The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting him to say, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t it. I thought of Jayne, and despite any of the weird feelings I’d been experiencing where she was concerned, at least I knew I could never deliberately do her harm. Maybe that meant I wasn’t the worst person in the world after all.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve got to run by the office and pick up a set of keys for a showing tomorrow, so I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.”

  He lifted his hand in a wave without looking up at me, and I backed out of the room, not wanting to interrupt his concentration. I pulled on my coat, scarf, gloves, and hat before stepping outside. I paused and looked up, the gray clouds seeming to shutter the bright blue sky of early afternoon, closing out the sun. A wind burst blew at me, making me shiver as I contemplated the difficult relationship between siblings and how I was grateful, for a moment, to have something to worry about besides Jack.

  CHAPTER 28

  Mrs. Houlihan peered out the window of the kitchen at the back garden, where my father and his friends from the gardening society were doing their best to decorate the black hole to make it look more festive for the progressive dinner. I’d hoped the gaping presence would have qualified my house for an exemption from the event, but Sophie had merely asked my father to do something with the cistern that would make it look in keeping with the holiday while not impeding the progress of the excavation.

  Not that much was happening in that regard right now, anyway. The semester had ended and the students had returned to their respective homes for the holidays. Meghan had sent us a Christmas card with a photo of her and her dog, which was a doppelganger of General Lee. That’s when I knew the excavation had lasted way too long. As had all the renovations in the house, since Rich Kobylt’s Christmas card had arrived the same day and it hadn’t taken me long to realize that the background behind his smiling family was my front garden.

  I took advantage of Mrs. Houlihan’s being distracted to pinch one of her famous ginger cookies cooling on a rack.

  “I saw that.” She hadn’t turned her head, confirming the fact that the woman did, indeed, have eyes in the back of her head. “And if you take another, I’ll tell you how many calories are in each one.”

  I finished chewing and wiped the crumbs from my mouth. “I don’t know why you’re insisting on doing all this baking. You do know the dinner is being catered, don’t you?”

  She shook her head in disgust, her jowls quivering with disdain. “In all the years I’ve worked for Mr. Vanderhorst and for your family, I have never seen the need to hire outsiders to bring food into my kitchen. I’m afraid I’m taking it personally.”

  “I’m sorry—I really am. Sadly, I don’t seem to have any control as to what’s going on in my house these days.” I thought of the excessive number of Christmas trees and the over-the-top decorations, of the progressive dinner and of Harvey Beckner and his people, who continued to invade my home and refused to give up in their attempts to do the prefilming work that should have been accomplished in a single day. I wondered if they’d be here on Christmas morning and if I should get them gifts so they’d have something to open under the tree. I stared longingly at the cookies. “I can only hope we’ll have our house back soon.”

  “Are they still planning on filming here starting in January?” Mrs. Houlihan asked.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  She looked almost disappointed. “That’s a shame. I heard George Clooney was signed up to play Nevin Vanderhorst’s father, Robert, and Reese Witherspoon was to play his mother, Louisa. I’d already started planning my menus in my head.”

  The timer on the oven beeped and she slid on her oven mitts before sliding out what looked like her chocolate-and-mint holiday brownies. My mouth watered as I followed the movement of the pan, watching the housekeeper place it on a cooling rack. Mrs. Houlihan moved to the kitchen sink and began filling it with hot water and suds. With her back to me, she said, “Keep your fingers off of those brownies. Those are for Mr. Kobylt and his family.”

  I dropped my hand, sufficiently chastened.

  There was a brief knock on the kitchen door before it opened, and I was glad I didn’t have food in my mouth, because I probably would have choked. Standing in the doorway was a very tall man wearing a scarlet red British regimental uniform complete with shiny brass buttons, white breeches, and shiny black knee-high boots. I blinked a few times to see if he would disappear, eventually registering the iPhone he held in his hand.

