by Karen White
“I wouldn’t eat that orange if I were you. It’s been dried,” I said, eyeing the fruit he still held in his hand.
“Oh, right,” he said, tossing it to me.
I somehow managed to catch the orange. “And one last thing.”
He looked at me expectantly.
“Be careful. I’d stay away from the mausoleum for now until I can figure out a plan.”
We said our good-byes and I watched him exit, closing the door behind him. When I turned around to resume my task, all the oranges from the box were now on the floor, neatly lined up to make a perfect X.
CHAPTER 9
As I locked up my clients’ house, juggling the box of oranges and satisfied with the precisely arranged cloves sticking into their skins, I heard my name being called. I turned around and spotted Veronica’s daughter and Nola’s friend, Lindsey Farrell, and her father, Michael, walking what appeared to be a snowball white husky puppy.
“Need some help?” Michael called as he rushed up the steps to take the box.
“Thanks,” I said. “My car’s right over here—if you can just stick the box in the back, I’d appreciate it.”
I used my remote to pop open the trunk, and while he was fitting the box inside, I turned to greet Lindsey. “It’s nice to see you—Nola didn’t mention that you got a new puppy.”
I bent down to scratch the ball of fluff behind the ears, his gorgeous blue eyes happily staring into mine while his little pink tongue lolled. Ever since getting my own dog, I’d become hyperaware of other dogs. I couldn’t walk down the street without smiling at them or asking to pet them, and I would be humiliated if Jack ever found out, because my official line was that I wasn’t a dog person. Even though I now owned three and one of them slept on my pillow. I wasn’t a person who wanted to advertise that she’d relaxed any of her personal rules.
“He was a birthday surprise from my mom.” Lindsey leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “My dad isn’t too happy, but I’ve always wanted a dog. His name is Ghost.”
I looked at her, startled. “Ghost?”
“Yeah. You know. Like from Game of Thrones.”
I stared at her blankly.
“Like in the HBO series based on the books by George R. R. Martin,” she prompted.
I could tell she wanted to roll her eyes when I showed no recognition, but because I was Nola’s stepmom and an adult, she resisted. “Yes, well, I don’t have a lot of extra time nowadays with the twins and work.”
“And the house,” she said. “My dad says keeping up with a historic house is like living with a persistent and fat mosquito with a hole in its stomach that keeps sucking you dry.”
I pretended to be appalled, trying to forget how I’d once thought much the same thing. And still did on occasion, like when Sophie announced we had wood rot on the front piazza and we needed to restore the wood rather than replace it with something less vulnerable to the elements. Like with anything that wasn’t wood.
“You got that right,” Michael said as he approached. He jerked his chin in the direction of the car. “Doing more magic tricks with oranges?” His tone was light, but his eyes weren’t, and I knew he was remembering the orange thrown at him in my dining room.
I feigned ignorance. “Actually, those are for progressive dinner house decorations. Since your house is one of the dessert course houses, I was about to call Veronica to see if I could get into your house now since it’s so close. Sophie wanted me to measure the fireplaces so she would know how much garland we’d need, and also to look around to get an idea of what else we might need for the house. Yours is a Victorian, so it will be a little different than the rest. I’m not really sure how different, but I told her I’d take pictures with my phone and let her figure it out.”
“I can do that,” Michael said. “Or Veronica. No need for you to take up more of your day.”
I was more than eager to agree, knowing I had just enough time to stop by Glazed for a doughnut and latte before an appointment I had at the office. But the sudden scent of Vanilla Musk made me close my mouth. “Actually, Sophie will just make me come back and do it, so I might as well get it taken care of the way she wants it the first time.” I forced a big grin, recalling something Jack had once said about me. “You know how some people are—everything has to be just right, and done exactly as they would have done it, or it’s just not good enough.”
“Mom’s not home, but the front door is unlocked if you don’t want to wait for us to finish walking Ghost,” Lindsey offered.
Michael started to protest, saying something about coming with me, but I spoke over him. I still couldn’t put a finger on why I didn’t want to be alone with him, and settled on the memory of the orange being thrown across the room at him. “Don’t be silly—I don’t want to be a bother or interrupt your family time. I promise to be quick, and I probably won’t even be there when you get back. Nice to see you both,” I said cheerily, trying to ignore the icy touch of the hand on my arm.
I walked the three blocks to the yellow Victorian on Queen Street. I’d passed it many times, even remembered hearing speculation about it going on the market after the former owners, Veronica’s parents, had moved to an assisted-living community. Veronica and Michael had moved in instead, making it a home for their only child, Lindsey. I hadn’t known any of this at the time, of course, having not yet reconnected with my old college classmate, but I remembered the house.
It was a pretty Queen Anne complete with an asymmetrical façade and a dominant front-facing gable. Until I’d met Sophie, I’d just called this style of house old and would have shown it to every buyer who stopped in my office looking for a piece of Charleston history regardless of which period they specified. Most buyers hadn’t known much more about historic architecture than I did, the only impediment to their purchase usually the asking price. Despite many houses requiring extensive renovations, the prices were still higher than that for a four-bedroom new build in Poughkeepsie. But the desire to own a historic house in the Holy City kept me in business, which I was very grateful for even if I did not exactly understand it.
