The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of arguing, so, facing Ruth again, I asked, “Is my order ready, Ruth? I have a staff meeting this morning and I need to be sugar-and-caffeine-fortified to sit through it.”

  She pursed her lips, her whole body radiating disappointment in me. “No, and it’s going to be a while, so you might as well take a seat. I’m working on this gentleman’s order first.”

  My raised eyebrows were wasted on her, as she didn’t even bother looking up at me as she slowly and deliberately began to fold a flat pastry box into shape. Sighing, I retreated to the other table adjacent to Jack’s, ignoring the second chair at Jack’s table that he kicked out in an apparent invitation to sit.

  After dumping my purse and briefcase in the facing chair, I turned to Jack. “So, really, why are you here?”

  “I told Nola I’d bring her breakfast, and you told me she likes Ruth’s powdered-sugar doughnuts. I need to ask her more about Bonnie, so I figured I’d take your advice and try a little bribery to soften her up first. I’d planned to have a discussion with her the other night, but we were having such a good time that I didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up her mother.”

  Nola hadn’t volunteered any information as to what she and her dad had done, so I assumed they’d spent the whole day watching Twilight movies on DVD and eating popcorn. If I really examined my conscience I would admit to feeling a little left out, imagining that the three of us hanging out together might be more fun than the two of them doing something and me organizing Mrs. Houlihan’s spice rack by myself.

  “What did you do?” I found myself asking.

  “I took her down to the Spoleto Festival. I’d bought some tickets to see The Gospel at Colonus at the Gaillard Auditorium and she loved it. She’s got pretty eclectic tastes when it comes to the creative arts, and I figured Spoleto was the perfect place to take her.”

  He was right, of course. The Spoleto arts festival in Charleston was a yearly event that attracted national attention and poured thousands of visitors into the city for a two-week period. I’d never attended any of the concerts, plays, or art shows, choosing instead to avoid the crowds and carry on with business as usual. But I could only think now how fun it would have been to be with Nola and Jack.

  “I’m glad she had a good time.” I glanced at Ruth, who was now, with excruciatingly slow movements, curling ribbon with the sharp edge of a pair of scissors. For Jack’s box of doughnuts. In all the years I’d been coming to see Ruth on a daily basis, I’d never seen even a scrap of ribbon.

  I turned back to Jack. “Did you find out who that Rick Chase person is? I haven’t heard Nola talking on her phone with him again, but that could just mean that she’s being careful not to do it in front of me.”

  He drummed his fingertips on the table. “Yeah, I did. Besides being Bonnie’s last boyfriend, he’s also the guy who wrote that Jimmy Gordon hit—the one they’re playing on the radio all the time.”

  “ ‘I’m Just Getting Started’?” I asked. “That’s the song that’s always playing when Nola’s radio turns on by itself. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jack shrugged. “I just think it’s a little too coincidental for Nola to hate this singer whose song has a connection, although a distant one, to Bonnie. I want to ask her about it, and also find out whether ‘my daughter’s eyes’ means anything to her.”

  “Please let me know if you find out anything—anything at all. It will help me approach Bonnie, if I can ever get her to stay long enough so I can speak with her.”

  “Do you see her a lot?”

  I nodded. “Quite a bit. Mostly around Nola, or in Nola’s room in the corner where she keeps Bonnie’s guitar and her music. And her backpack and teddy bear. Her teddy bear wears a USC football jersey; did you know that?”

  He shook his head. “What’s the number on it?”

  I thought for a moment. “You know, it’s funny you mention that. The shirt looks like a normal college-issue jersey, but the number looks hand-stitched. And there’s no name on it, either. Like Bonnie bought a generic jersey and then sewed on the numbers herself.”

  I glanced over at Ruth, who was moving so slowly I was getting ready to volunteer to come behind the counter and help. “While we’re talking about Bonnie, I wanted to ask you something. Was she a very maternal sort of person when you knew her?”

