by Karen White
Sarah reached for my mother, no doubt wanting to touch the opera-length pearls that GiGi—what Sarah and JJ called their grandmother—wore around her neck. They had belonged to my grandmother, also named Sarah, and when my daughter played with the necklace, she’d gibber in a language I couldn’t understand but definitely had the cadences of conversation. She’d pause at the appropriate times as if another person was speaking to her and would grin and laugh at intervals. I’d accepted this about Sarah, and so had Jack. But that didn’t mean I was happy about it.
My mother looked over the large bow barrette on Sarah’s head. “It’s a Christmas card photo, Mellie. Not an audition for Southern Charm—not that I’d allow it, but you know what I mean. This is supposed to be fun, not torture. The twins couldn’t look bad if we dressed them in potato sacks. I have to agree with Jayne that we should allow JJ to wear what he wants or we’re all going to lose our hearing.”
“Fine,” I said, looking at my pitiful son thrashing about on the floor like a fish on a hook. “Maybe you can find a hay bale to bring into the foyer in front of the Christmas tree, too, so that blue jeans won’t appear out of place.”
My disappointment dissipated as I knelt on the floor next to JJ and placed my hand on the back of his head, feeling the heat of his exertion beneath his dark hair. “Sweetheart? Would you like to wear your doh-doh sweater?” He’d been calling bulldozers “doh-dohs” ever since he’d learned to speak, and the word had somehow inundated the vocabulary of the entire family.
He stilled at my touch, his sobs turning to hiccups, before flipping over onto his back, his appendages and whisk spread out so he looked like a beached starfish who liked to bake. His blue eyes—Jack’s eyes—stared back at me with hurt and righteous indignation as tears dripped down his round cheeks. “And boo jeans?”
“Absolutely,” I said, scooping up my son and feeling his arms wind around my neck, pressing his sodden cheek into my neck and making my heart melt. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the outfit I picked out. Maybe next time I’ll bring you with me and we can decide together.”
“Daddy pick!” JJ said, pulling back with a wide grin, as if five seconds before he hadn’t been tearing at his clothes like a penitent in sackcloth. It reminded me a little of Jack’s abrupt transformation the day before from crazed writer on the verge of drinking to seductive man with a mission. Maybe there was more to DNA than eye color and face shape. Or maybe the Trenholm men knew how to manipulate women to simply distract or to get what they wanted. I shook my head, trying to erase the thought.
“We can talk about that later.” I looked over at where my mother and Jayne were already pulling out the red shoelaces from Sarah’s sneakers and replacing the white ones in JJ’s. Behind them, I could see into the twins’ closet to the shelf where I kept their accessories—hair bows and headbands on the right for Sarah, and bow ties and suspenders on the left for JJ. All neatly labeled by me, for which I’d yet to hear a word of appreciation from anyone. “What about a red bow tie . . . ?” I began.
“No,” Jayne and my mother shouted in unison.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “At least General Lee and the puppies don’t mind dressing up.”
As if on cue, the door opened slightly as the three dogs came into the room, walking slowly instead of their usual jackrabbit bounding and general high spirits, followed by Jack.
“Daddy!” both children squealed, reaching out their arms to him.
Jack scooped up both children as I remained on the floor, patting my lap for the dogs to approach. They stared at me with an unfamiliar look in their eyes, their plumed tails, which normally draped proudly over their backs, now touching the ground by their hind legs, their heads held low. They didn’t move, no matter how much I slapped at my lap or told them to come.
“I think they’re boycotting their outfits,” Jayne said.
“What do you mean? They look adorable!”
General Lee wore a knit Santa Claus outfit complete with pom-pom hood and shiny black belt. Porgy and Bess had matching reindeer outfits in green, but their hoods had antlers with Christmas lights draped around them.
“Oh, wait. I know the problem.” I reached over to each puppy and found the switch on the battery pack to light up the antlers. “There!” I said. “Isn’t that better?”