I walked through the front gate and up the steps to the wraparound porch. It didn’t matter if the door was unlocked or not because it opened before I reached it, the heavy scent of Vanilla Musk saturating the chilly air. This was the house Veronica and her sister, Adrienne, had grown up in. Although Adrienne had been murdered while living in a dorm at the College of Charleston, it would make sense that this house, where she’d had so many happy memories, would be the place to which she’d return.
Victorian architecture, with its accompanying interiors and emphasis on dark wood, heavy fabrics, and clashing patterns, was my least favorite in my repertoire of old houses. As I stood in an arched doorway leading from the small entry hall into the front parlor, I couldn’t tell if the look was intended to appear old or was simply dated. Beneath the lingering scent of Vanilla Musk, the pervading air of the room was of stale emptiness. Any past warmth or hint of comfort and family had long since vacated the premises.
I remembered from one of my earlier conversations with Veronica that Michael wanted to sell the house, saying that the renovations and repairs were too much. But after a box containing the contents of Adrienne’s dorm room at the time of her death had been discovered in the attic, along with a new clue in the form of a necklace, Veronica couldn’t let it go.
I pulled out my measuring tape—always carried alongside my ruler because one should always be prepared—and iPhone to measure the mantels and take pictures according to Sophie’s directions, glad I had Nola as my personal technology manager. I’d never been good with any kind of electronic equipment, mostly because the devices always seemed to die or lose power when I came too close to lonely spirits wanting my attention. But even Nola had faith that I could manage the camera function on my phone and that even if my camera died, the photos would be
put on a cloud somewhere so I wouldn’t lose them. I figured I didn’t need to know how things worked, but should just be happy that they did.
I stepped into the parlor and, after quickly measuring and jotting down the width of the mantel, aimed my camera at the heavily carved fireplace with the wavy mirror above it. A marble urn stood on each end of the mantel, and I hoped they didn’t contain ashes, because Sophie would want me to stick greenery in them along with an orange or two for decoration.
A definite presence accompanied me as I walked through the open pocket doors to the dining room and then to the woefully outdated kitchen. Shiny floral wallpaper covered the walls, matching the harvest gold and avocado green appliances and laminate countertops. Although it needed a complete kitchen gut job and some cosmetic fixes, there would still be potential buyers lined up outside the door hoping to be able to call this address home. Invariably, they’d ask if the house was haunted—some enthusiastically and others less so—and I’d give a soft laugh to show them that I was in on the joke, because of course ghosts weren’t real.
I sniffed the air, smelling the familiar perfume. I wondered why Adrienne chose not to show herself to me. I speculated whether it had to do with the other presence I sensed, the one that wasn’t so friendly. The one whose dark and angry voice had come through my mother’s mouth when she’d held the necklace found in the attic. My mother would say Adrienne was saving her energy in case she needed it to protect me.
I continued to measure and snap photos of the downstairs, my Realtor’s brain automatically doing the calculations necessary for updating the house, not just for more comfortable modern living, but also for resale. As I passed through the small foyer toward the front door, I found myself hesitating at the bottom of the stairs. The wide steps were covered in dark wood and a somber-hued floral pattern. The heavy wooden balustrade jutted up alongside the steps before turning at the landing under a brilliant stained glass window and then continuing to the upper floors and the attic.
It was neither inviting nor welcoming, yet I felt a firm push on my back, nudging me forward, and when I tried to turn around, I found my way blocked by unseen hands.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Go ahead and show me whatever it is you want me to see, but I can’t promise anything other than that I will tell my sister and my mother so they can help you if they can. That’s it.”
Jayne had told me that her argument with Detective Riley had come from her insistence that she advertise her abilities, and he had said it would only bring the crazies out of the woodwork to harass her. I happened to agree with him, which sidelined this investigation and any other cold cases for which he’d hoped to solicit our help. I had enough going on in my life anyway, so I didn’t miss being involved. Not that the ghosts were paying any attention to my time-out.
Slowly, I climbed the stairs, holding tightly to the balustrade as I remembered other stairs on other occasions, and a solid push that could send a person hurtling to the bottom. I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. The old wood risers creaked under my feet, lending an uneasy feeling of foreboding and making me long for the creaking floors in my own house, which sounded more welcoming than frightening.
The upstairs hallway with its dark rose runner and mauve walls lent the effect of a funeral home, and, following a cursory glance to show Adrienne I’d done my best, I made to head back down the stairs. But the entity walking with me continued to forcefully guide me toward the stairs leading to the attic door.
I climbed the last flight of steps, then stood staring at the wooden door panels and the ceramic doorknob, hoping the door was locked so that I could turn around and leave. Not that it mattered, as the door swung open in front of me and I was pushed into a musty space. The rainbow of muted colors descending from the dirty stained glass windows on either side of the large room did nothing to dispel the darkness and gloom of the attic.