  He looked at me strangely. “I wouldn’t have called her maternal—I mean, we were in college, not many chances to show a maternal side. But she was always very caring and concerned about others. Always put other people before herself. I think that’s one of the reasons why she left without telling me about Nola. She wasn’t being selfish; she just didn’t want to saddle me with a wife who didn’t want to be married or stay in South Carolina.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “But she must have been a great mother. Despite her failings, she must have done something really right to make Nola as strong as she is.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

  I told him about the incident in the Circular Church cemetery, and how it appeared that Bonnie had stepped in to protect me. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it suddenly. “Never mind,” he said.

  “No, tell me. What were you about to say?”

  A half smile lifted his mouth. “I was about to say that I think you and Bonnie would have been friends.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  He shrugged. “For the same reason you and Sophie are friends, I guess. But also because she would have looked at you as one of her projects—somebody who needed changing.”

  “Who says I need changing? I think I’m perfectly fine the way I am.”

  Ruth appeared by Jack’s table and placed the beribboned box in front of him. “I’m not taking sides here, sir, even if you’re right. She’s a regular customer.”

  Jack had the gall to laugh and slid back his chair as I continued to sit there trying to find a suitable response that ran along the lines of Ruth’s comment, yet without the personal affront.

  “Thanks, Ruth. I know my daughter will love them.” He zipped up his jacket and turned up the collar to prepare to step outside and into the deluge. He slid on a red USC baseball hat and picked up the box, holding it under his arm like a football. “Oh, one more thing. While I was researching Rick Chase I Googled the Manigault family name and found their family plantation in Georgetown County where the developers are getting ready to clear the land.”

  I jerked my head up. “How did you know about that? Yvonne said you hadn’t been to see her since the first time you asked about the Manigaults.”

  “Nola. She hears a lot more than she lets on. Anyway, Yvonne must have mentioned something about environmental protestors, which piqued Nola’s attention, and Nola then told me. I found out something very interesting about the main house that burned to the ground.” He paused for effect. “Guess what year it burned?”

  I frowned at him for a moment before I remembered the conversation I had with Yvonne about what a bad year Julia had when her brother disappeared and her fiancé died, followed in quick succession the following year by her parents’ deaths. My eyes widened. “Nineteen thirty-eight?”

  “Bingo.”

  Slowly, I said, “And there’re no such thing as coincidence.”

  “Nope.”

  Our eyes met for a long moment before I spoke. “So what happens next?”

  He put his hand on the doorknob. “That would be your call, Mellie.” He waved to Ruth, then opened the door. “See you around,” he said, before shutting the door behind him.

  I turned to Ruth, who was concentrating on rolling over the top edge of my doughnut bag. I paid her for my doughnuts and coffee, then left the store without my umbrella, my mind too busy trying to figure out whether Jack had been referring to the Manigault’s dark family secrets or something else entirely.

  CHAPTER 21

  I closed the back door leading into my office building from the parking lot as quietly as possibl
e, trying to escape Charlene’s notice. I was craving peace and quiet and was not in the mood for Charlene’s effusive morning chipperness or yet another invitation to join her in a child’s pose, whatever that was. And I certainly didn’t want her confiscating my doughnuts and cappuccino again. Neither did the rest of the office.

  I had successfully made it into my office and was placing my cup and bag on my desk when a noise behind me made me turn around quickly, my purse tipping my cup but not knocking it over. Charlene stood next to a small table in front of the window, where a small fishbowl now sat with two goldfish swimming laps. A plastic sunken ship and pebbles lay scattered on the bottom in some bizarre re-creation of an underwater disaster.

  Propping my hands on my hips—mostly to block Charlene’s view of my breakfast—I pierced her with what I hoped was my “you’d better have a good explanation” look, something I’d been perfecting with help from both Nola and my mother. “Can I help you, Charlene?”