With a sharp yelp, General Lee bolted out of the door, quickly followed by Porgy and Bess.
“I think you have your answer,” Jack said, the hint of a smile in his voice.
“Et tu, Brute?” I stood slowly, recognizing defeat. “Fine. I’ll go take off their outfits and apologize. Although I think if we all told them how adorable they looked, they might be more excited about wearing their costumes.”
I directed this last bit at my mother and Jayne, but they were both shaking their heads sadly, as if I were the delusional one. I continued. “We might as well take our Christmas card photo in July or October, because apparently it doesn’t matter that we’re not all dressed according to a Christmas theme.”
“At least the photo can’t be used as evidence against you when the animal-cruelty people show up,” Jack said with mock seriousness.
I picked up the discarded red velvet pantaloons and threw them at his face, knowing that he couldn’t catch them because he was holding a child in each arm.
“I’m going downstairs. Let me know if you all change the theme entirely and I need to put on a bathing suit and flip-flops for the photo.”
When I reached the bottom of the staircase, the dogs were nowhere to be found. Either Mrs. Houlihan was giving them a treat in the kitchen or they were avoiding me. I sensed a movement from behind me in the upstairs corridor. I turned to look, but despite the sudden chill, the hallway was empty. At least I knew the dogs weren’t hiding from me.
Taking a deep breath of what I hoped was courage, I turned and began climbing the steps, taking care not to disturb the draped magnolia-leaf garland Veronica had helped me throw together that morning for the photo. It was filled with plastic pomegranates, lemons, mixed pinecones, and cinnamon sticks so that the plastic stems of the magnolia leaves weren’t noticeable. I’d made Veronica promise not to tell Sophie that the fruit was all fake and we’d used superglue to attach it all. I’d at least stopped at using a hammer and nails on the antique banister, knowing that Sophie would have thrown me into the cistern if I’d put one single tiny hole in the wood. Personally, I didn’t care how Colonials had decorated their staircases. I wasn’t interested in smelling rotting fruit wafting about the house for a month.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” I waited for a moment, and when I didn’t hear anything, I started back down the stairs, relieved that I’d done my duty and could report to Jayne and our mother that whatever was lurking in the upstairs hallways didn’t want our help.
A cold breath on the back of my neck made all the hairs on my arms stand at attention. I clutched the banister, getting ready for the inevitable shove from behind. Instead a woman’s voice, as piercing and cold as ice, blew into my left ear. Lies. The “S” sound reverberated in the air like the hiss of a snake.
I jerked my head around, almost losing my balance. A woman stood on the top step looking at me with angry eyes, the color of them obscured by shadow. She wore a low-cut emerald green ball gown with a corseted waist and voluminous skirts indicative of the late eighteenth century. Her rich brown hair was unpowdered, coiled in long curls around her face, and swept high on top of her head with a flourish of entwined ribbons that matched her dress. A large brooch in the shape of a peacock, its eyes and feathers sparkling with colorful jewels, gleamed from the bodice of her dress, and I had the distinct impression that she wanted me to notice it.
As I watched she turned her head until it dipped at an odd angle, allowing me to see her small, perfect ear, the long expanse of her neck. And an angry welt standing out in crimson relief against her pale skin.
“Who
are you?” I whispered.
The front door opened behind me, and the vision of the woman wavered, then vanished, but not before I saw the anger in her eyes soften to sadness. And noticed again the raw red welt that encircled her neck like a noose.
“Melanie?”
My father’s voice called from behind me. I gripped the banister because I was too shaky to trust myself not to fall as I turned around. “Hi, Dad,” I said, walking slowly down the stairs, accidentally dislodging a pomegranate. It fell over the stairs, landing with a hollow thwack as it hit the floor below, then rolled for a few feet before stopping.
