“No guns for me,” I said. “The car will be enough of an adventure.”
Hours and several near accidents later, I’d mastered the Ford and was ready for the trip to town. Travis had done a thorough job of preparing me for every incident he could imagine, but he wore his worry clearly on his face as he waved me down the driveway. I drove with great care until I was out of sight of the house, and then I pressed the pedal with more assertion. The car sped down the shell drive, the wind whipping through my short hair. The sensation was more freedom than I’d ever tasted.
When I turned onto the road, though, I slowed. Travis had warned me more than once that the sand could grab the wheels of the car and send it careening into a tree or, worse, flip it over. While I loved the delicious sensation of speed, I would wait until I was on pavement.
In Mobile, I parked at the docks and shopped for the fruits Winona had listed. She’d put a special order in for crates of navel oranges that I had two stevedores load into the back of the car. Bananas and pineapples were exotics in abundance, their scent heightened by the hot sun until the air was so sweet it was almost intoxicating. I made the remainder of my purchases, storing everything in the car while I went for the next items on the list.
Bees hummed around the docks, and the smell of the water, with just a hint of salt, made me think of the adventure books I’d loved as a girl. Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island and Kidnapped were also favorites of my younger students. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was a story I never tired thinking about. What dual impulses could be housed within one body—the possibilities were shocking and disturbing. My uncle had been correct in my aspirations. I spent far too much time fantasizing about writing such tales, exploring the darkness at the edge of a room or the image caught out of the corner of my eye. My fanciful imagination had been a bane as a child. I’d seen and heard things no one else saw, and it had often angered my father. My mother, on the other hand, had been more sympathetic and assured me I’d outgrow such foolishness, because she had.
When I had the required items from the docks, I drove to the shops, where I purchased spices and the vegetables Travis and his helpers couldn’t grow in the garden. My uncle had traveled extensively, and he enjoyed foods from many different countries. Shopping for the ingredients made my mouth water.
At last my chores were complete. The temptation of another Coca-Cola sent me down to the candy shop. This time I would sit at the counter and sip my drink while I made sure I hadn’t overlooked anything Uncle Brett wanted. I’d also order some pralines for Winona. I’d discovered it was a favorite sweet of hers, and one, for some secret reason, she didn’t make herself.
I slipped onto a stool at the counter and enjoyed the tart soda that fizzed over the ice. Sometimes the smallest thing could be such a pleasure.
“You’re Brett Airlie’s niece, aren’t you?” The woman behind the counter had startling blue eyes and a smidgen of plumpness in her cheeks. She looked to be in her late twenties and moved with brisk efficiency.
“I am. Raissa James.” I extended my hand and was pleased when she shook it with confidence.
“I’m Pretta Paul. I married the oldest of the candy-shop boys.”
When I looked blank, she laughed. “The three Paul boys own the candy shop. That’s why they call it the Three Pauls Candy Store. The store has been in business since before the Civil War. I married Hubert Paul, the oldest. My husband and your uncle are friends.”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize the name. There are so many things I don’t know.”
She patted my arm. “Sometimes best not to get all tied up by history and facts that no one cares about anymore. But I know more about you than you do me. You live in Savannah and are here for a long-overdue visit with your uncle. And I know other things that might interest you.”
Something in the way she said it tickled my curiosity. “Like what?”
She put a hand to her mouth as if something had slipped out, but instead of declining, she refreshed my soda, made one for herself, and came from behind the counter to sit beside me. “Ghost stories. I just love the tales about Caoin House. So deliciously creepy.”
“I’m a fan of a good ghost story myself,” I said, delighted to have met someone to share my interest. “So tell me a dark tale about Caoin House.” The possibility of actually writing a bit of fiction centered on my uncle’s beautiful home came back to me with a tingle in my gut that usually signaled I was onto something.
