OREGOING OUR USUAL route, Ben motored Sewee up the east side of the peninsula to the docks beside the South Carolina Aquarium. Charleston University reserves a slip there for the use of LIRI’s staff. It was empty, so we helped ourselves.

No, we didn’t have permission. But it was late afternoon, crazy hot, and docking there made for a much shorter walk. It’s not like CU had an armada of boats. The time saved was worth the slight risk.

We walked through the garden district, one of Charleston’s most picturesque neighborhoods. The street-corner parks were a riot of camellias, azaleas, and crepe myrtles. Ancient magnolias shaded the sidewalks, tempering the worst of the day’s heat.

On Charlotte Street we passed the famous Joseph Aiken Mansion, a nineteenth-century carriage house converted to an upscale tourist hotel. At Marion Square we took a right and reached our destination in a few short blocks.

“There,” I said. “The ugly one.”

Founded in 1773, the Charleston Museum was America’s first. Located on Meeting Street, it anchors the northern end of Museum Mile, a historic district of parks, churches, museums, notable homes, the old market, and City Hall.

“Not much to look at,” Ben commented at the museum’s front entrance.

Ben was right. The two-story edifice is not Charleston’s finest architectural moment. Bland, late-seventies drab, where dull brick meets plain brown paint. The place looks more public high school than historic landmark.

“The exhibits are pretty good,” Shelton said. “I went with my mom. Lots of natural history displays and Lowcountry stuff.”

“Check that out.” Hi pointed.

Just before the doors, an enormous iron tube gleamed in the sunlight. Thirty feet long and coal-black, the cylinder was covered in huge metal rivets. Two hatches protruded from its top. A thick wooden shaft jutted from its front end with a metal ball affixed to its tip.

A red-faced man in an aloha shirt motioned his wife into position beside the monstrosity and began snapping pictures. We approached after they’d completed their Kodak moment.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A replica of the H. L. Hunley.” Of course Shelton would know. “A Confederate submarine from the Civil War.”

“Men got inside that thing? Underwater? In the 1860s?” Hi shivered. “No thanks, pal. I’ll pass.”

“Good call, since the sub didn’t work out,” Ben said. “They found the real Hunley in 1995.”

“Where?”

“At the bottom of the harbor. Crew still inside.”

“But Hunley got her target.” Shelton read the sign next to the replica. “First sub in history to sink a ship. So she’s got that going for her.”

A nearby stand held an assortment of museum handouts. Hi grabbed one and began flipping pages.

“Oh!” he squealed. “The museum has the largest silver collection in Charleston! And a section dedicated to eighteenth-century women’s clothing!” He mock-sprinted to the doors. “I hope those exhibits aren’t sold out!”

“There’s a pirate collection, too!” I called after him. “Smartass.”

Inside, a blast of AC triggered goose bumps on my arms and legs. I’d forgotten the absurdity of museum thermostat settings. It felt like I’d entered an industrial freezer.

Enormous bones loomed to our left. “What the what?”

“The full skeleton of a right whale, one of nature’s goofiest-looking seafarers.” Shelton paraphrased from the placard. “This dude swam into Charleston Harbor in 1880 and never swam out. Tough break.”

“Somewhere in here are the remains of an extinct crocodile over twenty-five million years old.” Hi gestured vaguely past the whalebones. Then he turned, eyes wide, hands clamped together before him. “Can I go see it, Mommy? Please please please?”

“Fine.” I waved, magnanimous. “Have fun. But no talking to strangers.”

Hi winked, then set off in pursuit of his fossil. Ben, Shelton, and I proceeded to a brightly lit info desk.

“Can I help you?” A plastic name tag identified the young woman as Assistant Curator Sallie Fletcher.

Sallie definitely dressed the part. Black cardigan. White turtle-neck. Gray tweed skirt. Beyond the clothing, however, nothing was dowdy.

Sallie was pretty, with elfin features and close-cropped black hair, stylishly mussed. A tiny thing, she couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds. There were rides at Six Flags for which she might’ve failed the yardstick test.

“You guys here for the knitting exhibition?” Sallie’s caramel eyes twinkled with good humor.

Okay, did I say she was pretty? Striking was more accurate. Even stunning.

Ben flushed, straightened. Shelton focused on his shoes.

Boys. I took the lead.

“We’re looking for the exhibit on Anne Bonny.” I didn’t mention the map. No need to seem foolish right off the bat. “We understand the museum has a pirate collection?”

“That we do. Unfortunately, the display is closed for renovation right now.”

Damn.

“Any chance we could get a look anyway?” I asked. “We came such a long way.”

Sallie tapped her lips with one manicured nail. An emerald-cut diamond sparkled on her petite third finger.

“I think we can pull that off.” She beamed a mile of teeth, devastating my male companions. “Franco’s on security today, and he never leaves the booth. Bad hip. And I know the other curator fairly well, since he’s my husband.”

I could sense Ben and Shelton deflate.

Tough break guys. Otherwise, you totally had a chance.

Doofuses.

“Follow me.” Sallie popped up from her chair. “No one else is here, so I can give you a quick peek.”

We wound through the museum, collecting Hi along the way.

Sallie led us up two sets of stairs and down a long hall to a room closed off by thick black curtains.

“I’ll text Chris,” Sallie said. “He’d hate to miss a chance to pontificate about Anne Bonny. He’s infatuated.”

I hid my impatience. I just wanted access to the damn exhibit.

“He’ll be right up.” Sallie closed her phone and stretched both arms above her head. “I’m so tired of manning that desk.”

In my periphery, the Three Stooges followed her every movement. Elbow-jabbing each other in the ribs.

Good Lord.

Seconds passed. Became minutes.

Sallie broke the silence. “What got you interested in our female pirate?”

“I just learned about her,” I said. “I didn’t grow up around here. She sounds incredible.”

“Oh, she was,” a voice called from behind me. I turned. A smiling young man was striding toward us.

“Franco?” he asked Sallie.

“In his cubby. The Braves are up in the fourth, so he won’t be out for a while.”

Chris wasn’t bad looking either. Pale blue eyes, collared shirt, weathered jeans, red hair curling from under a beat-up Mets cap. Though a bit soft at the belt line, the guy radiated a sense of ease.

Chris stepped past me, arm-wrapped Sallie, then introduced himself with a round of handshakes. “It’s great to welcome Anne Bonny fans. I meet very few people your age who know of her.”

“We’re very advanced,” Hi said earnestly. “I can even zip my own pants. Most times, anyway.”

“Thank you so much for letting us steal a peek at the collection,” I said quickly. “We really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.” Chris pulled back the curtain and waved us through. “But let’s not mention this visit in the comment box.” He fired a shooter at Hi. “And nice going on that pants zipping. That’s sophisticated work.”

Hi snorted, shot him a thumbs-up.

Eyes rolling, I slipped through the drapes into darkness.