Seizure by Kathy Reichs Read Free Book Online Page B

dressed in a butler’s uniform stood behind me. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt, coat, and vest. A ridiculous white bowtie topped off the outfit. He’d entered so silently I hadn’t heard a sound. Weird .
    “You have a good eye.” The man drew close, nodding toward the painting. I guessed his age at somewhere north of seventy. He had a full head of white hair and thick, bushy eyebrows. My mind sent up an image of Colonel Sanders.
    Bushy Brows smiled, eyes locked on the canvas. “It’s not the priciest picture in the collection, but it has the most character .” He clenched a fist for emphasis.
    I stared, at a loss for words. The old coot seemed to have sprung straight from the carpet.
    “Sorry, my manners aren’t what they should be.” Bushy Brows extended a hand. “Rodney Brincefield. Caterer. Bartender. Amateur historian. Jack of many trades.”
    I reflexively took his hand, but my guard stayed up. Way up.
    “I work part-time for the Palmetto Club.” Brincefield winked. “I love to sneak in here and see my girl.”
    Excuse me?
    Slight step backward.
    Brincefield jabbed a gnarled thumb at the painting. “Anne Bonny. You’ve heard of her, of course?”
    Ah. The codger was an art lover. Fair enough.
    I shook my head. “I just moved to Charleston a few months ago. Was she local?”
    “Some might argue. Others would strongly disagree. No one can say for sure.”
    Um, what?
    “Anne Bonny was a fearsome pirate. Practically a legend.” Brincefield frowned to himself. “They need to teach these things in school.”
    “Pirate?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice. “I thought that was a boys’ club.”
    “Mostly, but Bonny was special. An original feminist, if you will. Centuries ahead of her time. But I won’t bore you with the details.” He sighed. “Today’s youth have no interest in history. It’s all video games and the Internets, or whatever you call them.”
    “No, no. Please go on. I’m interested.” I was.
    Brincefield gave me an appraising look.
    “You know, you look a bit like Bonny,” he remarked. “And not just the red hair.”
    I said nothing. The intensity of his gaze was making me slightly uncomfortable.
    Brincefield rubbed his chin. “Where to start?”
    I waited, feeling awkward.
    Admittedly, I did look a bit like the woman in the picture. Red hair. Tall, slender build. And she was pretty, thank you very much.
    I liked Bonny’s eyes the best. Emerald green, like mine. The artist had given them a mischievous glint, as though their owner was challenging the world. As if Bonny knew a joke the rest of us didn’t.
    I could see why the old guy admired the painting so much.
    “Bonny worked the Atlantic during the early 1700s,” Brincefield began abruptly. “Sometimes she dressed like a man, sometimes she didn’t. In this portrait Bonny is on the deck of Revenge , a ship she crewed under a pirate named Calico Jack.”
    Brincefield tapped the side of his nose. “Rumor has it, they had a thing. And he was not her husband.”
    I nodded. What else was I supposed to do?
    “ Revenge terrorized a swath of ocean from the Caribbean to the North Carolina coast. Her crew liked to hijack vessels entering or exiting Charleston Harbor. Easy pickings . . . for a while.”
    Another pause.
    “A while?” I prodded. I suspected Brincefield’s mind had a tendency to wander.
    “By the 1720s, colonial authorities were cracking down on pirates. The predators became the prey. Eventually, Calico Jack and his band were caught and put on trial. All were hanged.”
    “Hanged?” I was shocked. “Bonny was hanged?”
    My eyes flicked to the canvas. This devil-may-care woman died at the end of a rope?
    Brincefield chuckled at my dismay.
    “No one knows,” he said. “After the trial, Bonny disappeared from her prison cell.”
    “Disappeared?”
    “Poof.” He curled then splayed his fingers. “Gone.”
    “So it’s not certain she was hanged.”
    Brincefield shrugged.