Pretta was about to talk when the bell over the door jangled and a very handsome man in business attire stepped into the shop. His suit had to have been tailored specially for him, and it fit his straight shoulders and narrow hips to perfection. Even though it was late afternoon on a hot and humid day, his white shirt remained crisp. He was a handsome, well-built man between my age and Uncle Brett’s. His sharp blue gaze found me and held. The sunlight touched his brushed-back hair and the slight hint of a beard. He came straight toward me. “Raissa James! I thought I recognized Brett’s car parked outside. I’ll bet that devil sent you out to run errands for the party.”
“He has.” I took the hand he offered. To my consternation, Pretta rose and returned to her post behind the counter.
“What can I get for you, Mr. McKay?” she asked.
I knew him then. My uncle’s lawyer, Carlton McKay, a man with great magnetism. I had no doubt he had the power to sway juries to his clients’ benefit. I recalled several letters where Uncle Brett had mentioned the attorney’s sharp mind and abilities.
“A Coca-Cola would be very refreshing, Pretta. How is Hubert doing? Not eating too much of the delicious candy you make, I hope.”
“He’s well, Mr. McKay. I’ll tell him you asked.” She put the soda in front of him in the place she’d vacated.
“Pretta, will you be a dear and prepare a ten-pound box of whatever confections you think would be appropriate for a weekend gala at Caoin House. I’ll pick them up tomorrow.”
And he had more than his share of charm, too. I stood. “It isn’t necessary to bring a single thing. I swear, Uncle Brett has enough food to feed half of Mobile, and I’m sure he doesn’t expect his guests to supplement the menu.”
Carlton performed a gallant little half bow. “You can never have enough of Pretta Paul’s confections.”
Pretta blushed prettily, and I realized she had a tiny crush on the lawyer. I could see why. His air of confidence was as attractive as his appearance. Carlton McKay was a man who knew what he was doing in every arena he entered.
“Tell your uncle I’ll be out tomorrow to lend a hand with setting up the croquet course and the tennis net. I also have to hide the clues for the hunting game on the property. You follow one clue to the next clue—exciting stuff, and one misstep and you’ve lost. It’s based on ancient folk games that Travis mentioned to me, and it’s going to require a degree of skill and deduction. I’m so glad Brett is hosting this party. We need to celebrate the end of the war and the beginning of prosperity. And the arrival of his beautiful niece.”
I ignored his compliment, but the idea of a clue-hunting game immediately caught my fancy. “I’ll be happy to help you with the clues and the details.”
“I’ll be at Caoin House in time to help with any last-minute preparations. Your uncle’s parties are legendary.” He turned to Pretta. “I’ll write at least four clues especially for you, Pretta.”
She laughed. “Be careful, Mr. Carlton, or Hubert will think you’re flirting with his wife.”
“Oh, posh. I am flirting with you.” He drained his glass and set it back on the marble counter. “Ladies, good day.”
It took a moment for his essence to clear the room. I turned back to Pretta. “So what about those ghost stories?”
She laughed. “On second thought, ask your uncle. Some of them are grisly, and I wouldn’t want Mr. Brett angry with me for putting things into your head. I need to help John Henry in the kitchen. We have some pastries ready to fill and packag
e.”
Another customer entered, and I knew it was pointless to press. “It seems I’ll see you this weekend at Uncle Brett’s party. When you’re at Caoin House, I want to hear the stories. Who knows, I may put them in a book.”
“Now that would be a grand thing to do.” She put my change on the counter and turned to help the three ladies who’d entered the shop. She called over her shoulder to the back area where the candy making took place. “John Henry, be sure and check the oven for the puff pastries.”
I picked up my purchases and went to the car. If I didn’t get home soon, Uncle Brett and Travis would both be worried about me.
At last, after a cold dinner of chicken salad and pickled condiments that Winona had put up from Travis’s garden, I grabbed a book from the library and hurried to bed. It had been a long and tiring day. Driving the car had been exciting, but it had taken a toll in tension. My shoulders ached. I was eager for bed in the lovely room that gave me such a view of the moon peeking from behind the graceful branches of the oaks. The mild night was an invitation to leave the balcony doors open. Caoin House was isolated, and my balcony was without exterior access. With Travis on alert, no one in his or her right mind would walk about the grounds without permission.
