by Karen White
“I’ve never claimed to communicate with the dead.” This, at least, was true. Denial was my best friend when it came to my special “gift.” “But I’d like to think I could help Veronica in other ways to deal with her grief, and if she asks, I’d say yes.”
Very carefully and deliberately, he put the orange down in the middle of the table. He held his hands out, palms up, his face a mask of desperation. “I don’t know what to do, Melanie. Veronica talks about nothing else, like she believes finding out who killed Adrienne will make her come back. I really fear for Veronica’s mental health.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Please, Melanie. Don’t get involved. You won’t be helping her, and you might actually be hurting her. Veronica needs to move on with her life, and this is just holding her back.” He stopped speaking for a moment, but I could tell he had more to say; he just wasn’t sure how much or if he should continue at all.
Finally, he said, “It’s affecting Lindsey in a negative way. She can barely sleep at night and her grades at school are slipping.” He pursed his lips. “It’s ruining our marriage.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry, Michael. I really am. But all I can do is promise not to encourage her. I can’t do any more than that.”
“Then you’ll probably regret it. I’m sure Nola wouldn’t be thrilled if Lindsey were forbidden from seeing her. Or if your talents were advertised in a public way.”
His mouth twitched as he held back either anger or tears; I couldn’t tell which. His voice was very quiet when he spoke. “I want our lives back, and I see you as a potential interference to that happening. Please, Melanie. Please don’t encourage her.”
“I won’t. But assuming I could help, don’t you want to know the truth of what happened?”
He shrugged. “We already do—Adrienne’s boyfriend killed her and his fraternity brothers helped give him an alibi and cover it up so he got away with it. Veronica thinks this necklace she found means someone else was involved, but I think it’s just wishful thinking. Even Detective Riley can’t find any connection.” Michael shook his head. “I wish we’d never found that stupid necklace.”
I began leading him from the dining room. “Yes, well, maybe this will run its course. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll be busy with the decorating tonight, so no time to speak of murder or supposed evidence, all right? We’ll be happy to drive Veronica home, so no need to stick around.”
A solid thud from behind me made me spin around in time to see an orange plop to the ground at Michael’s feet, a red splotch covering the spot where the fruit must have collided with his jaw.
His eyes were wide as he looked from me to the orange, then quickly turned to examine the room, as if expecting to see someone else.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “They’re supposed to be dried. A fresh one must have slipped into the box.” I pretended that that was the only thing weird about the flying fruit.
“How did you do that?” he asked, holding the orange and looking around the room.
“Magic,” I said with a lot of force, as if that might make him believe it. With a smile, I left the room, Michael’s footsteps hurrying after me, the scent of Adrienne’s perfume following close behind.
CHAPTER 6
My father picked up General Lee before reluctantly placing him inside my car and then sliding in next to him in the backseat. “Is this really necessary?” he asked, moving closer to the dog and giving him a firm scratch behind his ears.
“Yes,” Jayne said, buckling her seat belt next to me. “There are plenty of dogs looking for homes, and we don’t want to be part of the problem. Porgy and Bess are going in for their procedures next week, so this is good practice for all of us.”
By the time I pulled out onto the street, General Lee was panting heavily, his eyes wide with anxiety. I glanced accusingly in the rearview mirror at my father. “Did you tell him where we were going?”
“I might have mentioned it. Seemed like a man-to-man talk was necessary.”
I rolled my eyes. We were on the way to the mausoleum to meet Anthony, and since we were passing the veterinary clinic, Jayne had made an appointment to have General Lee neutered. When I’d inherited him, having never had a dog before and knowing nothing about dogs, I’d had no idea how old he was or that all of his equipment was intact until Porgy and Bess came along. Both Nola and Jayne had been badgering me ever since to get him “taken care of,” but every time I’d asked him about it, he’d seemed less than enthusiastic. The night before, Nola had made a special dessert in General Lee’s honor consisting of mixed nuts rolled into sugarless and vegan cookie dough and rounded into the shape of small balls. They were delicious. But maybe I was just desperate for a cookie.
