by Karen White
A heavy sigh reverberated in my ear. “I said that I also went through and read old records regarding the detainees at the Provost Dungeon during the British occupation in the early seventeen eighties. The records included depositions of accused American spies prior to their executions. One of the men who was about to be hanged thought to save himself by naming names and mentioned Lawrence Vanderhorst of Gallen Hall Plantation. You can only imagine how excited I was to hear that and to know that I had an in with the owner of a Vanderhorst property.”
I wanted to tell her she was delusional if she considered me an in but kept my thoughts to myself. They were too busy running back and forth over Lawrence’s name, the name of the third occupant of the mausoleum at Gallen Hall. Not that I had any intention of mentioning that to Suzy Dorf.
“For the record,” she said, “Lawrence was known as a staunch loyalist and had turned in American spies, so his reputation was pretty clean. He was never arrested, so the prisoner was either making something up to get a lighter sentence or he got the name wrong.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “I’m not really sure why you’re calling me about this. I’m not really into history.” We were approaching the intersection of Market and King, where I’d be getting out of the pedicab. I hoisted my purse strap onto my shoulder in preparation, eager to end the call.
“That’s not what Rebecca Longo told me.”
I stilled. “What do you mean?”
I imagined I could see her satisfied smile at getting my attention. “She said that you and your sister and husband were working with her brother-in-law, Anthony Longo, on something involving Gallen Hall Plantation. You can probably guess how thrilled I was when I read that deposition that mentioned Lawrence Vanderhorst. The accuser claimed Lawrence was a member of an American spy ring. Which was quite a blow, I’m sure, since the Vanderhorsts were supposedly such staunch loyalists. They even quartered British officers in their home.”
She paused, as if waiting for me to agree or claim knowledge or even surprise. But I remained silent. I wasn’t sure whose side she was on, and I wasn’t about to give anything away that might filter back to Marc through Rebecca.
“Anyway,” Suzy continued, “the name of the spy ring has been lost to history, but one thing I was able to clarify was that members used the peacock as their symbol when communicating with one another. There are a few wax envelope seals embossed with a peacock still in existence in the Charleston Museum, but nothing to show who sent them, so members of the spy ring cannot be confirmed. But Lawrence’s family owned the only plantation on the Ashley River with a large population of peacocks”—she emphasized the word—“and my journalist’s brain would not let me think that’s a coincidence.”
“Of course it is,” I said brightly. “The world is full of coincidences.”
“Funny you should say that, Melanie. Because Rebecca told me that your husband’s favorite thing to say is that there’s no such thing.”
I swallowed, hoping she couldn’t hear it over the phone. “He may say something like that from time to time. Regardless, we haven’t found anything valuable in our cistern, and I know next to nothing about the American Revolution, the marquis, or the king of France, so I think you should find someone else to interview if you want something juicy to print.”
“But you know about Eliza Grosvenor.”
I paused, considering my next words, knowing that pretending to be completely ignorant would confirm that I was evading the whole truth. “I know she was engaged to Lawrence Vanderhorst. But why would you think I should know more?”
She giggled, and my teeth ground together. “When I came to your office a couple of weeks ago to see if you were available, that handsome husband of yours was there with the children and had placed a stack of photocopied documents on the receptionist’s desk while he prevented World War III from erupting in the double stroller. I couldn’t help but notice the biography of Eliza Grosvenor, where someone had helpfully highlighted both Lawrence’s name and the words spy ring. If that’s the story your husband is working on now, I can’t wait to read it.”
Despite all the evil spirits and vengeful ghosts I’d faced in my life, nothing put more fear in my heart than hearing those words come from Suzy’s mouth. As casually as I could, I asked, “Did you mention that to Rebecca?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. Would you not want me to?”
The pedicab took a right on Market Street and stopped in front of Charleston Place. I held up my finger to indicate I needed a minute. I closed my eyes, remembering Jack’s face when he’d learned about Marc’s subterfuge, and when Jack’s book had been canceled and Marc’s book on the same subject had been published to so much acclaim. I wasn’t sure if either one of us could bear it for a second time. “No, Suzy. To be honest, I wouldn’t want you to mention it to anyone, but especially not someone with the last name of Longo.”
“I don’t know, Melanie. That’s a lot to ask a journalist who’s trying to get answers.”
“Hold on,” I said, digging in my purse for money to pay the pedicab, thankful for the few moments it gave me to think. I was silent as I watched the pedicab leave, the phone pressed to my ear.
“Melanie? Are you there?”
“Yes. I’m here. What kind of answers are you looking for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe exclusive access to whatever is going on in your backyard and how it connects to Gallen Hall. I know that the legendary treasure entrusted to Lafayette has some connection to the Vanderhorsts, and I want to be the first to know about it.”
“But if there’s no connection, and nothing to be found in the cistern or anywhere else?”
“Then I want to interview you. I want to witness you talking to the dead and I want to tell my readers. Or put it in a book. I’ve been working on one for a while, about interesting Charleston residents of the past and present, and I think you’d be a perfect fit. Anyway, I’d say access to you would be a fair trade for my not sharing any of this with Rebecca, don’t you think?”
