The Guests on South Battery

by Karen White

  I froze at the word “cemeteries.” That was the thing with old bricks. They weren’t just sand and clay. They also contained the accumulated memories and the residual energy of the people who’d lived in their midst. These bricks had been buried in my backyard for more than 150 years and were now being bared to the light of day. I shuddered at the thought of what else might be waiting to be exposed.

  “I promise you won’t even know we’re here,” Sophie said, as if I’d already given permission to use my backyard as an archaeological dig. “Meghan and a few of my other grad students are so excited about excavating the cistern. It’s not just the bricks we find fascinating. Usually things were tossed or dropped into cisterns over the years that can be a real thrill for historians like us.”

  I just stared back at her, not understanding the thrill at all. Because digging into the past usually meant unearthing a nasty ghost or two. I didn’t relish dodging falling light fixtures or objects thrown across a room, especially now that there were two babies in the house.

  I looked from her to Rich. “How long do you think it will take before I get my garden back? I’d hoped to have a big first birthday party for the twins out here in March.”

  Rich pulled up the waistband of his pants, only to let them droop again once he let go. “Filling it in won’t be a problem—no more than a day or two to get it back the way it was. But I have to wait for Dr. Wallen-Arasi to finish first. Hate to think I’d be reburying some artifact if we don’t give her enough time.”

  The instruction to go ahead and fill in the hole as soon as possible was on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t, of course. I wouldn’t put it past Sophie and her students to picket my house until I agreed to let them dig it up again. Saying yes was the path of least resistance to an inevitable conclusion.

  I felt the icy wind blow against the back of my neck again, twisting its way around my torso as if I wore no coat at all. “Make it quick, okay?”

  Sophie nodded and met my eyes, understanding the reasons for my reluctance. But not enough to ignore the fact that I had a veritable treasure trove of history buried in my garden.

  “I got your voice mail, by the way,” she said. “I’ve got to take a group of my students to Pompian Hill Chapel of Ease tomorrow to do some grave cleaning and to repair a box tomb, but I can meet you at the Pinckney house on Thursday morning. Does eight o’clock work?”

  “It does for me. I’ll check with my client and get back with you. She doesn’t want to go inside, but I think she should. She doesn’t like old houses.”

  Both Sophie and Meghan looked at me as if I’d said something blasphemous. “It happens,” I said.

  We said good-bye, and then Sophie left with Meghan and Skye. Rich stayed where he was, his hands on his hips, looking down into the pit, the bottom now blackened as the slanting sun scooped out the light. I was wary of what he was about to say. I’d learned in the years we’d been working together that he not only had a second sight but wasn’t fully aware of it.

  “I don’t want to scare you, Miz Trenholm. But there’s something not right about this. Something not right at all.”

  Ignoring his implication, I said, “I don’t like a hole in my garden, either, but we’ll have to live with it for a little while. Hopefully it won’t take too long.”

  I said good-bye, then walked toward the kitchen door, sensing a set of footsteps following me, and knowing they weren’t his.

  After feeding the twins and tucking them into their cribs for the night, I sat in the downstairs parlor flipping through the new MLS listings on my laptop and making spreadsheets for my new clients. Nola sat doing homework at the mahogany partner’s desk that Jack’s mother, Amelia, had found for her through her antiques business, Trenholm Antiques on King, while Jack finally took a shower. He’d claimed he hadn’t had time for grooming—or writing—while taking care of the babies. He’d looked so traumatized that I didn’t point out that if he’d followed my schedule that I’d helpfully written down for him, and tried to be more organized, he wouldn’t look as if he’d been wandering the wilderness for weeks.

  A fire crackled in the fireplace beneath the Adams mantel—Sophie’s pride and joy. It was a thing of beauty, but it still made my fingers hurt when I looked at it, as if they recalled all the hand-scraping with tiny pieces of sandpaper Sophie had given me to remove about eighty layers of old paint from the intricate scrolls and loops. My manicurist had almost quit during that period, and if I hadn’t given her a generous gift certificate to my favorite boutique, the Finicky Filly, I would still be walking around with bloody stubs for fingers.

