Sweet Jesus.

Rising, I brushed dirt from my knees. I had to get to a phone.

Dickie Dupree had a lot more to worry about than the ancient Sewee.

2

DEWEES ISLANDERS ARE RIGIDLY SMUG ABOUT THE ECOLOGICAL purity of living "across the way." Sixty-five percent of their little kingdom is given over to a conservation easement. Ninety percent is undeveloped. Residents prefer things, as they say, wild on the vine. No grooming, no pruning.

No bridge. Access to Dewees is by private ferry or boat. Roads are sand-based, and internal combustion transport is tolerated solely for construction service and deliveries. Oh, yeah. The island has an ambulance, a fire engine, and an all-terrain brushfire-fighting vehicle. Though fond of serenity, the homeowners aren't totally naive.

Ask me? Nature's great when on vacation. It's a pain in the ass when trying to report a suspicious death.

Dewees is only twelve hundred acres, and my crew was digging in the far southeastern corner, in a stand of maritime forest between Lake Timicau and the Atlantic Ocean. Not a chance of scoring a cell phone signal.

Leaving Topher in charge of the site, I hiked up the beach to a wooden boardwalk, used it to cross the dunes, and hopped into one of our half dozen golf carts. I was turning the key when a pack hit the seat beside me, followed by Winborne's polyester-clad buttocks. Intent on finding a working phone, I hadn't heard him trailing behind.

OK. Better than leaving the twit to snoop unsupervised.

Wordlessly, I gunned it, or whatever one does with electric carts. Winborne braced one hand on the dash and wrapped the other around an upright roof support.

I paralleled the ocean on Pelican Flight, made a right onto Dewees Inlet, passed the picnic pavilion, the pool, the tennis courts, and the nature center, and, at the top of the lagoon, hung a left toward the water. Pulling up at the ferry dock, I turned to Winborne.

"End of the line."

"What?"

"How did you get out here?"

"Ferry."

"And by ferry thou shalt return."

"No way."

"Suit yourself."

Mistaking my meaning, Winborne settled back.

"Swim," I clarified.

"You can't jus-"

"Out."

"I left a cart at your site."

"A student will return it."

Winborne slid to the ground, features crimped into a mask of poached displeasure.

"Have a good day, Mr. Winborne."

Shooting east on Old House Lane, I passed through wrought iron gates decorated with free-form shells, and into the island's public works area. Fire station. Water treatment facility. Administrative office. Island manager's residence.

I felt like a first responder after an explosion of one of those neutron bombs. Buildings intact, but not a soul to be found.

Frustrated, I recircled the lagoon and pulled in behind a two-winged structure wrapped by an enormous porch. With its four guest suites and tiny restaurant, Huyler House was Dewees's only concession to outsiders needing a bed or a beer. It was also home to the island's community center. Bounding from the cart, I hurried toward it.

Though preoccupied with the grisly find in three-east, I had to appreciate the structure I was approaching. The designers of Huyler House wanted to give the impression of decades of sun and salt air. Weathered wood. Natural staining. Though standing fewer than ten years, the place resembled a heritage building.

Quite the reverse for the woman emerging through a side door. Althea Hunneycut "Honey" Youngblood looked old, but was probably ancient. Local lore had it Honey had witnessed the granting of Dewees to Thomas Cary by King William III in 1696.

Honey's history was the topic of ongoing speculation, but islanders agreed on certain points. Honey had first visited Dewees as a guest of the Coulter Huyler family prior to World War II. The Huylers had been roughing it on Dewees since purchasing the island in '25. No electricity. No phone. Windmill-powered well. Not my idea of beach ease.

Honey had arrived with a husband, though opinions vary as to the gentleman's rank in the roll of spouses. When this hubby died Honey kept coming back, eventually marrying into the R. S. Reynolds family, to whom the Huylers sold their holdings in '56. Yep. The aluminum folks. After that, Honey could do as she chose. She chose to remain on Dewees.

The Reynolds family sold their acreage to an investment partnership in '72, and, within a decade, the first private homes went up. Honey's was number one, a compact little bungalow overlooking Dewees Inlet. With the formation of the Island Preservation Partnership, or IPP, in '91, Honey hired on as the island naturalist.

No one knew her age. Honey wasn't sharing.

"Gonna be a hot one." Honey's conversations invariably opened with references to the weather.

"Yes, Miss Honey. It surely will."

"I expect we'll hit ninety today." Honey's "I"s came out "Ah"s, and many of her syllables took on lives of their own. Via our many conversations, I'd learned that the old gal could work vowels like no one I knew.

"I expect we will." Smiling, I tried hurrying past.

"Thank God and all his angels and saints for air-conditioning."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Y'all are digging by the old tower?"

"Not far from there." The tower had been built to spot submarines during World War II.

"Finding anything?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"That's grand. We could use some new specimens in our nature center."

Not these specimens.

I smiled, and again tried moving on.

"I'll be coming by one of these days." Sun sparked the blue-white curls. "Gal's gotta keep up with island events. Did I ever tell-"

"Please excuse me, but I'm in a bit of a hurry, Miss Honey." I hated to brush her off, but I had to get to a phone.

"'Course you are. Where are my manners?" Honey patted my arm. "Soon's you get free, we'll go fishing. My nephew's living here now and he's got a dandy of a boat."

"Does he?"

"He surely does, gave it to him myself. Can't take the helm like I once did, but I still love to fish. I'll give him a holler, we'll go out."

With that, Honey strode down the path, backbone straight as a loblolly pine.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I bounded onto the porch and into the community center. Like the public works area, it was deserted.

Did the locals know something I didn't? Where the hell was everyone?

Letting myself into the office, I crossed to the desk, dialed Information, then punched a number. A voice answered on the second ring.

" Charleston County Coroner's Office."

"This is Temperance Brennan. I called about a week ago. Is the coroner back?"

"One moment, please."

I'd phoned Emma Rousseau shortly after arriving in Charleston, but had been disappointed to learn that my friend was in Florida, taking her first vacation in five years. Poor planning on my part. I should have e-mailed before I came down. But our friendship had never worked like that. When at a distance, we communicated infrequently. When reunited, we jumped in as if we'd parted only hours before.

"She'll be with you shortly," the operator updated me.

On hold, I recalled my first encounter with Emma Rousseau.

Eight years back. I was a guest lecturer at the College of Charleston. Emma, a nurse by training, had just been elected Charleston County coroner. A family was questioning her finding of "undetermined" as the manner of death in a skeletal case. Needing a consult, but afraid I'd refuse, and determined to have mine as an outside opinion, Emma hauled the bones to my lecture in a large plastic container. Impressed with such moxie, I'd agreed to help.

"Emma Rousseau."

"Got a man in a tub who's dying to meet you." Bad joke, but we used it over and over.