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A hint of something lingered in his voice, probably having to do with the new digs he hadn’t mentioned securing earlier, but I didn’t stop to analyze it.
Clearly, he wanted to surprise us, and we were at his mercy.
Ten minutes later, Asa was pulling into a parking deck off Hasell Street. The area was pocked with restaurants, but I didn’t spot a hotel on the way in. Clay didn’t enlighten us either. Just smiled and loaded his arms with wig boxes then waited for us to take the hint and catch up to him.
The parking deck lacked an elevator on our end, so we took the stairs. As soon as Clay hit the sidewalk, he made a tight right turn and stopped before a set of double doors that led, I thought, into a barbeque joint. Except, upon closer inspection, the restaurant was gutted top to bottom. Closed for good then.
Clay punched in a code he read off his phone that unlocked the doors, then he called for the elevator.
“I’m getting horror movie vibes here.” I peered around him. “Where are we going?”
“You’re questioning Charleston’s quirky charm.” Clay nudged me back. “Just give it a minute.”
We gave it a minute and a half before the elevator arrived, and its doors slowly peeled aside.
Asa stuck to my side, his expression distant, his attention somewhere else. By some miracle, we all fit in the car together. And yes, I did the math to ensure our weight fell below the guidelines. Well below.
The ride up lasted another eternity, which gave me plenty of time to skim a printed note that informed passengers the ride was ninety seconds up and ninety seconds down. It advised us to enjoy the ride.
A geriatric ding announced our arrival on the top floor, and the doors opened onto a short hall.
We clogged the exit in a rush of sharp elbows and angled shoulders in our mutual eagerness to escape.
“This is unexpectedly nice for lodgings above a sketchy vacant rib shack.”
One thing was for certain. No one was going to stumble over us here by accident.
“Please sign the guestbook like that.” Clay chortled. “I’m sure the owner would love it.”
Another hint of that something had me asking, “Who’s the owner?”
“Frank Tally.” He wiggled his phone at me. “He’s the father of a cashier from Bridge’s Biscuits.”
I committed the name to memory—the restaurant, not the father—in case I needed another grits fix.
“A random cashier gave you a tip on where to stay?”
Granted, Charleston was a major tourist destination, and plenty of locals had their own side hustles to cash in on. Real estate was a big one. Lots of old buildings got chopped up and remodeled into vacation rentals.
“What can I say?” He grew wistful. “We bonded over a shared love of pimento.”
“She could tell he was a tourist from his accent.” Colby rolled her eyes at his dramatics, which she not so secretly loved. “She asked where he was from, what brought him to the Holy City, where he was staying. The usual chitchat. He said he hadn’t decided yet and asked if she had any recommendations as a local.”
Pretty standard, especially if she had a reason to angle the conversation in that direction.
“Her dad renovated the upper floor,” Clay cut in. “She texted me the address and told me to check it out on the VacayNStay app. She promised I wouldn’t find a better deal for easy downtown access, and I took her word for it. Her freckles made her seem trustworthy, and who am I to doubt a lady’s beauty marks?”
“You just wanted her number.”
“True.” He held up a finger. “But, as fate would have it, this is also a prime location.”
At this rate, he was going to sprain an elbow patting himself on the back.
“For once, your flirting paid off.” I noticed bronze plaques beside each doorway. “Which ones are we?”
“The Sweet Caroline and the Charleston Shuffle, but I rented all four to give us the entire floor.”
“Cute names.” I had to admire clever marketing. “How big are these suites?”