  “You better not be scuffing up my floors with those boots, Mr. Greco.” A warm smile across Mrs. Houlihan’s pudgy face eradicated her stern tone. “And if you just give me a sec, I’ll have your favorite ginger cookies all wrapped up for you to take home.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Houlihan. Thank you.”

  “Greco,” I said, my voice full of relief.

  He must have seen the panic on my face, or maybe it was my hand pressed against my heart. “Melanie—I’m so sorry. I almost forgot I was wearing this.” He patted the white crisscrossed straps across his jacket and chuckled. “Several of my reenactor friends and I have been hired for an event at the Old Exchange building tonight, but I needed a fabric swatch I’d left upstairs, so I figured I’d stop by on the way.”

  “No worries. I can’t say I haven’t seen stranger things in this house.”

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. He accepted a brown paper bag from Mrs. Houlihan—complete with a red satin ribbon she’d tied in a bow. “I promise to save these until after dinner, and only eat one at a time so I can savor it and appreciate your culinary talents as they should be appreciated.”

  She waved her hand at him. “Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll just make more for you. Eat as many as you like.” Her smile was big enough to show the deep dimples on her cheeks.

  I frowned at her, but she’d already turned back to the sink to wash dishes.

  Greco cleared his throat. “Uh, Melanie. I was actually looking for you. Can you come upstairs to Nola’s room for a moment?”

  As I followed him upstairs, I kept picturing more words carved into the plaster walls, or a human skull protruding from a cornice. And wondering how much Greco would be okay with before he gave up and quit.

  He held the door open for me and waited for me to enter before following me inside. He cleared his throat again. “So,” he said. “When I came upstairs a short while ago, I could have sworn I heard, well, the sound long skirts make when a woman is walking across the floor. I knocked on the door twice, and when I didn’t hear anything, I walked in and found the room empty.”

  I kept my expression neutral, not sure if I should mention that odd noises in empty rooms were part of my daily life. I spun around to verify that, yes, the room was actually devoid of people, especially women in long skirts. I followed his gaze to a new pile of bee carcasses clustered around the leg of the bed, the claw-foot nearly covered with them.

  I made a show of checking the windows to ensure they were closed, flicking the locks to verify that the windows were, indeed, locked and couldn’t accidentally slide open. “I guess we have a hive in the wall somewhere, so I’ll have to call a bee removal specialist. You don’t want to kill bees, you know—it’s bad for the environment.”

  “It’s also bad luck,” Greco said, walking toward the bed. “But bees are dormant in the winter, which makes their presence in the room that much stranger.” He knelt by the foot of the bed and began running his fingers around the back of the claw-foot, gently flicking the bees out of the way.

  “My grandfather was a beekeeper,” he explained. “That’s how I know a little bit about bees and bee behavior. He always told me that a smart person listened to the bees because they always had something important to say. And this”—he indicated the pile of carcasses—“was telling me something. A pile of dead bees in the middle of winter clustered around one sing
le area spoke to me. So I figured I should investigate.”

  He continued to move his fingers around the back of the claw-foot leg until I heard a small click. His eyes widened and I knew that he’d found what he’d been looking for. “I was just running my hands up and down over the wood until I felt something—and when I pushed it, a small door popped open right at the spot where the leg is attached to the footboard, to protect it from being seen when the bedclothes are removed, and this fell out.”

  He stood and carried something to me in his closed fist. When he reached me, he slowly unfurled his fingers and revealed a gold ring with a flat top, with something engraved on it. Without a word, Greco reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. I slid them on, then picked up the ring to see it better.

  I ran a finger over the flat top. “It’s a peacock,” I said, and I could hear the excitement in my voice.

  “Indeed it is. And I do believe it was used as a wax sealer—I’ve seen them before. That’s why it’s flat on top. You don’t have to take it off to dip in the wax.”

  “It’s a peacock,” I said again, not sure how else I could articulate how much I thought this was a Good Thing. I had no idea why, but I was pretty sure Jack would.