I settled under the sheet with a copy of Ghost Stories of an Antiquary, a new addition to my uncle’s library, a first edition published in 1904. Uncle Brett was certainly an accomplished tempter, and I was very aware of his playful humor since the author, M. R. James, shared my last name. I loved nothing better than the ghost stories that were Mr. James’s style.
“Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad” put me right at the old hotel and golf course that the author described. I could almost feel the dirt-crusted bronze whistle that the protagonist unearthed. When the narrator cleaned the whistle and blew it, I knew something terrible would happen. And, of course, it did. How my uncle would laugh at me if he could see me clutching the book, too afraid to get out of bed to shut the balcony door, where a gentle breeze fluttered the sheers.
As beautiful as my bedroom was in the daytime, it was spooky at night. The high ceilings and large dimensions offered layers of shadows and corners where wicked creatures might crouch. The branches of the oaks, swaying in the bright moonlight, cast moving images against the wall and floor. Caoin House was nothing like my small Savannah cottage, where there was no room for moon shadows to dance and caper. The one thing I knew for sure—I had the imagination necessary to follow in the footsteps of my namesake, M. R. James. My brain had already conjured up all sorts of dark entities waiting for a chance to leap out.
The wind picked up, and the sheers began to writhe like spirits dancing in torment. I forced my logical mind to assume control, and I got out of bed and ran to shut the balcony doors. The wind was unseasonably cold, and tomorrow, when I was involved in a heated game of lawn tennis, I would think of it with longing.
Struggling a bit, I pushed one side of the French doors closed and latched it into place. Movement on the lawn caught my attention as I held the second door semishut. Someone walked among the trunks. Based on the breadth of his shoulders, it was a man. He wore a light-colored suit, but I couldn’t see him clearly. At one point, he turned and looked toward me, and I swore he nodded slightly, but I couldn’t be certain. In another moment, he stepped behind one of the massive trunks and was gone.
I latched the door and hurried back to bed. Tomorrow I would ask Uncle Brett. It could have been one of the workmen he’d hired, pacing off the ground to set up tents. Whoever it was, I had no sense of danger. He seemed at ease walking among the trees, almost as if he belonged there.
Burying myself in the covers, I was almost instantly asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
The morning dawned clear and with lower humidity, a true blessing. June was still a month when spring could show up, delicate and filled with promise. More often it was summer that knocked at the door, complete with baking heat and a lack of breeze. The cooler temperatures were very welcome, and so was the lack of mosquitoes. While outbreaks of yellow jack happened less and less frequently and with less mortality, the mosquito-borne disease was a constant threat in the summer months.
The house was in full bustle when I made it downstairs to grab a slice of toast and a strip of bacon from the buffet. Winona served coffee, and I took my cup and saucer outside, where workmen were erecting three tents. One for food, one for alcohol, and one for the dance floor. Uncle Brett had an enviable record collection, and he loved to dance. So did I, although I was sadly out of practice.
As I wandered under the oaks, enjoying the clean smell of morning and the dew-soaked grass, a delivery truck arrived. A young boy took a bow-wrapped package to the door. Winona accepted it and took it inside. My uncle had purchased a gift for someone, perhaps a special woman. I suspected it was Isabelle Brown, a high-society lady friend he’d mentioned more and more often in his letters to me. I’d have to keep a sharp eye out to discover who had his affections.
Soon folks would be arriving. Uncle Brett expected at least thirty people to stay over. The logistics of accommodating all those people—cooking breakfast, providing lunch, drinks—I was surprised Winona didn’t run screaming from the kitchen. But she seemed to enjoy the commotion as much as Uncle Brett did. Travis, too, stomped around the grounds, ordering crews of gardeners as they marked the winding trails through the property and decorated fountains and ponds. Hired hands set up floral bouquets in the tents and covered tables with white linen cloths.
