by Karen White
He came over to my side of the desk and placed a long, lingering kiss on my mouth. When he pulled back, he kept his eyes on me but used a hand to slide papers from the center of my desk to the edge. I knew what that particular glint in his eyes meant—I had the twins to prove it—but my office wasn’t the right place no matter how tempting his kisses were.
“Jack—no. I would die if the new receptionist figured out what was going on in here. Can I take a rain check?”
“Can you wait that long?” he asked as he kissed me again.
Just so I could recall a few brain cells, I slid my glance over to my computer screen, where I’d been working on a spreadsheet of houses for a client. Clearing my throat, I said, “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Jayne was blowing bubbles in the front garden with the babies and puppies—which is a little too adorable, by the way—and they didn’t look like they needed my help. I’d just sent in my revisions to my editor in New York and figured everything was under control, so I took advantage of the situation and not only showered and shaved, but put on real clothes, too. I figured I’d take my best girl out to lunch to celebrate.”
My stomach growled—a common occurrence now that even Mrs. Houlihan was conspiring against me and not stocking any of my favorite snacks in the kitchen. My only choices were fruit and gluten-free granola bars and absolutely nothing with the words “Hostess” or “Sara Lee” on the box. And instead of doughnuts or cheese grits and bacon for breakfast, she was making me things like egg-white omelets and vegetable frittatas. No wonder I was hungry all the time. All this healthy eating was not only baffling but killing me.
“The Brown Dog Deli?” I suggested eagerly. It was near my office on Broad Street and had the best sandwiches in the world. They served things like hummus and vegan chili dogs, but they also had a lot of real-people options, too.
Jack looked at his watch, my wedding gift to him, engraved with our anniversary date so he’d never have an excuse for missing it. “It’s still early, so hopefully it will be quiet enough so we can talk.”
I sent him a worried glance as I stood and picked up my purse. “Is everything all right? With Jayne and the children?”
He put his hand on the small of my back as he guided me from my office. “They’re perfect. It’s just . . . well, we’ll talk about it once we get food in your stomach. We both know what you’re like when you’re hungry.” He moved his hand around the elastic waistband of my skirt. “Have you lost weight?”
I stopped to look up at him. I didn’t own a scale, having never needed one, the only person ever concerned about my weight being my ob/gyn while I was pregnant. I’d always been on the thin side and able to eat anything I wanted. It was in my genes, and all I had to do was look at my mother to be reassured that any residual lumpiness left over from my pregnancy would work itself out on its own. Until now.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Do you think I’m fat?”
“Now, Mellie. I was simply commenting on the fact that your skirt seems loose on you. That’s all. You know I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” Right before he kissed me I had a stray thought about how he always used a kiss to stop any argument. And how it always worked.
Jolly looked up as we entered the reception area, her eyes brightening as they rested on Jack. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Headed out to lunch?” she asked, and I was pretty sure she’d batted her eyelashes.
“Yes. I’ll keep my cell on just in case there’s anything urgent. Otherwise please just take a message. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
Dragonfly earrings dangled from her ears, shimmying as she shook her hair, her gaze not drifting away from Jack. “Can I give you a reading? No charge for the first one.”
“A reading?” He looked genuinely confused.
She gave me a reproachful glance before quickly turning back to Jack. “Didn’t Melanie tell you? I’m a psychic. I can talk with the dead.”
“Can you?” Jack asked, resting his elbows on the reception desk and leaning toward the receptionist. “How fascinating. Do you see anybody around me right now?”
Jolly closed her eyes, revealing a swath of sparkly blue eyeshadow on her lids, and began rubbing her lips together. “Yes. Yes, I do. A man. An older man with dark hair like yours.” Her eyes opened abruptly. “Has your father crossed over?”
“Seeing as I just hung up the phone with him right before I came in here, I’d have to say no. Is there anything else?”
Jolly closed her eyes again and I poked my finger into Jack’s ribs, making him grunt softly.
“He’s holding up a piece of jewelry—a bracelet, I think. Maybe he’s a jeweler?” She opened her eyes again and beamed at Jack, and this time she definitely batted her eyelashes.
“Thank you,” Jack said. “I’m sure after I think for a while I’ll figure out who that could have been.”
“You be sure to let me know, all right?” Jolly wrote something down in the alligator-picture-covered notebook. “I keep a list so I can gauge my accuracy.”
“What’s your percentage so far?”
Her lips pressed into a tight line. “About five percent. Closer to four, actually. But I’m getting better. I’m taking online classes to hone my skills.”
“That’s great,” I said, tugging on Jack’s arm. “I’ll see you in an hour.” A cool blast of air greeted us as we exited onto Broad Street. “For the record,” I said, “I didn’t see anybody. Maybe she was seeing you and my next birthday present and just got confused.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Thanks for the reminder that I have five months to prepare.”
I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Maybe Jolly can help you figure out what I’d like.”