He didn’t smile back. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking behind me at the stairs.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just arguing with JJ over what he should wear for the photo.” Ever since the incident at the plantation mausoleum, my father had been staring into dark corners and paying more attention to Sarah’s babbling. I just wasn’t convinced that he was becoming a true believer; I thought he was either deciding that his family was destined for a freak show or just gathering enough evidence to debunk our psychic gifts completely. Despite any sincerity he’d shown Jayne by listening to her explanations, I still couldn’t completely exonerate him for my lifelong embarrassment and reluctance to admit my abilities. I still saw them as a flaw, an ugly scar I wasn’t eager to show the general public. Or lifelong disbelievers like him.
“Well, you’re pale as a ghost.” He smiled as if he’d made a joke. “I’m allowed to say that, right?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Still shaken by my encounter, I wasn’t yet ready to let go of my resentment. Eager to change the subject, I asked, “Where’s the photographer?”
As if in answer, there was a brief knock on the door. When my father opened it, I was surprised to find our handyman, Rich Kobylt. “Sorry—I rang the doorbell a couple of times, but I don’t think it’s working again.” He looked past my father’s shoulder to meet my eyes. “I’d be happy to take a look at it again. . . .”
“No,” I said abruptly. He’d already adjusted it several times, at a cost that would have bought me about one hundred new, modern doorbells if Sophie would allow it, but I knew there was something wrong with the doorbell that couldn’t be fixed by ordinary means. And I suspected that Rich knew it, too. He’d once admitted to me that he had a little bit of a sixth sense, and I continued to humor him without revealing that he was absolutely right.
I looked at him now with dread. “Why are you here? Did I forget to pay an invoice?” There were so many from Hard Rock Foundations, it wouldn’t be impossible that one could have been overlooked, despite my intricate and involved filing system that ensured every bill was logged and slotted for payment on the appropriate date. Jack had once complimented me on my system, saying the planning of the D-Day invasion paled in comparison.
He hitched up his pants. “No, Miz Trenholm. Not tonight. Your daddy was looking for a photographer, so I volunteered my services.”
I looked at my dad, not trying to hide the horror on my face. “You said you were hiring a buddy of yours who’s a professional photographer!”
“I did—and he called me this morning and told me he’s got the flu and didn’t want to get anyone sick. I happened to mention it to Rich, and he said he could help.”
Rich cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. I’m the official photographer at all my family’s gatherings—including weddings. I take a pretty good picture, if I do say so myself.”
I tried to block out the image of a roomful of Kobylts all with baggy pants and no belts and felt myself involuntarily shudder. I attempted a smile, the last hope for a beautiful Christmas card photo completely obliterated by images of blurred faces and mismatched outfits. “Well, then, I’m glad you could step in. I’m not sure if I could get us all dressed and together in one place again.”
“I hear you,” Rich said. “It’s a real production with a big family, especially if little kids and pets are involved. My sister-in-law even dresses up her dogs in the most ridiculous outfits for their Christmas card photo. They look so depressed I’ve refused to take their picture anymore. Unhappy dogs don’t say a lot about my picture-taking capabilities, you know? I told her next time she did that to those dogs, I was calling the ASPCA.”
The three dogs chose that moment to emerge from their hiding place in Jack’s office, running toward Rich as if he were coming to spring them from prison. Nola, dressed in a red velvet dress that was a grown-up version of Sarah’s—I’d known better than to push for a hair bow or Peter Pan collar—followed close behind as Rich gave me an accusing look. “Now, that’s just pitiful.” Three sets of sad canine eyes looked at me as if the dogs were practicing for those ASPCA TV commercials. I almost expected Rich to burst out singing, “In the arms of the angel . . .”
Nola bent down to remove the dogs’ outfits. “I think Mr. Kobylt might have a point, Melanie. How about I ask Dad to put that stuffed round red reindeer nose on your front car bumper and antlers on the side windows and we’ll call it a day, all right? I can’t imagine your car will complain.”
“It probably should,” Rich muttered as he lifted a large backpack off of his back and began pulling out camera equipment and setting it on the foyer floor.