I finished my coffee and returned to the house to dress for the day. As I entered my room, I was surprised to find the gift box, tied with a large red bow, on my bed. There was no card, and I opened the box with anticipation. It contained clothes, I was sure.
When I lifted the short set out of the tissues, I let out an exclamation. The blue-and-white set, complete with a sailor top, was exactly what I’d been longing for. Even though my contemporaries in Savannah would be shocked if I wore the outfit on the street, I didn’t hesitate in putting it on. I completed the look with ankle socks and Mary Janes and tied a blue scarf around my head at a jaunty angle. Twirling before the mirror, I couldn’t wait to thank Uncle Brett. By giving me the shorts, he had bestowed his permission for me to wear the daring outfit. I would be able to run and bat the tennis ball without the hindrance of a skirt. My bachelor uncle was quite the cat’s whiskers in fashion, and I realized he’d had some help from a lady friend. I had no doubt I was going to like this Isabelle Brown.
Eager to track Brett down and hear all about his accomplice in fashion, I hurried downstairs. Uncle Brett was standing at the front door when he saw me, and his face told a story that slowed me to a standstill.
“You didn’t buy the outfit, did you?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen it,” he said. Recovering quickly, he added, “But it looks very fetching on you. Perfect for a summer lawn party.”
I had to laugh. “You’re a terrible liar. Are you scandalized?” I had fallen in love with the comfort of the shorts, and truth be told, they were no shorter than some of my skirts.
“The change is . . . unexpected.” He arched an eyebrow. “The clothes were a gift?”
“Anonymous,” I said, still not certain he wasn’t pulling my leg.
He sighed. “I suspect Carlton McKay is behind it.”
Suddenly the shorts felt very revealing. “Oh dear. I’ll take them off immediately. I can’t accept such a gift.”
“Posh.” Brett grabbed my elbow. “The man is incorrigible. I can’t be certain if he’s flirting with you or attempting to get my goat, but let’s pay him back in his own coin. You wear the outfit and enjoy it, and we’ll both pretend that I sent it.”
My uncle was the king of mischief, and if Carlton thought to have a laugh at our expense, he would not get the pleasure.
“Are you certain?” I still felt a bit uneasy with the idea. Carlton had not only moved my wardrobe into the twentieth century; he’d guessed my size with
great accuracy. And he’d judged my taste as well.
“Let’s play him at his own game. Raissa, I want you to move here, and I want you to be free to be the woman you choose. Wear trousers and shorts. Crop your hair. Demand the vote. You are an Airlie, and you will not be a shrinking violet.”
My emotions swelled, and I kissed Uncle Brett’s cheek. “No one has ever believed in me like you do.”
“Because we are two of a kind, my dear. Now, I see a carriage arriving. One of the old guard is here for the party. Go and greet them. If the shock of short pants doesn’t kill them, escort them in here and I’ll put a mimosa in their hand.”
And the party was on.
Carlton arrived in blue-and-white-checked slacks, a blue bow tie, and a sporty cap. I was amused to see that he’d planned his outfit to match mine, but I never hinted that I knew the gift came from him. When he challenged me to a game of tennis, I eagerly accepted. While I didn’t win, I put him through his paces, and when the game was over, we flopped into lawn chairs beneath the shade of the oaks.
“You’re a very modern woman,” he said, bouncing his racket on his knee.
“And ambitious.” I said it without a smile.
He leveled a look at me and then burst into laughter. “You and your uncle are going to control the city.”
“That’s absolutely our devious plan.”
He picked up two mimosas from a passing waiter and handed one to me. I almost refused, remembering the dreadful hangover from the rum on the train, but I’d helped Winona squeeze the juice from the wonderful navel oranges only last night. I couldn’t pass up the chance to taste the efforts of our labors.
“A lady who can hold her liquor is a force to be reckoned with,” he whispered, leaning forward.
It was another challenge, and I accepted with a smile and a big sip of the bubbly champagne mixed with the orange juice. “Delicious.”
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 3
