by Karen White
I looked away. “I prefer Melanie,” I said faintly.
The engine hummed softly when he turned the key and headed out into the early-evening traffic and across the Cooper River Bridge. We sped down East Bay and then onto a series of small, side streets. As we paused at a stop sign, I looked at a dilapidated single-story frame house, the porch roof sagging like a drooping eyelid. Sitting in a porch chair was an old man in army fatigues looking at me. I registered immediately that he didn’t have any legs and that blood from a bullet wound still clung to his forehead. Shaken, I looked away.
“You look beautiful, by the way. Although I’m not sure why you changed your hair.” He again smiled that smile that I was sure was intended to make women melt, not that I had any intention of being affected by it.
“Um, thank you.” I smoothed my hand over my hair. “I decided last minute that it looked better down.”
He nodded, steering the small car down a street filled with abandoned businesses and pawnbrokers. “We’re going to Blackbeard’s—have you been there?”
Surely not. “No, actually, although the name is familiar—but I’m sure it’s not the same place I’m thinking of. Is it new?”
“Not exactly. I think it’s been here since before Prohibition. It’s not exactly on the tourist path—which is what I like. Best boiled shrimp I’ve ever had, though.”
“Great,” I said, not really picturing the messy eating of shrimp the ideal thing to do on a first date. There’s nothing as flattering as little shrimp legs stuck between your teeth when you smiled.
Jack pulled into a parking spot in front of an establishment I could only describe as a “dive,” and stopped the engine. Unfortunately, I knew the place well although I’d never had to actually step inside. A man and a woman were wrapped in a tight embrace with lips locked; they appeared to be having fully dressed sex against the wall of the building. Loud music and drunken laughter floated over to me, and I looked around, wondering if there was another place nearby I could suggest instead of Blackbeard’s. When I turned to Jack to ask, I was surprised to find him leaning toward me with his arm outstretched.
Without a word, he systematically plucked two bobby pins out of my hair and held them out in front of me. “You forgot these.”
“Thanks,” I said, grasping the pins, my attention shifting again to the bar we’d parked in front of. The name on the sign over the door read Blackbeard’s Bar and Grill. My images of broiled salmon and turtle soup fled, quickly supplanted by the image of a plastic bib big enough to cover my designer dress so I wouldn’t get shrimp peelings all over it.
I looked down the street, not seeing the familiar 1986 navy blue LeSabre I had been praying I wouldn’t see. “We’re eating here?” I couldn’t quite hide the peevishness in my voice.
“Trust me—you’ll love the food. And the ambience isn’t too bad, either.”
“Compared to what?” I asked under my breath as I allowed him to lead me inside.
The interior of the establishment was a definite improvement over the exterior. I don’t know if I was expecting dirt and rushes to be covering the floor, but I was surprised to see highly polished wood instead. Several people turned around to shout greetings at Jack, and he returned each one by name. I scanned the crowd, sighing with relief when I didn’t recognize anybody.
We were escorted by a fawning girl whose mincing footsteps seemed to be hampered by her voluminous breasts, both of which appeared to be of enormous interest to my date.
She brought us to a clean table in a back corner, where the Southern rock being played by the live band wasn’t too loud to talk over. The girl placed two plastic menus on the linoleum table, then kissed Jack on the lips before walking away with our drink orders, her hips swaying in the age-old human mating ritual.
Jack took his eyes off the departing waitress long enough to pull my chair out for me, and I sat, trying to unobtrusively wipe off my seat before sitting down. He pulled his own chair up to the table. “Isn’t this great?”
“Oh, definitely,” I said as I looked around, wishing I’d brought my antibacterial wipes. The walls were covered with neon beer signs and an assortment of dried alligator heads, one of which seemed to be peering at me with interest. A crowd of men at the bar gave a loud cheer and raised beer bottles in an apparent toast to one of their group who was seated and hidden from view.
I made a point to smile as we made small talk, and I perused the menu, looking for something safe to eat. When the waitress returned to take our order, I selected a blackened chicken sandwich with a side of rice.
Jack looked surprised. “Don’t you like shrimp?”
“Yes, I do, but . . .”
He waved his hand at me. “You’ve got to get them, then.” He looked up at the waitress. “A bucket for two, please, with red potatoes and corn bread—extra butter.”
I looked at him with irritation but kept my thoughts to myself for now, remembering what Nancy had said about making myself more approachable—although when I saw her again, I’d have to ask her to what depths I should be prepared to sink to before I could claim success.
I sipped on my sweet tea while he drank a Coke, and I was trying to remember if I’d brought my dental floss when he spoke.
“So, how did you know Nevin Vanderhorst?”
“Excuse me?”
“He left his house to you, didn’t he? I was just wondering how you knew him.”
Charleston might like to think of itself as a big city, but it was really nothing more than a big small town where everybody liked to gossip over the back fence with the rate of exchange faster than e-mail.
“I didn’t. I went to visit him to talk about allowing me to list his house when he retired to an assisted-living facility, and the next thing I knew, he’d died and left his house to me.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Well, that’s a first for me. I’ve researched stories where people left their earthly possessions to their cat or dog and even a guinea pig, but never to a complete stranger.” He grinned that grin again. “So, when do you move in?”
