Ryan shot me a questioning look.

"When did you name your Jeep Woody?"

"This morning."

"You made that up."

"Inspired by GI Joe."

"Pete was a Marine. And don't say ridiculous things to him. I don't want him thinking you're a clown."

Isabella Halsey lived on King Street, deep in the heart of old Charleston. As usual, that district was crowded with people who looked like they'd arrived on the Donald Duck parking shuttle. Women in designer sundresses, or in shorts that barely covered their cheeks. Men with large bellies and mesh baseball caps blankly gazing, or talking on cell phones while wearing golf shirts and eighteen-hole tans. Sunburned kids. Hand-holding newlyweds, or weds-to-be.

The Old City Market was a hive of activity. Ice cream peddlers jangling their bicycle bells. Black ladies selling flowers and sweetgrass baskets, or offering to cornrow your hair. Husbands shooting footage of Mom and the kids. Retirees puzzling over walking-tour maps. Teens pointing throwaway Kodaks at each other. Vendors hawking beans, pralines, and peach preserves.

Halsey's address was just off the Battery, a harbor-front commons complete with statues, cannons, and a Victorian bandstand. The little park always strikes up a Sousa march in my head.

It also strikes up memories of fourth grade history with Sister Mathias. It was from the Battery, in April of 1861, that Charlestonians watched Confederate soldiers battle Union troops holed up across the water at Fort Sumter. Bonjour, Civil War. Some historical preservationists have yet to say adieu, and fight to preserve the Confederate flag and to sing "Dixie."

After parking, Ryan and I headed south on East Bay. Past Rainbow Row, we took Tradd three blocks inland to a narrow brick-paved portion of Church.

Unlike Cruikshank's humble digs, Halsey's home would have warranted the name "Magnolia Manor." Window boxes overflowed with flowers, and the side yard was crowded with the spreading breadth of the grand old trees.

Though realtors would use the terms "authentic," "original," and "uncorrupted" to describe the house itself, "handyman's delight" popped into my mind. The beige stucco, black shutters, and wrought iron fencing all needed paint. The walkway and courtyard pavers were green with infiltrating moss.

Approaching the gate, Ryan and I were enveloped in the fabled blossom scent.

"Washington log some Z's here?" Ryan asked in a low voice.

"The general did sleep around."

Through the magnolias, I could see a woman sitting at a side yard table, her white hair dappled with sunlight. The woman was knitting. Though her jaw, neck, and arms had the loose, wrinkled tissue of the elderly, her hand movements were strong and confident.

"The lady in the barrel was around forty," I said. "If the victim is Halsey, that could be her mother."

Ryan laid a hand on my shoulder. I looked at him. The Viking blues held an expression I couldn't read. A recognition of my caring? An acknowledgment that I did, indeed, feel things deeply?

Ryan nodded encouragingly.

"Excuse me," I called into the courtyard.

The woman's head came up, but she didn't look our way.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am." I hesitated, unsure what words to use. "We're here about Cleopatra?"

The woman turned toward us. Sunlight on her glasses masked the expression in her eyes.

"Ma'am? May we speak with you a moment?"

The woman hunched forward and her mouth tightened into an inverted U. Setting her knitting on the table, she waved us into the yard. As Ryan and I crossed to her, the woman pulled smokes from a pocket and lit up.

"Join me?" The woman offered a pack of Davidoff mini-cigarillos.

Ryan and I declined.

"Lord in heaven with all his angels and saints." The woman flapped a blue-veined hand. "You young folk run from tobacco, take the caffeine outa your coffee, the cream outa your milk. Sissies. That's what I call y'all. Sissies. Want some sweet tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Cookie?"

"No, thank you."

"'Course not. Might be real butter in those cookies. From a real cow." To me. "You a model, buttercup?"

"No, ma'am." Why was I always targeted for nicknames?

"Oughta be. You're skinny enough." The woman placed her free hand under her chin and smiled up through lowered lids, Lana Turner posing for a studio shot. "Miss Magnolia Blossom, 1948." Chuckling, she drew a cigarillo hit. "A few of my parts sag a touch now, but this old gal had every chin in Charleston wagging back then."

The woman pointed at a wrought iron bench. "Set yourselves."

Ryan and I sat.

"Lemme guess. You and this young man are researching the lifestyles of Dixie's rich and famous?"

"No, ma'am. I-"

"I'm pulling your leg, buttercup. Get to it. Why are you and handsome asking after dead Egyptians?"

"I'm speaking of a cat."

The wrinkled eyes narrowed, then widened behind their lenses.

"You referencing my Cleo?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You found my wandering cat?"

Leaning forward, I placed a hand on the old woman's knee. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this. Cleo is dead. We located your address through an ID chip implanted beneath her skin." I took a deep breath. "Cleo's body was found with that of a woman. We suspect the dead woman was Cleo's owner."

A glint came into the wrinkled old eyes. I braced for tears.

"Isabella Halsey?" the woman asked.

"Yes."

I expected heartbreak, anger, disbelief. I got none of those.

The woman chuckled again.

Ryan and I glanced at each other.

"You think this old gal's shuffled off."

I sat back, confused.

"You're right and you're wrong, buttercup. Poor Cleo may be pushing up daisies with her mistress. But that unfortunate soul sure as the Lord in heaven isn't me."

Déjà vu. Wadmalaw Island. Chester Pinckney.

Twice in one week? I felt my face redden.

"You are Isabella Cameron Halsey?" I guessed.

"Alive and kickin'." Pulling wadded tissue from her décolletage, Halsey blotted her cheeks. "Or at least knittin'. About all that's tolerable on a scorcher like this."

"Cleopatra was your cat?"

"She surely was."

"You had the chip implanted?"

"I surely did." Theatrical sigh. "Sadly, Cleo loved another."

"What do you mean?"

"Hard as I tried, that cat was never content with me. Just had to roam, the furry little slut." Halsey eyed Ryan coyly. "Pardon my French, sir."

"Pas deproblème, madame." No problem. Ryan's accent was over-the-top Parisian.

Halsey fluttered her lashes. Ryan beamed her a smile.

"What happened to Cleopatra?" I asked.

"I tired of unrequited love. One day, I just opened the door and set her free."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

"She took up with another."

"Do you know who?"

"'Course I do. I used to see them together at the park."

The name provided our first big break.