  “No, ma’am. Just doing my job,” she said in her heavy Southern drawl. “I’ve been studying feng shui for the office, and it says that every office should have a water feature or aquarium to promote success. I couldn’t find one of those tabletop fountains, so I got this. Living creatures and water give you rejuvenation and calm, and I thought you could use both. You just have to give them a pinch of this food twice a day and clean out the bowl once or twice a week.” She beamed broadly. “You’re welcome.”

  “Did Sophie put you up to this?”

  “Dr. Wallen? No, ma’am, she did not. I thought of this all by myself.” She beamed again. “Although when she called and I told her about it, she sounded tickled and said you’d love it.”

  “I bet she did.” I looked at the fish, wondering whether I should name them before I dumped them into the nearest fountain. There were plenty in my neighborhood. “Thank you,” I said, hoping she recognized dripping sarcasm when she heard it. “Is there anything else?”

  She tried to peer behind me, but I kept turning my body to block her view. “You have a message that I pulled off the voice mail from last night. It’s from Rebecca Edgerton.”

  I spotted the pink piece of paper poking out from under the grease-stained doughnut bag and suppressed a groan. I’d been happily avoiding her calls to my cell phone, procrastinating making a return call and the inevitable irritation that always seemed to accompany my conversations with my cousin. “Great. I suppose she wants me to call her back.”

  “Actually, she said she’d be dropping by at eight o’clock this morning. She said she needed to talk to you about something urgent.”

  With my curiosity piqued, I slid the note out from under the bag, still making sure Charlene didn’t have a full view of my desk. “It just has her name.” I looked up at Charlene for an explanation.

  “Well, I knew I’d be here when you got in and could just tell you.”

  I looked at the clock and suppressed another groan. I had exactly five minutes to wolf down my doughnuts—Rebecca had inherited not only the propensity for being early, but also the sweet-tooth gene, and I was not in the mood to share.

  Charlene took a step toward my desk and I gently took hold of her arm. “Thank you, Charlene, but I’d like to get a few things organized before she arrives. If you could send Rebecca back when she gets here and hold my calls, I’d appreciate it.”

  She started to say something about moving the furniture in my office to open up the energy flow, but I’d already shut the door. Running around to my desk, I shoveled in the first doughnut and was about to take the first bite out of the second when Rebecca tapped on my door and stuck her head around the corner.

  “Good morning, cousin!”

  I took a quick swallow of my cappuccino to wash down the doughnut and shoved the second one in the top drawer of my desk, then stood. “Hello, Rebecca. What a nice surprise.” She kissed me on each cheek, then sat down in one of the chairs that faced my desk.

  She looked . . . pink. Her flawless skin was tinged with natural pink on her high cheekbones, which matched her bright pink lipstick and nails. Her pink jacket was fastened with a huge black patent-leather bow belt, and her ears held tiny matching pink bow earrings. It was like looking at a huge stick of cotton candy—pretty to look at but too much would make you sick.

  “I just got your message,” I said, trying to get right to business so she wouldn’t linger too long. I didn’t exactly dislike Rebecca, but I didn’t necessarily like her either. My ambivalence to a blood relative, regardless of how removed, could be because of how she’d at first kept hidden from me who she was and her motives for getting to know me. At least, that’s what I chose to believe, because I couldn’t imagine holding a grudge against my own cousin just because she was dating Jack. After all, she’d first dated him long before I’d met him, even before his engagement to the late Emily.

  “Nice aquarium,” she said, indicating the fishbowl. She crossed her legs, the top one jiggling up and down.

  “Thank you,” I said, stilling my own leg and not wanting to say any more that might encourage conversation. I still had my second doughnut to eat before the staff meeting, after all. I raised my eyebrows to encourage her to get on with it.

  “How’s Nola doing?” she asked.