The already fragile image of my dream date shattered completely, and I leaned back in my chair, trying not to think about my wasted expensive dress or all the blank spaces on my calendar. “You didn’t really ask me out to talk about real estate, did you?”
He at least managed to look sheepish. “Well, sort of. Your new house on Tradd is real estate, isn’t it?”
“It’s not my house—I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” I studied his face and the way his shoulders filled out his shirt so nicely, and already regretted what I was going to say. But the humiliation of my own foolish wishes fueled my hurt pride.
I slid my chair back. “Look, I don’t think this is going to work. Call Mr. Vanderhorst’s lawyer if you want to know anything about the house. I’ll call a taxi.”
He grabbed my hand and held on before I could stand. “I’m sorry. I should have been straight with you. But you have something of a tough-girl reputation, you know, and I figured the only way I’d get you to talk with me would be to approach you in a more social setting.” He smiled broadly. “Seriously, I really am sorry. And you know, after seeing your picture in your newspaper ads, I didn’t think it would be much of a hardship.”
My wounded ego refused to take the bait. “I’m not a biscuit, so don’t try to butter me up. Good night.”
I tried to pull away but he held tight. “Please. We’re already here. Let’s go ahead and eat and chat a bit. I might even be able to get all the information I need so that you’ll never have to see my face again.”
The waitress returned with our bucket of shrimp and red potatoes and two plastic bibs. My mouth started to water. “I don’t know. . . .”
He must have sensed my hesitation because he tilted the bucket so I could see the succulent boiled shrimp and smell the Lowcountry spices. I caught his gaze. Surely one evening in his company wouldn’t be the worst way to pass the time.
I settled bac
k into my seat. “Well, since you’ve gone through all this trouble already, I guess we could chat. I have to say, though, that I know next to nothing about the house, except that it’s falling apart and I want nothing to do with it. I’m supposed to make a decision by tomorrow as to whether I’ll take it. I can’t say I’m anywhere near making a decision.”
He leaned forward on his elbows. “Fair enough. But let me tell you this much. I’ve been working with an idea for my next book. In nineteen thirty, there was a lot of intrigue surrounding your house, you know. A devoted wife and mother supposedly ran off with another man, leaving behind her eight-year-old son, and then there’re the rumors about her husband’s bootlegging business and speculation as to what really happened to his wife. I was hoping that maybe Mr. Vanderhorst told you something about it that might jump start my research.” He smiled that smile again and I would be lying if I said I was immune. “I promise I won’t make it painful. You might even find that you’re having a good time while I’m squeezing you for information.”
I eyed a Mississippi mud pie being brought to the table next to us. “All right. But you only have”—I checked my watch—“two hours and nineteen minutes. I’m in bed by nine thirty every night.”
“Deal. We’ll talk while we eat. Give me your plate.” He filled my plate while I fastened the bib around my neck. “Have you ever heard of Joseph Longo?”
“Vaguely. Should I know him?” I eyed the plate of bright-eyed bottom crawlers, smelling the spicy seasonings, and began to peel the shells off the meat. I didn’t care what I looked like while doing it since I was no longer officially on a date and, therefore, had no more need to be approachable.
“If you knew anything about the history of your house, you would. He was behind most of the organized crime that took place in the city during Prohibition—prostitution, liquor, gambling—whatever. He was also infatuated with the renowned beauty Louisa Gibbes of Charleston.”
“Okay. So what does this have to do with my house?”
He looked at me with amusement. “ ‘My’ house, huh?”
I slathered butter on a slab of corn bread. “You know what I meant.”
He just nodded and picked up a large shrimp. “Well, Miss Louisa Gibbes was engaged to Robert Vanderhorst, father of the late Nevin Vanderhorst.”
I waited for him to drain his beer bottle before continuing.
“According to my research, Joseph didn’t stop pursuing the fair Miss Louisa even after she was married although everybody believed her to be very much in love with her husband. Seems like the man couldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Typical male behavior.”
Jack raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “Anyway, Louisa had a son and seemed very content with her life. At least until her son was around eight years old. Not long after the stock market crash of ’twenty-nine, she disappeared, abandoning her only child. And so did Joseph Longo. Rumors speculated that they had run off together.”
Right after the stock market crash, she disappeared, abandoning her only child. Suddenly, I had no appetite. “Did they ever find her?”
Jack cracked open a shrimp shell and held it up to his mouth. “Nope. No trace of her or Mr. Longo. They’ve been missing for over seventy years and nobody’s ever seen or heard from them.”
I took a long drink from my sweet tea, trying to swallow the powdery taste of loss and abandonment that always seemed to linger in the back of my throat. I placed my hands flat on the linoleum to still them. “I don’t think her son ever believed that she deserted him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Mr. Vanderhorst left me a letter. In it he said that his mother had loved the house as much as she loved him, but that most people didn’t believe that since she had abandoned both of them.” I closed my eyes for a moment, seeing the bold handwriting on the letter that I’d read so many times now that the paper had become soft. “He said that there was more to that story, and that maybe fate had brought me to him to bring out the truth. So that his mother might finally find peace.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, his food forgotten. “Sounds like a ghost story to me. Have you seen or heard anything?”
