kitchen I fumble with my cell phone, dialing Jack's number.

He answers on the third ring. "Yo, what up?"

"I need you to guys to come get me," I whisper in case Taneea is lurking nearby, listening in.

He laughs. "What, Taneea driving you crazy?"

"No. Well, yeah of course, but she's not the problem. It's something else. Which is why I need you guys. Now."

"Are you serious?" He sounds as if I just canceled his date with the prom queen. "We're about to take off for Hunting Island. I just dropped the dock lines."

"Tie them back up. Send Cooper over to get me and meet us back at the Big House. Oh, and bring the knife with you."

"What knife?"

Is he for real? How many pirate daggers do we have lying around the house? I sigh. "The knife. The one we never got around to returning."

After a long moment of silence it finally hits him. "Oh, that knife." His voice flattens like a deflated balloon. "Aw man, I really wanted to go sailing."

"Sorry. Maybe another day."

"Yeah, maybe. See you soon." The line goes dead.

Breathing deep, I still my mind to remember all the ingredients for my energy potion. Separating the cuttings I need from those Miss Delia wants for her reserves, I stow mine in a Ziploc bag, then toss them into my messenger bag. There isn't time to do everything I promised, but I can hang most of the fresh cuttings to dry in the heat on her back porch. Just as I finish, I hear the familiar hum of Cooper's station wagon. Finally.

Bolting through the house, I pa.s.s Taneea slumped on the couch, her hot-pink toes perched on the coffee table. She's sneering at the thick gla.s.s screen on Miss Delia's ancient television. As much as I'd hate to have to watch it myself, I can't help but laugh that she's got no other choice.

Miss Delia has wheeled herself up on the porch and is talking with Cooper. Though his jade-green eyes are filled with concern, they still sparkle when he sees me. "Everything okay, Emmaline?" His gaze shifts between me and Miss Delia.

She waves her hand, dismissing his worry. "Only as much trouble as a horsefly causes a nag. And nothing a swatting tail can't fix." She grins, no doubt to dismiss any lingering concerns.

But it doesn't make me feel any better. Or untwist the knot in my stomach.

Twenty minutes later, Cooper and I arrive at the Big House. Being with him has helped calmed my nerves, but the jitters aren't entirely gone, because deep in my gut, despite Miss Delia's a.s.surances to the contrary, I know Mr. Claude Corbeau is going to be a problem.

As we step into the foyer, a loud sc.r.a.ping sound echoes down the hall, as if someone's shoving a large piece of furniture across a stone floor.

Cooper grunts as he shakes his head. "Don't tell me Missy's at it again."

Although it's been days since her argument with Beau, she's still on a rampage, tearing apart nearly every room on the first floor, still searching for the Beaumont ruby. To avoid Beau's rage, Cooper's taken it upon himself to clean up after her and sometimes even help if it means nothing will get broken.

"Ouch! My nail." Missy's voice carries, shrill and angry from the solarium at the end of the east wing.

"Sounds like she's pushing that wrought-iron baker's rack around. I hope she removed the margarita goblets from the top rack first."

Metal grates against flagstone pavers once again. A second later, Missy squeals, followed by a cascade of shattering gla.s.s.

Cringing, Cooper and I turn to each other. "Oops."

Beau's voice booms from the library. "Missy! What was that?" His words are slurred.

"Nothing, sugar."

"I don't want any part of that mess." Cooper grabs my hand and sprints up the grand staircase toward his room. I'm not sure if he's talking about the literal mess splattered across the solarium floor, or the inevitable fight that'll erupt when Beau realizes what she's done. Either way, I'm with him.

When we get upstairs, Jack is still not there so I sit at Cooper's desk and open his laptop.

Cooper shuts his door. "You going to tell me what's going on?"

"As soon as Jack gets here, I promise."

He pulls up a chair next to me. "Until then, we could do something other than surf the Web." He grazes the back of my neck with his finger.

A chill, definitely the delicious kind, flits over my skin. Giggling, I inch away. "As much as I'd like that, I need to check something first." I type Claude's name into the search engine hoping to find something. The only result is from last week's Beaufort Gazette. Cooper moves closer, nuzzling the flesh behind my ear as I click through and skim a story about the King Center's new security consultant brought in to investigate the recent break-in. Beau was even quoted taking credit for finding the world-cla.s.s investigator and making the board hire him.

Exhaling, I try to block out the sensations created by Cooper's lips. It's nearly impossible, except for the niggling question that keeps running through my brain: if Claude is so awesome and famous, why aren't there any other references to him or some of the big cases he's solved? I look away from the screen and stare out the window to ponder the possibilities.

Something on the pane draws my attention. Three slimy smudges smear the gla.s.s.

"Ew, what's that?"

Cooper pulls away. "What? I thought you liked it when I kiss your neck." He looks insulted. And a little hurt.

I chuckle. "No, I love it. I'm talking about that." Pointing to the window, I get up to take a closer look.

The clear streaks are thick and goopy, and sort of look like someone's slathered a handful of hair gel across the gla.s.s. But that's ridiculous because, for one, who the heck would do that? And two, it's on the exterior side of the pane. Besides, since Cooper doesn't use gel, I doubt there's even a tube of the stuff in the house.

Cooper steps beside me and squints at the splotches on his window. "I don't know. Maybe it's just dirty. I'll ask your dad to zap it with the power washer."

My scalp p.r.i.c.kles, but unlike a few moments ago when Cooper's touch made my flesh sizzle, the feeling moves way beyond tickling to almost burning. Though my fingers itch to soothe the fiery sensation, I've done this long enough to know it's got nothing to do with the skin on my head. I'm supposed to take note of this stuff.

"No, I think it's something else." I unhinge the lock and release the side b.u.t.tons to allow the frame to tilt inside. The humid air gushes in, warming his air-conditioned room and carrying the luscious scent of the pink magnolia beside the house.

Bending down, I peer at the smudge. A whiff of something sharp and bitter slams my nostrils, making me pull away. Nausea swells and my mouth floods with sour saliva. "Ugh, gross!" Covering my mouth with my palm, I gag.

I've smelled something similar once before. Last summer, while Jack and I were down south and my mom was on her dig at the sandstone cliff buildings in Petra, our freezer broke down. When we got back just before school started, the mildewed and rotting food was a biohazard of epic proportions. Even after we got rid of it, the stench lingered in our apartment for almost a week. This smell, the one coming from the residue on Cooper's window, reminds me of the funk that hovered in our kitchen those last few days.

Cooper scoops his head to sniff, then looks up at me, quirking his brow. "It's a little nasty, but it's not that bad."

"Seriously?" I cough, my throat burning. "It's putrid."

"I guess I must be stuffed up or something." Reaching over, he stretches his fingers toward the slime.