  “I know,” Greco said, his tone matching mine. “Remember how I mentioned the spy ring that had a peacock as its symbol? I think this ring must have belonged to a member, which is why it was hidden, to keep the owner’s identity a secret.” He reached over and gently flipped the ring over in my palm. “Look on the inside of the ring—there are two initials. I’m wondering if they’re the owner’s.”

  Leaning closer and squinting even with the reading glasses, I was able to make out the initials S.V. I met Greco’s eyes. “I don’t think these are the owner’s initials—I think they’re the initials of the man who made it, Samuel Vanderhorst.”

  Greco nodded excitedly. “I’ve heard of him! He’s quite famous for his metalworking and jewelry designs, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. And he was a former slave at Gallen Hall Plantation, too, which is where this bed was mostly likely made.” I looked at Greco’s red coat as if noticing it for the first time. “Is your great-uncle—the one who was the American history professor at Carolina—is he still alive?”

  “Absolutely. My mother says he’ll outlive us all. My father suspects his longevity is due to the fact that he spends so much time studying dead people that it’s convinced him that he’s better off in the land of the living.” He tilted his head. “Why? Is there anything you’d like me to ask him? I’m going to see him tomorrow at a living history encampment at the Camden battlefield. He interprets Major General Horatio Gates.”

  “Another redcoat?”

  He looked offended. “Certainly not. Major General Gates led the American forces at the battle and was responsible for their resounding defeat. Ruined his military career, actually.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said, although I’d never heard the name before. “If you’re willing, that would be wonderful. When Nola was using the textbook she’d borrowed, there was a mention that Lawrence Vanderhorst had been shot. Was that because he was a spy? But if the Vanderhorsts were known loyalists, would that make him a spy for the Crown or for the Americans?”

  “That’s a very good question, and one I’m sure my great-uncle should be able to shed some light on. You might remember that was his expertise—spies during the American Revolution. Actually, if you’re all right with me taking a few photos of the ring on my phone, I’d love to send them to Uncle Oliver.”

  “Absolutely.” I held up my palm, showing the front, side, and back of the ring so Greco could photograph it.

  “One other thing,” I said as I slid the ring on my largest finger, where it was still loose, then folded my fingers over it so it wouldn’t slide off. “There was a British soldier quartered at Gallen Hall Plantation, an Alexander Monroe. He was found drowned in the Ashley River four days before Lawrence was shot.” I could almost hear Jack’s voice in my head. There is no such thing as coincidence. “I have no reason to suspect they might be connected, but could you ask your great-uncle, just in case, if he knows anything about either death?”

  “No problem—I’m sure Uncle Oliver will be thrilled to help. He lives for that stuff.” He glanced back at the claw-foot and the bees; he was silent for a moment, as if contemplating his next words. “There’s something else I should probably mention.”

  I waited in silence, just in case he was looking for a reason to change his mind.

  Greco continued. “The weirdest thing about it all is . . . Well, I’m not sure how to explain this.” He stopped and a small flush crossed his handsome face. “Although for some reason, I think you could take this better than most.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew.

  He gave me a knowing glance before continuing. “When I found the ring I did what most people would do, I suppose, and I slid it on my pinkie finger. I figured that’s where signet rings go, right? Anyway, it fit me perfectly, and just as I was thinking that exact thought, I felt someone—I’m pretty sure it was a woman. . . .” He paused, rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I felt someone kiss my cheek. It was definitely a kiss; I could feel it and hear it, you know? Except, instead of being warm, like from someone’s lips, it was icy cold.”

  “And there was no one else in the room?” I was imagining Mrs. Houlihan trying to hide behind the door, since she had been the only other person in the house at the time.

  “No. At least no one I could see.” His gaze settled on me, and I was surprised it wasn’t one of expectation. Like he didn’t need any explanations from me, and I was fine with that.