  “She’s doing great. She doesn’t complain anymore when it’s time to go to Julia Manigault’s for her music lessons, and we’re pretty sure she’ll be starting at Ashley Hall as a ninth grader in the fall. Other than that, she’s become a whiz at texting, and she and Alston Ravenel are addicted to Say Yes to the Dress. And, speaking of which, Sophie has asked Nola to be a junior bridesmaid in her wedding. Even better, Nola loves the dress Sophie selected for her to wear.”

  “Of course,” Rebecca said.

  That was exactly what I’d said, too, when Sophie told me, but I didn’t think I’d said it in the same derogatory tone. I really had been pleased that they were in accord, since I was still trying to work up the courage to tell Sophie that I’d rather walk down the aisle wrapped in cellophane than wear the concoction she’d created for me.

  Rebecca continued. “Although I think Ashley Hall is a little too close, don’t you think? There are some great schools in the Northeast that would be better at accommodating Nola’s . . . style.”

  I bristled. “Actually, that’s the great thing about Nola. She’s definitely different, but she’s different because it suits her, not because she’s trying to shock anybody. Even better, she’s a genuinely good kid with a great head on her shoulders. Granted, she’s still a teenager, but we haven’t killed each other yet, so I’m guessing that’s a good thing. And Jack wants her close by. I mean, he’s missed the first thirteen years of her life. I don’t think he wants to miss another second.” I leaned forward, enjoying myself. “They’re getting along so well right now that I’m thinking Jack’s on the verge of asking me to help him find a bigger place so Nola can move in with him permanently.”

  She frowned, and when she caught me watching her she smoothed her forehead. I noticed that the frown lines didn’t completely disappear, and I felt a moment of pure happiness. Rebecca was a few years younger than me, but she always made me feel much older when I was standing next to her.

  “So,” I said, clearing my throat, “what was so urgent?”

  She shook her head as if trying to clear it of unwanted images. “Yes. Right.” She smoothed her pale linen skirt over her knees. “I was wondering whether Jack had mentioned his next book idea to you.”

  “You mean his book about Louisa Vanderhorst and my house on Tradd Street?”

  She shook her head impatiently. “No. And although he refuses to see it, I think that book will never see the light of day. He’ll be able to keep his advance money, but I don’t think his publisher has any plans to publish it.”

  I folded my hands on top of my desk to give them something to clutch other than Rebecca’s neck. “Why would you say that? Have you heard anything definitive about his publisher’s plans? I mean, why would t
hey pay him all that money, and get excited about a book, and then just pull the rug out from under the entire project?”

  She gave me a delicate shrug, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. “I don’t know. But I think we need to be practical here. Jack keeps beating his head against the proverbial stone wall, and I think it’s time he moved on. Found another project in which to immerse himself so he’s not focused on this particular little roadblock.”

  “Having your publisher pull your book without explanation is more than a roadblock, Rebecca. Surely you, as a writer, can understand that.”

  With a patient smile she said, “Of course I do. But the point I’m trying to make is that Jack needs to move forward. Start that next book. Get himself far enough along that he can look back at all of this and see it as a learning experience. Maybe even put enough distance between him and his current publisher to sell the Louisa book to somebody else.” Pressing her palms against the edge of my desk, she whispered loudly, “Surely you’ve noticed that he . . . hasn’t been himself lately.”

  I wasn’t about to get into a discussion about Jack and his state of mind with Rebecca. Leaning back in my chair, I glanced at my watch, making sure she saw me. “So what has any of this got to do with me, and why would you say it was urgent?”

  Her face became serious. “Because you and I both know what his next book should be about.”

  I felt the first stirrings of unease. “We do?”

  She nodded. “Think about it, Melanie. It should be obvious.”

  When I still didn’t say anything, she prompted, “A sunken boat, a skeleton on board, an old portrait of a woman with an heirloom necklace . . .”

  I slapped both palms on top of my desk. “Absolutely not. That’s personal and very private family history. I’d prefer it not to be known that an ancestor was a murderess.”