“Mama!”
I turned at the sound of the little voice, my heart softening when I spotted JJ and Sarah in their double stroller as my mother pushed them toward me on the sidewalk, two sets of chubby little hands reaching for me. “Look, I’ve got to go. Can we talk later?”
“Sure. Just don’t wait too long. I’ve got deadlines, and I’ll need to print something to keep my readers wanting the next installment.”
I began walking toward my mother and the stroller, feeling a flash of anger at Suzy Dorf, this virtual stranger who could destroy everything I loved. “You’re all heart, Suzy.”
After a short pause, she said, “I’m just trying to do my job. For the record, I’m not a fan of Marc Longo, either. He ruined my brother, bankrupted him in a sour business deal. I know how he operates and I’d rather see you and your husband end up on top of this. But I’ve got newspapers to sell.”
“I just need to think about it,” I said as I reached the stroller, then bent down to look at my beautiful babies.
“You do that. And, Melanie?”
“Yes?”
“I wanted you to know that I saw Jack a couple of nights ago at the Gin Joint. He was by himself, and he only ordered ginger ale. But he kept looking at the menu again and again, asking the bartender lots of questions. And I don’t think it was for book research. Just thought you should know.”
Something that felt like a block of ice gripped my heart. “But he left without ordering anything, right?”
“Yeah. He did.”
“Thanks, Suzy.”
“You’re welcome. Talk to you soon.”
The call ended, and I immediately pressed my face against the soft cheeks of my children, smelling them and feeling their soft breath on my face. The overwhelming need to save Jack, to save our family, suddenly consumed me. I had to find the answers, even if I had to do it
by myself.
“Are you all right, Mellie?” My mother’s solicitous tone nearly brought tears to my eyes.
I straightened. “Let’s go sit down in the lobby so we can chat and JJ and Sarah can see the train.”
“Choo-choo,” JJ screeched, waving his whisk in the air and making a young couple chuckle as they passed by us.
We headed into the beautiful lobby with the double staircase festooned with lush garlands, bows, and clusters of glass ornaments. Both children bounced up and down in their stroller as we neared the enormous display beneath the stairway, the fabricated snow-topped mountains surrounding an alpine village, the toy train chugging its way down the tracks and through a mountain tunnel. A row of poinsettias stood sentry before the magical scene and I could almost feel my blood pressure drop.
Even before I’d had children, I’d always thought the Christmas display at Charleston Place was magical, easily imagining that this miniature world of houses with actual lights, tiny people waving, and vehicles with open doors was real. Both JJ and Sarah were watching with wide eyes and open mouths, and I felt a little bit of the fear that had gripped me since my conversation with Suzy dissipate.
“Has something happened?” my mother asked.
I shrugged. “Yes and no. We’re not getting anywhere with any of the information we’ve discovered—not with the mausoleum puzzle or the four words that Nola and Cooper have been working on every spare moment. Even the little drawer cover that Meghan found in the cistern turned up nothing. And Jack, well, he’s understandably upset about what’s going on with his publisher’s plans for his book and very frustrated that he can’t sink his teeth into this next book without a single clue to go on.”
“Amelia mentioned something to that effect yesterday. Jack stopped by Trenholm Antiques to help his parents place all the new items from their recent European buying trip in the best spots in the store, and he said he had no opinion one way or another.”
I raised my eyebrows. “This could be more serious than I thought.” I’d meant it as a lighthearted comment but realized too late that it wasn’t. The way Jack relaxed and de-stressed was to rearrange furniture and accessories. He had an excellent eye and always knew where the overlooked étagères belonged, or where to place the spare chinoiserie biscuit jar. He hadn’t so much as dragged an ottoman across a room for weeks.
“There’s more,” I said. “Grandmother called me.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. She only calls when there’s trouble.”
“I know. Did she say anything?”
I met her eyes and felt a sinking feeling when I recognized the fear and worry in them. I nodded. “She said Jack’s name. Just like you did when you touched the bedpost in Nola’s room. Right after you said, ‘Traitors deserve to die and rot in hell.’”
She frowned. “I wish I could tell you why I said either thing, but I don’t remember any of it.” Softening her voice, she asked, “Is Jack drinking again?”
I leaned over the stroller handle to straighten the large red bow in Sarah’s hair. “No. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. But Suzy Dorf said she saw him at the Gin Joint. He wasn’t drinking, but I think it was pretty clear that he wanted to.”
My mother straightened her shoulders, making her seem larger than her petite frame. “We need to tell your father. Jack is his sponsor, so it would make sense that he should be the one to confront him.”
I shook my head. “No. Confrontation never works with Jack. We can definitely tell Dad; maybe he can just have conversations with him. But don’t confront him. In the meantime, I’m trying to find some answers to this whole peacock–spy-ring thing. If I could just gift Jack with something concrete for this new story idea, he should be able to find a new publisher who will publish him the way he deserves.”