Hulking shapes of furniture draped with sheets were pushed against the walls, along with a child’s miniature kitchen, grocery store, and baby stroller complete with Raggedy Ann doll strapped inside, sightless eyes reflecting the stained glass. The room echoed with what sounded like a sigh, an exhalation of memories and time. It weighted the air, the single sound carrying all the loss and grief of a life cut short. I closed my eyes for a moment, then jerked them open again as I felt a small shove on my shoulder.
I stepped forward, my foot colliding with the side of a cardboard box. Packing tape had been ripped from the top seam and lay curled against the box, the flaps stuck beneath one another to keep it closed. As if knowing what I was supposed to do, I leaned forward and pulled open the flaps, recognizing immediately that this was Adrienne’s box. A sorority scrapbook sat pressed against one side, and photographs and invitations to various events were sprinkled like confetti over a small heart-shaped throw pillow and a College of Charleston Cougars baseball hat.
I rifled through the mementos of a college freshman, trying to determine what Adrienne wanted me to see, knowing this was the box Veronica and Detective Riley had already gone through. Frustrated, I straightened. “You’ve brought me all the way up here, but you’ve got to be more specific. They found the broken chain and charm already. We’re just not sure what it means—if anything.”
I felt a small stab of panic. After my mother had touched the necklace and the dark voice had come from her, I’d taken it away. I just had no recollection of what I’d done with it. I remembered putting it somewhere so special that even I couldn’t remember exactly where. Or maybe subconsciously I’d known then that I hadn’t wanted anything to do with it.
“I have to go, Adrienne. I’ll let Jayne know I was here. Maybe she can find out more—”
I was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming shut and a dog barking. “Hello, Mrs. Trenholm.” Lindsey’s voice traveled up the stairs. “We’re back!”
I stood frozen, staring at the door and wondering how I’d explain my presence in the attic. I contemplated hiding there until everyone was asleep and then sneaking out but quickly dismissed the idea. If I was caught, the headlines would be worse than any recounting my ghost-seeing abilities.
I was in the middle of calculating how long it would take me to get down to the second floor when something soft struck me in the back of the head. I looked down to where the object had landed at my feet and picked it up. It was the heart-shaped pillow, covered in red felt with a ruffled edge. The sound of running feet, heavier than Lindsey’s, came from the stairway, and before I could think of what I was doing, I shoved the small pillow into my tote bag.
“Melanie? Are you up here?” It was Michael, sounding as if he’d already reached the second floor. I listened as his footsteps, slower now, approached the attic door.
Still immobile, I heard something else, something small and delicate, clatter against the floor at my feet. I looked down at the broken chain and the charm that Veronica had found in the box, the interlocking Greek letters offering a clue we’d yet to understand.
Panicking, I watched as the doorknob turned, then quickly scooped up the necklace and dropped it into my tote before Michael opened the door.
I registered his look of surprise as I walked past him with a smile. “Thank you,” I said. “I think I’ve got all the pictures I need. Tell Veronica I’ll give her a call.”
I hurried down the stairs as fast as my high heels could take me, gave Lindsey a quick good-bye and the dog a pat on the head, then exited the house as fast as I could, trying to decipher the look on Michael’s face. It wasn’t until I’d reached my car and met my gaze in the rearview mirror that I realized what it had been. Grief.
CHAPTER 10
When I got home, Jack’s minivan wasn’t in its space in the carriage house. It was dinnertime for the twins, so I doubted that Jayne had taken them out. Usually when Jack was knee-deep in a book, he didn’t leave the house in the middle of the day unless there was an emergency. Or he was pro
crastinating. I frowned as I stepped out of my car, contemplating the possibilities.
The sound of squealing brakes followed by a revving engine brought my attention to the street. I walked to the end of our driveway and peered out to see Jack’s minivan hurtling in my direction before coming to an abrupt stop about twenty feet away in the middle of the road.
The driver’s-side door flung open and a very annoyed Nola emerged and began stomping toward the house. “I didn’t want to know how to drive anyway,” she shouted over her shoulder just as Jack exited from the passenger-side door.
“Good,” Jack shouted in reply. “I’m sure the entire world will thank you.”
Nola burst into tears and ran past me and up the steps to the piazza. I could hear her feet pounding to the front door as her sobs carried back to us on the street.
“Jack?” I’d never heard him raise his voice to his daughter, ever.
There was no remorse on his face as he stared back at me. “She’s a menace to society when she’s behind the wheel of a motor vehicle.”
“Still, that’s no reason to yell at her.” I pointed to the house. “Go inside and apologize. I’ll park the car since I don’t think either one of you is capable of doing it right now.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond as I got behind the wheel and put the car in drive, then parked it in its space next to my car. After waiting long enough for Jack and Nola to have a heart-to-heart, I entered the house through the front door, avoiding the back garden and cistern. It had become such a habit that I’d forgotten what the back door looked like.
I paused in the foyer, listening to Jayne in the kitchen with the twins and trying to hear Jack’s or Nola’s voice. Instead I heard the distinctive clink of ice in a glass from the direction of the parlor, and I cautiously walked in that direction, my breath held.