I looked up at him, startled. “No, of course not. Why would you ask?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t look away. “Well, your mother was pretty famous around here for her . . . I guess you’d call it her sixth sense. She was really popular at parties, from what I’ve read. I thought maybe that if there’s any truth in her abilities, you might have inherited some of them. And that you could save me a lot of research and investigation if you could just ask the source, if you know what I mean.”
The tips of my fingers were turning white as I pressed them hard against the table. “I don’t think that kind of thing is genetic—assuming you believe in that sort of thing.” The waitress came and I told her to take my half-finished plate.
“Did Mr. Vanderhorst say anything else? Anything about any particular valuables or jewelry that might be in the house?”
Surprised, I said, “No, not at all. He bequeathed everything to me, but nobody’s mentioned any specific item.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Why? Is there something I should be aware of?”
He shrugged. “No—just wondering. Seeing as how he didn’t seem to mention leaving you the house, I was curious as to what he actually did mention.”
Did you see her? In the garden—did you see her? She only appears to people she approves of, you know. Jack was looking at my hands and reached over to take them in his own.
“They’re like blocks of ice.”
“I’m very cold-natured. My hands and feet are always cold.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to respond to that?”
I tried to jerk my hands away, but he didn’t let go. “So, what do you think? We could work together. You could give me access to the house, and I’ll share any information I find. I’m also an old hat at restoration work. I helped with my condo in the French Quarter, and my parents are an encyclopedia of information on all things old.”
“What happened to me not having to set eyes on you again?”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes, you did. That was the main reason why I agreed to stay and have dinner with you tonight.”
He pretended to think for a minute. “But don’t you think it would be much more fun to be partners and work on this together? I’d get the info I need for my book, and you’ll get the answers for Mr. Vanderhorst.”
The group of men at the bar was shouting and laughing loudly now at some joke one of them was telling, and I glanced over my shoulder to where the crowd had parted and saw that the man sitting down was wearing an old U.S. Army uniform. A pit of dread began to grow in my stomach.
Jack let go of my hand and looked at his watch. “Forty-five minutes, Mellie. I really don’t want to pressure you, but I think we both know what your answer should be.”
The laughter from the bar was becoming almost too loud to talk over. When I looked at the group again, I saw that the man in the uniform had tried to stand but had fallen, taking his barstool with him.
I jerked my attention back to Jack and studied this overconfident, almost-arrogant, and way too good-looking man, and I could suddenly see in my mind’s eye the bold script on Mr. Vanderhorst’s letter.
But there’s more to that story, though I have failed to discover what it is. Maybe fate put you in my life to bring the truth to the surface so that she might finally find peace after all these years. God bless you, Melanie. All of my final hopes rest with you.
The sound of breaking glass brought us both to our feet, and I saw that the uniformed man had attempted to stand again but his grasp on the bar had apparently failed, and he had slid to the ground again, taking several of the beer bottles on the bar with him.
I stared at him, at the still-thick head of graying hair and the sharp, fine bones of his face, which alcohol had softened like a putty knife to
wet clay, and felt the familiar jolt of embarrassment mixed with resignation cut through me. I headed to the bar, Jack right behind me.
“Do you think you should get involved, Mellie? I think the guy has enough friends to help him out.”
I stood over the man, watching as a stain of wet beer darkened the front of his khaki shirt, spreading its shame like a red letter on his chest. “Jack, would you please help him out to your car while I go call Mr. Drayton and tell him I’ll sign the papers?”
He looked at me with confusion. “Do you know this man?”
I knelt down. “Jack Trenholm, meet Colonel James Middleton. Dad? This is Jack Trenholm. He’s going to bring you home.”
My dad looked at us, his bloodshot hazel eyes staring up at me. At least he still had it in him to look ashamed. His words slurred together, bumping into one another like falling dominoes. “Sorry, Melanie. I only meant to have one.”
Jack put his hand on my arm. “I’ll take care of it. Go make your call.” He gave me that trademark grin of his again. “We’re partners now, remember?”
I rolled my eyes in mock resignation. “Yeah, great. Just make sure he pukes before he gets into your Porsche.”
I turned my back on them and headed out into the sticky air of a late Charleston summer and took great, gasping lungfuls of it while trying to breathe out all the disappointments and hopelessness that I had carried inside of me for thirty-three years. Then I fished my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Mr. Drayton’s number.
CHAPTER 5
Three days after my “come to Jesus meeting” at Blackbeard’s, I was the owner of an antique pile of rotten lumber, and encumbered by a dog, a housekeeper, and a guilt trip as long as the Cooper River. Later I would come to wonder how my perfect life had changed so quickly, and the only thing I could come up with was that in a moment of weakness I had been taken in by something as simple as a rose-painted piece of china and a handwritten letter on beautiful stationery.