  “Hmm,” I said noncommittally, eagerly filing away the information to use later.

  He glanced at the screen of his phone. “Sorry—I’ve got to run. Let me go grab the fabric swatch and my cookies from the kitchen and I’ll see myself out. I’ll be in touch after I speak with Uncle Oliver.”

  “Thanks so much, Greco.”

  I listened to the sound of his boots heading down the stairs as I began to scoop up the dead bees onto a paint-swatch board, disappointed that Greco had remembered he’d left his little bag of cookies in the kitchen. When I was done, I dumped the dead bees into an empty paint can being used as a trash receptacle and headed down the stairs, eager to share with Jack the signet ring and the brooch Meghan had found in the cistern.

  A loud, hacking cough came from the direction of my bedroom. I ran back up the stairs and pushed on the partially open door. Jack lay huddled under the covers, his teeth chattering. I moved quickly to the bed and placed the back of my hand on his forehead.

  “Jack—you’re burning up!” I looked at the digital thermometer on the bedside table. “Did you already take your temperature?”

  He nodded, his teeth continuing their chatter. “It’s one hund-d-d-dred and f-f-four.” He attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “I h-h-have a f-f-fever because you’re st-st-standing so n-near.”

  Despite how horrible he looked, I smiled. “Right.” I leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, my lips burning where they contacted his skin. “I’m going to get something to give you to bring down the fever, then call your doctor. This could be the flu that’s been going around, and I don’t want to take any chances.”

  I took a wool throw from the back of one of the two armchairs and placed it on top of him, tucking it around him before sitting down on the mattress. “Is there anything else I can get for you? I could read to you. Or sing.”

  His eyes widened in alarm. “N-n-n-no. P-p-please.” He widened his eyes hopefully. “Ch-ch-chicken s-s-soup?”

  “Sure. I’ll ask Mrs. Houlihan. If she can’t make you some, I’ll open a can for you.”

  He smiled, then closed his eyes. I kissed him again, then stood, absently wondering if
I could stick a Santa hat on his head and leave him in the bed just in case he wasn’t better in time for the progressive dinner. “I’ll be right back. I’ll leave the door open in case you need something, and you can shout. The bell I used when I was on bed rest with the twins somehow disappeared before they were born.”

  Jack began coughing again and I hurried from the room toward the stairs, my steps slowing as I reached the hallway outside Nola’s bedroom. The door was open, although I was positive I’d closed it to keep the dogs out. I took a step forward to close it but stopped as my stockinged foot landed in a puddle of liquid.

  I immediately thought of Bess, who still occasionally had accidents in the house when the weather conditions and temperature weren’t to her liking and therefore not conducive to her using the outdoor facilities.

  My gaze traveled past the threshold and into the room, where the puddles continued in a pattern. The kind of pattern wet feet would make. I looked down at where I’d stepped into one of the footprints, noticing how big and solid it was. Definitely not a bare foot, then. Most likely a booted foot, the narrower heel of each footprint making it clear that the wearer had been headed from the room toward the stairs. I thought for a moment I should call Greco and ask him if he’d stepped in anything, but I stopped when the unmistakable scent of gunpowder and leather saturated the air in the room.

  “Alexander?” I whispered.

  The only response was the buzz of a lone bee as it flew around my head before colliding with the window, its body plummeting to the windowsill, where it lay still and quiet.

  CHAPTER 29

  I searched behind all of the greenery draped around the front door of my parents’ house on Legare Street for the doorbell. I knew it was there, just well hidden beneath the fruits of the zealous administrations of the decorating committee. I recognized the enormous and stunning wreath as the one my mother had made at the workshop, and I tried not to compare it to my own pathetic attempt. Of all the gifts I’d inherited from my mother, apparently talents for singing and wreath making hadn’t been included. Not for the first time, I wished I’d been given a choice as to which genes I wanted. And which ones I didn’t.