We were still chuckling as we entered the Brown Dog Deli and were quickly seated in one of the booths against the brightly painted blue wall, liberally adorned with vibrantly colored posters and framed cartoon dog prints. As Jack had predicted, we were ahead of the lunch crowd and our waitress appeared with water glasses and was ready to take our orders as soon as we sat down. I ordered the fried green tomato and pimento cheese sandwich with a side of potato chips while Jack ordered the Pita Frampton. Remembering our earlier conversation about my weight, I changed my side to the fresh fruit mix, lamenting my potato chips as soon as the waitress stepped away from our table.
Jack’s left hand with the gold band around his third finger rested on the table. I wanted to reach over and place my hand in his but was afraid that was more a teenager kind of thing to do. I hadn’t dated as a teenager, so I had no point of reference, but I’d seen enough young adult movies with Nola, so I had a pretty good idea.
“So,” I said before sipping my water through a long straw, “what did you want to talk about?” My old self would never have asked this question, preferring the head-in-the-sand approach—a method that I still returned to more often than not. But this was my marriage—something that would never have even happened if I’d kept my head buried—and I figured it was a good place to start with the new, married version of me.
Jack looked pleasantly surprised that I was the one who’d spoken first, but he made the wise decision not to comment on it. He reached into a pocket and pulled out what looked like a section of newspaper. He unfolded it on the table and I saw it was a clipped article, the edges jagged. I immediately began rummaging through my purse for my emergency bag that held scissors, duct tape, WD-40, toothpaste, and an assortment of other items I might need in any given day.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
My hand stilled. “I’m looking for my scissors. I thought I’d trim that up for you.”
“That’s probably not necessary. I think all you need to do is read it.”
“Right,” I said, pulling my hand out of my purse as if it didn’t matter. I pulled the paper closer so I c
ould read it, trying not to squint so I wouldn’t have to listen to Jack tell me again that I shouldn’t be ashamed to wear glasses and that most people over forty did. Since he had yet to reach forty, it was in both our best interests—especially with a pair of sharp scissors nearby—that we refrain from that conversation.
“It’s from last Sunday’s paper,” he said. “The puppies got to it after you pulled out the real estate section but before I could read the rest of it, but your dad brought it over this morning after you left for work to show me. It’s from the editorial page.”
I felt the first fissure of unease.
“It’s from that series the Post and Courier is doing about the history of some of the historic houses in Charleston. It wasn’t supposed to last this long, but apparently, it’s become quite popular, and the staff writer is getting all sorts of social invitations from people hoping that their houses will be the subject of the column.”
“Suzy Dorf,” I said, not bothering to disguise the sneer in my voice. “She’s been trying to reach me. She’s actually left several messages and a text on my phone.”
He raised his eyebrows, not warranting my comments with a comment of his own.
“She annoys me. I have nothing to say to her—especially after she printed that anonymous letter last year about there being more bodies buried in our garden. I should sue her for libel.”
“That might be premature, don’t you think? Especially considering that we’ve just unearthed a cistern in said garden?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any dead bodies we find are our dead bodies. She needs to mind her own business.”
His eyebrows drew together as if he was trying to translate something in his mind. After a brief shake of his head, he said, “She’s a reporter. That’s what she does.” He reached over and slid the clipping closer to me. “Read it.”
Trying very hard not to squint, I began to read:
Hollywood is coming to the Holy City! Thankfully, it’s not for a far-be-it-from-reality reality series but for a feature film from a major studio. Charleston native Marc Longo’s book, Lust, Greed, and Murder in the Holy City, hasn’t even hit bookstore shelves yet, but there’s so much buzz about this book that the rumor mill has reported that the movie rights went to auction for a cool seven figures.
I looked up at Jack, who was valiantly trying to keep his face expressionless. It had been his story first, before Marc had stolen it from him and rushed his own version of the story to publication before Jack even had a chance. The murder involved Marc’s family, giving him the inside scoop, but the bodies had been found in our garden. Jack had already written his own book about how we’d solved the mystery, and he’d signed a publishing deal. It just hadn’t been published before Marc got there first. We’d had a small victory when we were able to keep Marc from buying the house out from under us, but only because Nola had lent us the money. It was unfair, and humiliating, and something we’d learned to get past and forget about. Until now.
“Is this what your agent called you about the other day?”
He nodded. “Keep going. It gets better.”
I’ve heard from an anonymous source that the Vanderhorst house at 55 Tradd Street—the setting for the sordid story behind the book—will be used for filming, to give the movie an authentic flair and the all-important nod from the Charleston establishment. And, with the appearance of new yellow caution tape in the back of the property, who knows what else might be discovered and used for fodder for a sequel? The house is supposedly haunted, so this could get interesting. Boo! Stay tuned to this column for further updates.