Feeling completely defeated and not a little irritated, I crossed my arms. “I thought we’d take the picture by the Christmas tree next to the stairs. It’s the tallest and the prettiest, in my opinion. It’s also the only one of the six I’m supposed to have that’s completely decorated for the progressive dinner. Of course, my opinion doesn’t seem to matter around here, so if you’d prefer to take it in the middle of the cistern, have at it.”
“No,” Rich said a little forcefully. “I mean, I think the Christmas tree next to the banister with all that garland will look perfect. Don’t you think, Mr. Trenholm?”
I turned around to see Jack on the landing, a child in each arm as he descended. He stopped next to me and kissed me gently on my temple. “If that’s what my lovely wife wants, then that’s what we should do.”
Feeling slightly mollified, I said, “Just make sure no one leans against the banister. It’s a pain to glue that fruit onto the garland.”
Nola’s eyes widened. “Glue?” She said it with the same inflection some people use to say the word murder. “Does Dr. Wallen-Arasi know?”
I was saved from responding by the sound of my phone’s “Mamma Mia” ringtone coming from the parlor. “I’ll get it,” Nola said, racing across the foyer. By the time she returned, it had stopped ringing, but she was looking at it as her fingers tapped wildly on the screen.
Without looking up, she said, “It was Dr. Wallen-Arasi. She sent you a text asking you to look at the photos you sent her from Lindsey’s house.”
I frowned. “How did you know my password?”
She looked up at me to roll her eyes. “Seriously? You use the same password for everything: 1-2-2-1. Although even if I didn’t know that already, I could have guessed it since you’re such an ABBA freak.” She stopped walking and looked down at my phone, her eyebrows raised. “Wow. That’s seriously messed up.”
I took the phone from her and looked at the photo on the screen. It was the one I’d taken of the mirror over the fireplace at the Farrells’ house on Queen Street. Behind me, in the room where at the time I was completely alone, was a filmy cloud that vaguely resembled a human figure. I squinted, trying to discern any facial features or anything at all that would definitely identify what we were looking at.
“Is that a finger?” Nola asked, pointing to something that appeared to be a human hand floating behind the cloudy form.
I nodded. “I think it is. It’s pointing up the stairs.” I remembered the attic, and being led to the box against the wall. And the necklace being dropped at my feet.
“Can I tell Lindsey?” she asked quietly.
“No. I mean, not yet. Let me show this
to her mother and she can decide.”
Nola faced me. “It’s her dead aunt, isn’t it? Does this mean you’re going to help them find out who killed her?”
I looked pointedly at Rich, who was pretending very hard to be focusing on setting up his camera equipment, while listening to every word. “Let’s discuss this later,” I said, handing her my phone before running after JJ, who now careened toward the banister, his focus on a prominent pomegranate.
“Melanie?”
Distracted from my pursuit, I turned at the odd note in Nola’s voice.
“What’s this?” She walked toward me with my phone held up to me, the screen filled with tiles of photos I’d taken not only of Veronica’s house, but also of Nola’s room to document the before and after of the redo.
She made one of the photos bigger and put it closer to my face as Jack came to stand next to me. I’d simply taken the photographs without looking at them, figuring I didn’t need to see them until after the project was completed. I squinted, already knowing what she was seeing, and felt my stomach clench.
“Looks like a guy in really old-fashioned clothes standing by the antique jewelry chest,” Jack said. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but he doesn’t appear to have any eyes in his eye sockets.”
I felt Nola, Jack, and Rich staring at me.
“Did you know about this?” Nola asked in a strangled voice.
My answer was drowned out by the sound of JJ squealing as he pulled the pomegranate from the garland, yanking the rope of magnolia leaves off of the banister and sending plastic fruit and greenery cascading to the foyer floor. They rolled in an oddly uniform pattern, all coming to a stop in a perfect circle around me, as the sound of a sibilant “S” curling like a rope around my neck rang in my ears.
