historical societies had feared most—a grave robber.
“Too bad the Herald can’t afford to print in color anymore,” Courtney commented, ruefully shaking her head of blazing red curls.
“Even in black and white, he’s pretty dreamy,” Sloan said as Courtney handed the paper to one of the other stylists, who wanted a closer look.
Brenna huffed in disgust. “Dreamy? Are you people insane? Gavin Fortune is the devil. The enemy. The scourge of historical societies the world over. The secretary of the Charleston group told me she started a website www.diefortunedie.”
Brenna’s friends stared at her.
Sloan angled her head. “Gee, Bren. We appreciate passion in our members, but as long as you pay your dues, murder isn’t part of the initiation ceremony.”
“You need some highlights to calm you down,” Courtney said, snagging her hand and leading her to the empty chair one station over.
Barely glancing at her strawberry-blond locks in the mirror, Brenna crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you guys those people were up to no good.”
“We always figured they were more interested in the treasure than the historical aspects of the discovery.” Sloan managed a small smile, even though Brenna knew she was just as worried. “That photo op looked more like an ad for swimwear than a serious scientific endeavor.”
Brenna recalled the event, the recovery team posing on the marina’s main pier with two bikini-clad girls holding up a gold plastic treasure chest, and her blood boiled all over again.
“But a lot of museums benefit from these kinds of finds,” Sloan continued.
Brenna shook her head. “Not ones that rat Fortune is involved with. He swoops in, scrounges for valuables, then sells his treasures to the highest bidder. He doesn’t care if the collection is bought as a whole or in a million pieces. We have to stop him.”
“That’s easier said than done.” Courtney pulled Brenna’s hair from its ponytail and brushed it out. “He’s rich, famous and a media charmer.”
Sloan bit her lip. “I’m not as concerned about him as an individual as I am about public opinion.”
“They’re fascinated,” Brenna agreed.
“The mayor has visions of national exposure and Palmer’s Island becoming another Kiawah-like resort destination,” Sloan said.
Courtney glanced at her. “I thought he was stuck on getting a PGA-approved golf course.”
Brenna sighed. “Somehow, I think he’d settled for a hundred-plus-year-old treasure chest full of gold and priceless jewels.”
Courtney picked up individual strands of Brenna’s hair and examined them closely. “I haven’t touched this in a month. How does it look better today than when I fixed it last?”
“Because her hair’s perfect, as always,” Sloan said.
Brenna shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.” Her dad was an Irish redhead, her mother a Southern-born bombshell blonde. She got both—at least on her head. “Thanks,” she added to her friends, not wanting to seem completely churlish. Her hair was one of her few features she actually liked. “But can we stay on topic? ”
“Hair or hot treasure hunters?” Courtney asked.
“Amoral treasure hunters,” Brenna clarified.
“I vote you confront him.”
At these abrupt words, Brenna stared at Sloan. “Me?”
“Sure.” This time Sloan’s grin was genuine. “I’m betting he’s not the kind of guy who can resist an enraged Irish pixie.”
From anybody else, Brenna would have been wildly annoyed by this comparison. Her small stature was a serious area of contention.
But she and Sloan had been friends since high school, where she was head cheerleader and Brenna had been a champion gymnast. They’d fought together to be taken seriously as athletes, surrounded by football, baseball and basketball players who were bigger, stronger and had their sports fully funded by the school district. Brenna had even earned a scholarship to the University of Florida and been an SEC champion on floor exercise before a variety of knee injuries derailed her career.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she said finally to Sloan’s suggested confrontation. “I’m too angry to be rational.”
“You’re always rational,” Sloan pointed out. “You deal with teenagers on a daily basis. If you can handle them, one amoral treasure hunter should be a relaxing vacation.”
“I agree,” Courtney said, her brown eyes sparking with enthusiasm. “You’re the one who’s done the research. You know all about Gavin Fortune and his tactics.”
Brenna glanced from Courtney to Sloan. “Are you sure this isn’t just a ploy to get a firsthand report of how hot this guy is?”
“Oh, no,” Courtney assured her, though her face flushed too quickly to be convincing. “We’re the historical society. We should have an official representative to let these guys know we’re watching them.”
Brenna swept her hand down her minuscule frame. “And you’re sure I’m the one for the job?”
“Absolutely,” Sloan said.
“You’d be better,” Brenna insisted. The edge of her indignation was wearing off, rapidly replaced by suspicion. “You’re the president of the society. Why me?”
“Because I have a pistol, and I know how to use it.”
ON THE SHORT DRIVE TO THE marina, Brenna began to seriously question the plan.
Sure, Sloan was the former sheriff’s daughter, and she did have a tendency to be impulsive and passionate, but she was their leader. Wasn’t it her duty to handle the big problems?
Maybe Brenna had started the cause of watching the ship’s excavation, but she had personal issues with the situation that had to be taken into account. And though she was upset, the whole “I’m too angry to be rational” thing had been a weak excuse. Mostly she was a talker, not a fighter.
She could easily intimidate high school kids with a glare, but confronting a man of Gavin Fortune’s … well, breadth—given the tightness of his T-shirt in the newspaper picture— wasn’t an area of strength.
Since Palmer’s Island was an Atlantic Ocean barrier island near Charleston, South Carolina, just over three miles wide and five miles long, the trip from the centrally located hair salon to the marina at the tip—even with summer tourist season in full swing—took about three minutes. As she pulled off Beach Road, which ran the length of the island and allowed glimpses between the fabulous beach houses to the rolling sea sliding onto the sand, she searched the crowded parking lot for an empty space.
Tall palmetto trees, whose long green fronds swayed in the breeze, were flanked by their bushy shrub cousins and rows of sea oats. Puffy white clouds were the only things dotting the bright blue sky. Though the