My hand was shaking as I slid the paper back to Jack. “Well, those Hollywood people have another think coming if they think for one second I’m going to open up the door to my home to let them film a movie about a book my husband didn’t write. And the nerve of that reporter to assume that it will happen, without even asking us!”
Jack cleared his throat as if to remind me that Ms. Dorf had, indeed, tried to talk to me, but I ignored him. “Have you heard from Marc about this?” I drew back, horrified at the direction of my thoughts. “Or Rebecca? She forced us to give them an engagement party. Surely that doesn’t give them the right to assume . . .” I stopped when I caught sight of his expression. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re so sexy when you’re angry.”
I blinked a few times. “Stop distracting me. I—we—have every right to be angry. Why aren’t you taking this as seriously as I am?”
He reached over and took hold of my hand again. “Have you ever considered how long it’s going to take for us to get back on our feet financially and pay Nola back? She refuses to call it a loan, but I don’t think we’ve ever considered it anything else.”
I stared at him for a long moment, sure I misunderstood. “Jack, surely you can’t . . .” I was interrupted by my phone ringing. Jack stared at it, noticing the number without a name, then met my gaze. “Did you change your ring tone? I was kind of getting used to Mamma Mia.”
I shook my head as I hit the red button to end the call. “No. I have no idea where this ring tone came from. Or who’s calling. They’ve called a bunch of times, but I don’t recognize the number and they never leave a message—well, only once. They didn’t say anything—just a bunch of odd noises.” I gave an involuntary shudder, remembering the sound of prying wood and a tinny note vibrating in the empty air.
“Have you looked up the phone number?”
It was my turn to look confused. “Can you do that?”
He gave me a look that said he thought I might be joking, but he reached over and picked up my phone. “You can do a reverse lookup—just type in the number and . . .” He was silent for a moment as he punched numbers into the phone, then paused. “Oh.”
The waitress waited until that moment to deliver our food, and for the first time in a long while, I was less hungry and more interested in what Jack had to say. When she finally walked away, I said, “What is it?”
“Do you know a Caroline B. Pinckney?”
I thought hard for a moment, the smell of the food battling with my memory. I began chasing a grape across my plate, hoping that having food in my stomach might jog something loose.
Jack continued. “Do you happen to know Button Pinckney’s real name? Assuming Button was a nickname, of course. In Charleston, there’s no guarantee that an odd name isn’t the name appearing on the birth certificate. . . .”
I dropped the fork with which I’d been trying to stab a grape and met his eyes. “It was definitely Caroline,” I shouted. My voice sounded parched even though I’d just had half a glass of water. “Jayne said her name was Caroline.” I swallowed. “Why?”
“Because that phone number is registered to a Caroline B. Pinckney on South Battery Street.”
We continued to stare at each other for a long time, neither of us questioning the impossibility of a phone call from a dead person.
CHAPTER 9
Istood in the foyer of the Pinckney house with Detective Riley, watching with part amusement and part affront as he studied the disaster around him. I wondered if I would ever really climb off the figurative fence that had me currently planted in the middle of undecided when it came to old houses. Half the time—thanks to Sophie, although I would never admit it to her—I could actually appreciate the attention to detail, architecture, and craftsmanship these old houses held within their thick walls. Yet at other times, usually right after I paid another repair bill, I could picture lighting the dynamite myself.
“Somebody really lived here, huh?” He was staring at the mildew-speckled wallpaper in the dining room.
“Yes—although Miss Pinckney stayed in her bedroom for the last few years of her life. She didn’t have any family—just cats, from what I’ve learned.”
“Cats? That’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”
I sent hi
m a sidelong glance as I walked past him to examine what looked to be a button in the wall. “Kind of like finding a cop in a doughnut shop, don’t you think? There’s always a seed of truth in every cliché.”
He chuckled behind me. “Guilty as charged. Guess there aren’t any stereotypes for psychic Realtors, huh? Don’t think there are too many of those around.”
I pressed the metal button, pausing for a moment to see if I heard an echoing bell somewhere in the house. All I heard was the passing traffic outside and the rumbling wheels of a horse-drawn carriage. I assumed it was from one of the tourist companies, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if I looked outside and saw an eighteen sixties Brougham with the bottom half of its wheels invisible as it traversed a street that was currently below the level of the present one. In my world, there was no such thing as a guarantee that the restless dead would leave me alone long enough to simply look out the window and see what everybody else did.
“Hello?”
Startled, I turned toward the front door to see Jayne peering around it, her hand still on the doorknob. “Sorry; didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Please don’t apologize. It’s your house.” I studied her closely, wondering when she’d come in and if she’d heard what Thomas had said about psychic Realtors. It wasn’t that it was something I hid. It was just something I didn’t advertise or tell anybody about. I especially didn’t share my “gift” with clients. It was a competitive enough business without making clients run away from me screaming right into the arms of one of my competitors on the grounds that I was insane. It simply wasn’t good for business.