  I found myself sinking back into what felt alarmingly like domestic tranquility. But there was an uneasiness in the air, an energy that crept out of the walls like morning mist. The sense of unseen eyes watching me. I knew, without a doubt, that the lingering dead had managed to find me again, and that my newfound peace was about to end.

  The grandfather clock, where Confederate diamonds had once been hidden, chimed eight times, the sound deep and booming in the quiet house, almost obliterating the sound of what I imagined to be the house inhaling, as if in anticipation of something only it could see. General Lee and the puppies, curled into a furry ball at Nola’s feet, looked up at me right before a knock sounded on the front door.

  The frenzied movement of three dogs rushing toward the door and barking loudly accompanied me to the alcove, where a replacement chandelier—which had cost me three months of commissions—now hung in the same spot the previous one had been in before it mysteriously fell and smashed onto the marble floor, narrowly missing me. One of the tiles had been cracked, but I had strategically hidden it under a rug so Sophie wouldn’t notice and then demand that I have marble craftsmen from Italy come to replace the entire floor and I’d be forced to sell one of the children to pay for it. Because that’s the sort of thing that happens when one’s best friend is a bona fide house hugger.

  My mother, Ginette Prioleau Middleton, stood on the piazza wrapped in a black cashmere cape, looking as beautiful now in her mid-sixties as she probably had been during her brief yet stellar career as an opera diva. Her dark hair gleamed in the porch light, her green eyes bright with barely any lines to betray her age. She was tiny but somehow never appeared small—something I’d discovered since our recent reconciliation and our even more recent battles with spirits reluctant to head toward the light. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold tiptoed its way down my spine. My mother never came by unannounced. Unless there was a reason.

  “Mother,” I said, stepping back to allow her inside.

  She kissed my cheek, then handed me her cape, keeping her gloves on. She always wore gloves, even in the summer. Her gift—her word, not mine—was the ability to see things by touching objects, sometimes inadvertently. Gloves protected her from being overwhelmed by images and voices bombarding her from as casual a contact as a stair railing or doorknob.

  “I’m sorry to come so late. But I was returning from a Library Society meeting and was passing your house, and knew that it couldn’t wait until morning.”

  “What couldn’t wait?” I asked, my throat suddenly dry.

  She rubbed her hands over her arms. “Can we go someplace warmer? I need to thaw out.”

  “I’ve got the fire going in the parlor.” I led the way, the dogs rolling and bouncing at my mother’s high heels.

  Nola rushed over to embrace Ginette. The two had a tight bond, something I was grateful for despite the fact that sometimes I felt they were ganging up on me. Or laughing at me. Jack had maintained a bland expression when I asked if he’d noticed it, and we’d finally agreed that it must be postpartum hormones that made me see things a little skewed.

  “Awesome shoes, Ginette,” Nola enthused. “Maybe I can borrow them for a date or something?”

  Ginette smiled. “Of course—just ask me anytime. My closet is yours.”

 
I looked down at my fluffy pink slippers, trying to ignore my feet that were still throbbing in memory of the beating they’d sustained earlier in the day. “How long did it take for the swelling in your body and feet to subside after you gave birth to me?”

  She and Nola exchanged a glance—I was pretty sure that wasn’t my hormones imagining it—before my mother turned back to me. “I don’t really think I . . . swelled very much. I was wearing my old clothes and shoes by the time you were a month old. But you had twins,” she added quickly. “And you are much older than I was, so that changes the equation drastically, I would think.”

  My mother and Nola nodded in unison, and again I had the subtle feeling that they knew something I didn’t.