“I’m not sure that will help, Mellie. Jack prides himself on being the smartest person in the room. His whole career has been built on digging up and figuring out buried mysteries of the past. Being that man feeds his confidence and his ego. I’m not sure if handing him answers on a platter will help.”
I bristled. I’d always hated being told what to do, or that my thought processes might be wrong. Sophie said that was proof I was stubborn and too independent, a product of how I was raised. She also insisted they were bad characteristics I needed to shed. I wasn’t completely sure I agreed with her, and being married had certainly taught me compromise. On some things. But not this. We were talking about Jack here, the man I loved almost to distraction. The man who, according to Rebecca, might be in serious danger. I had to do what I thought best.
“I can take care of this, Mother.”
“Of course you can. But you shouldn’t do it on your own. Your father, Jayne, and I are all here to help. You just need to ask.”
I bristled again at the mention of Jayne’s name. My mother must have noticed, because she placed her gloved hand on my sleeve. “Mellie, you do know that your sister is on your side, right? And that your father and I love you both equally. I realize her sudden appearance in our lives must have been a bit of a shock to you, but I think having a sister should be a good thing. I disliked the loneliness of being an only child. And Jayne is such a friendly and loving person. . . .”
I sent her a stony look and she stopped waxing poetic about my half sister.
She continued. “What I mean to say is that a little jealousy on your part is understandable. But you have so much in common and such potential to be close. I hope you recognize that and move forward accordingly. Remember, Mellie. We’re stronger together.”
Everything she said after the word jealousy evaporated quickly. “Me? Jealous?” The forced laugh sounded so odd that both children turned to look at me with apprehension on their little faces.
My mother regarded me with solemn eyes but didn’t say anything.
I grabbed the stroller handle. “Let’s go look at the Christmas tree. Maybe it will give me a few ideas on how to ‘zhush’ the trees in my house for the progressive dinner. They’re looking kind of skimpy.”
We walked in silence around the display toward the enormous tree, JJ fretting because we were leaving the choo-choo train behind, his frustration matching my own as the ability to identify and grasp the one thing I wanted evaded me.
“Mellie?” my mother said quietly.
I faced her. “Yes?”
“I know we didn’t find anything in the bedpost. But there’s something there. I felt it too strongly. Have you told Jack?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t see a need since there was nothing there.”
“I think you need to tell him. Maybe he can figure it out. Because there is definitely something there.”
I nodded noncommittally, returning my focus to the Christmas tree and all the sparkling ornaments, pretending I couldn’t sense my mother’s stare of disapproval burrowing within me, where my conscience lay sleeping.
CHAPTER 27
I lay back on my pillow panting as Jack’s bare arm pulled me against his similarly clad body. General Lee was burrowing somewhere in the room, having sought a quieter place to sleep earlier in the night. I’d forgotten the one form of relaxation and de-stressing that Jack enjoyed besides furniture arranging, and I was grateful that he’d remembered.
“Wow,” he said, kissing my neck.
“I was about to say the same thing. I’m guessing that was enough aerobic exercise that I can skip my jog this morning, right?”
“Nice try.” He gave my earlobe a nibble, sending shivers down my back. “It’s almost six o’clock and time for my run. You could join me.”
I turned my head and opened up one eye. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Jayne said your stamina has really improved and you’ve increased your pace. You should be very proud of yourself. She says you’re on track for the Bridge Run in April.”
I turned away at th
e mention of Jayne’s name, recalling my conversation with my mother. And Sophie. I wasn’t saying that they were wrong, but I certainly wasn’t agreeing that they were right. My feelings about Jayne were far more complicated than what they were implying, and something I needed to figure out on my own without everyone offering advice. “I’m thinking about taking up yoga instead.”
Jack’s chest rumbled against my back as he chuckled. “You tried that with Sophie, remember? Before the twins were born. You said every time you closed your eyes and tried to open your mind, some lost spirit would wander in.”
“Yeah, well, at least it doesn’t hurt my knees. I think I’m too old to run. Yoga’s more my speed. Or maybe I’ll try Pilates. I don’t think that involves any meditation.”
He was kissing my neck again, and I felt my brain slowly melting. “Pilates sounds good. It could make you even more flexible.” The way he said the word flexible made it sound dirty.
I rolled in his arms to face him, placing my palms against his cheeks and enjoying the warm scratchiness of his beard. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
He pulled away slightly, his eyes darkening. “Better? I wasn’t aware that I was feeling poorly.”
Too late, I realized my mistake. “I meant, I know how upset you’ve been with the whole publishing nightmare and Marc Longo bribing us to agree to film in our house, and the rest of it. You’ve been really down lately, but you don’t seem to be in such a dark place this morning.”
He let go of me and lay on his back, his arms folded beneath his head. “Dark place? Have you been watching Star Wars with Nola and Cooper?”
I could tell he was trying to dismiss my worry, but I was a mother now, my worry not easily waved away. “You’ve just been a bit down, that’s all. And with your history . . .”
“As a drunk?”