  Nola went back to the desk and I indicated for Ginette to take one of the stuffed armchairs by the fire while I took the other one. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Your father’s waiting for me at home, so I’ll be brief. Have you spoken with your cousin Rebecca?”

  Nola let out a groan at the mention of Rebecca’s name. I remembered the pink slip I’d received that morning at work, and had promptly discarded and forgotten. “She left a message for me, but I didn’t call her back. It was a Monday and my first day back at work, and having to talk with Rebecca would have probably sent me over the edge.” I leaned forward. “Why?”

  “Well, she called me when she couldn’t get ahold of you.” The fire crackled, and she turned her gaze toward the flames. “She’s been having dreams.”

  I briefly closed my eyes, seeing the orange and yellow flames imprinted on the insides of my eyelids. “Dreams?”

  Rebecca, a very distant cousin, had also apparently inherited her sixth sense, except her psychic ability exhibited itself in her dreams. She wasn’t always accurate with her interpretations, but usually accurate enough to be alarming.

  My mother nodded without looking at me. “She sees a young girl in a white nightgown, and she’s banging on a wall.” She faced me again and I saw the reflection of the fire in her green eyes. “Except she’s banging on the inside of the wall.”

  I sat back and glanced over at Nola, who’d stopped typing on her laptop and wasn’t even pretending not to be listening. “Why does Rebecca think it has anything to do with me? If there was something inside one of these walls, I would know about it.”

  Ginette rubbed her leather-gloved hands together, the sound unnerving. “Because the girl was calling your name. And it doesn’t necessarily mean this house, either.”

  I looked grimly back at my mother. “I haven’t had any experiences in almost a year—so I don’t know who that could be. Except . . .” I stopped, remembering the newly exposed cistern and the footsteps following me across the garden.

  “Except?” Ginette raised an elegant eyebrow.

  “We’ve discovered a cistern in the backyard. But it’s all bricks—no walls. I don’t think they’re connected. Maybe there’s another Melanie.”

  My mother stared back at me unblinkingly. “Regardless, you should call Rebecca and thank her. I know you don’t get along, but she’s still family.”

  Nola made a gagging noise, then pretended to cough.

  “I will. And since you’re here, I’ve got some good news to share. I think I’ve found a nanny. She has to pass inspection with everybody here first, of course, and I’m going to ask Detective Riley for a background check, but I have a good feeling about her. We share the same views on child-rearing at least.”

  “That’s wonderful news! Not that I don’t mind babysitting, but it will be nice for you all to have a regular routine and for the children to have consistent caregiving. I’m afraid Amelia and I are too much the doting grandmothers and err on the side of spoiling them.”

  I didn’t protest or attempt to correct her, because she was absolutely right. And that was one of the reasons I needed a nanny. “Yes, well, her name’s Jayne Smith and she walked into my office today to ask for my help in selling a house she’s inherited and buying a new one, and it just so happens that she’s a professional nanny.”

  “How lucky—for both of you.”

  “Actually, I was going to call you about her. She’s inherited Button Pinckney’s house.”

  Ginette stilled, an odd expression on her face. “Button was a friend of mine. Amelia and I went to her funeral just last month.”

  “I know. That’s what I wanted to ask you about—if she’d ever mentioned Jayne or if you knew if Button had any family. Jayne’s from Birmingham and never even heard of Button until the lawyers found her to tell her she’d inherited the entire estate.”

  She looked down at her gloves for a long moment. “There was no one. She never married. She did have an older brother—Sumter. He married Anna Chisolm Hasell, another classmate of Amelia’s and mine. They had a daughter, I believe, but she was sickly. She died when she was still a child. Anna and Sumter divorced shortly afterward, but Anna remained in the house with Button. She died about ten years later.”

  “That’s so sad. What about Sumter? Did he ever remarry or have more children?”

  After a slight pause, she said, “No. He’d always wanted to be a mover and shaker on Wall Street and moved to New York after his divorce. Just a couple of years after I left Charleston to pursue my music career.” She sent me an apologetic glance, a brief acknowledgment that when she’d left Charleston, she’d left me behind, too.

  “I’m not sure if he ever came back, but Button told me he’d died of a heart attack. He was only fifty-three.” She gave me a lopsided smile. “Button adored him. I don’t think she ever got over it. That’s when she started taking in strays—animals and people alike. She’d pluck them from the streets and give them a room and money for as long as they needed it. I feel she got taken advantage of more often than not, but she said it made her happy to help others. That’s probably how she found your Jayne.”

  “Possibly. Jayne grew up in foster care in Birmingham. Maybe someone who knew Jayne came into contact with Button at some point and that’s the connection.”

  “Could be,” she said as she stood. “I must get home—James will be waiting.” Her cheeks pinkened and I tried not to think of my parents—recently remarried to each other—as having a healthy romantic relationship that included physical contact, but there it was when she merely mentioned his name. I should have been thrilled that my parents were madly in love with each other after all these years, but I was still their daughter and it made me a little queasy sometimes if I thought too much about it.

  She said good night to Nola and I walked her to the door, pausing just for a moment in the alcove to face me. “Why does Jayne want to sell the house?”

  “She doesn’t like old houses.”

  She frowned, her eyes meeting mine. “Hopefully you can change her mind. Button wouldn’t have left it to her if she didn’t mean for her to keep it. Button was a wonderful person. The best kind of person. We should do our best to honor her request. Maybe you should tell Jayne what Mr. Vanderhorst told you.”

  “It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hand,” I said softly.

  “Yes. And that sometimes the best gifts in life are the unexpected ones. Including old houses.”

  She put on her cape, then opened the door to allow in a frigid blast of cold air. She kissed my cheek and pulled up her hood. As she tucked her hair inside, I said, “I don’t want to lie to her.”

  “But would you be? Good night, Mellie.” She smiled and then walked down the piazza to the front door and let herself out.

  The large wrought-iron porch lights on either side of the door behind me grew brighter and brighter, humming with an unseen energy that made the lights pulsate twice before each bulb exploded one by one, leaving me in total darkness.

  CHAPTER 4

  Two days later when I left the house to go to work, Jack looked a lit
tle worried despite his terse assurances that he was fine with watching the children while he finished up his book revisions. I thought there was a trace of panic in his eyes when I told him I might be home a little later because I wasn’t sure how long it would take to go through the Pinckney house with Sophie and Jayne. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could be rushed, especially if there were any water issues, a fallen ceiling, rotted floors, or restless spirits—any of which could ruin my day.

  Despite reassurances from Mrs. Houlihan that she was still taking my dry cleaning to the same cleaners we’d always used, I’d been forced to wear yet another maternity dress, but had broken down the day before and bought several new pairs of heels at Bob Ellis. I’d called Sophie about the possibility of the newly renovated closet giving off fumes that might shrink leather, but there had only been a long silence on the other end of the phone as if she didn’t understand my question. Regardless, my new shoes were a full size larger, and I was pleasantly surprised when my toes were able to spread out when I walked.

  Still, I had only made it to Broad Street when my feet required me to hail a pedicab to take me to Glazed, the gourmet doughnut shop on Upper King Street. I was meeting Detective Thomas Riley there to discuss the background check on Jayne Smith. Since he was a cop, I thought it appropriate to have our meeting in a doughnut shop. Plus, it would help me avoid the look of disapproval on Ruth’s face as she handed over my bag of doughnuts—which she’d only reluctantly done when I brought in the twins the previous day so she could see them and remind me again how much they looked like Jack. When I’d finally opened the bag back at my desk, I realized there was only one doughnut inside, along with one of those horrible healthy wraps, and the doughnut looked as if it might have been made with wheat flour and baked. It was like eating white chocolate or a vanilla Oreo—completely pointless—and I’d thrown it away after only two bites.