I turned up the heat in the car, then opened a rear window a bit so General Lee could stick out his head, one of his favorite activities. But he ignored the beckoning window, remaining stoic and looking straight ahead like a soldier heading into battle.
When we dropped him off, I gave him a kiss on top of his head, then waited as the nurse led him away. I called after him, “Remember, sweet boy, that we have a playdate with Cindy Lou Who when this is all over!”
General Lee looked back once and gave a low woof before moving in front of the nurse toward the door, his tail and head held high. I was embarrassed to find I had tears in my eyes and quickly wiped them away before I returned to the car.
We headed south on Highway 17 over the Ashley River Bridge toward Highway 61. Although it wasn’t as scenic as the Ravenel Bridge over the Cooper, which allowed drivers to admire the skyline of the Holy City and the spires of the many churches that gave Charleston its nickname, I almost enjoyed the views of the Ashley and the marshes more. Most likely because I heard Sophie’s disparaging voice every time I spotted a cruise ship in the Port of Charleston as I crossed the Ravenel Bridge.
There was still a lot of mumbling among residents about the height of the cruise ships that docked there, overwhelming the historic buildings that crouched in their shadows like rabbits sighting a hawk. Sophie’s voice had taken up residence in my brain as my conscience, it seemed, as I also heard it when I searched for mass-produced wallpaper to replace the hand-painted strips in the dining room, or used an electric sander to take off stubborn paint on the nursery door.
As we turned off Highway 17, Jayne pointed at a billboard advertising visits to the USS Yorktown, docked at Patriots Point in Mt. Pleasant. “Oh, look—an aircraft carrier,” Jayne said, tapping on the window. “Since Mother said she’s free all day to watch the children, maybe another day the three of us could . . .”
I looked at her in horror. I’d made the mistake of once joining Nola’s class on a tour of the ship, embarrassing myself by having to leave only fifteen minutes after boarding. I should have assumed that many of the men who’d served on the ship over its long history might never have left and might have been waiting all this time for someone to talk to.
Before I’d been politely escorted off the ship, Nola told me that I’d been singing ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” so loudly that no one could hear the tour guide. I hadn’t remembered that part, my attention focused on the crush of wounded men calling my name and moving toward me, and the sight of one man in uniform smiling, half of his face missing, telling me his name was John and he needed to get home to see his girl, Dolores. I remembered gasping for air, and breathing in the stench of unwashed bodies and fresh blood, and hearing my name being repeated over and over.
“No.” I shook my head to emphasize the word. I didn’t look at her, hoping my abrupt answer would be all she needed.
My father leaned forward from the backseat. “Probably not a good idea, Jayne. I mean, besides a cemetery or hospital, I’d pick an old aircraft carrier that’s seen wartime as being a pretty busy hotbed of paranormal activity, if such a thing existed. According to our conversations, that would make sense, right?”
> Jayne sent him a warm smile. “You’re absolutely right. Thanks.”
I stole a peek at my father just to make sure this wasn’t a joke. I was happy he was finally beginning to listen to someone on a subject that had always been taboo with us. And I was even happier that Jayne had been completely accepted by him. But, like a tiny splinter stuck beneath the skin, his ease with listening to Jayne and trying to see her point of view bothered me. A small annoyance that could easily be brushed aside. Or left to fester. Or, my favorite, ignored long enough that it went away on its own. I deliberately focused my attention on the passing landscape to distract myself from recalling all the times that strategy had failed dismally.
Autumn in the Lowcountry is not so much about the variable temperatures or the fact that we sometimes get four seasons in the space of a single week. Instead, the change of seasons is marked by a gradual shift in light and the leaching of colors from the tall sea grass and trees. Only the live oaks and southern magnolias clung to their greens, while all else faded to hazy golds and browns. New England’s claim to fame for its beautiful fall foliage was rightfully earned, but fall in the Lowcountry wore its own jeweled crown. It was one of the growing reasons why I loved calling this place my home. I’d probably love it a lot more if it wasn’t so full of restless spirits, but at least the scenery was nice.
Jayne read the directions Anthony had given me, although they’d been so simple I hadn’t really needed to write them down. Drive about ten miles on 61, then take a right on an unmarked road, then turn at the red arrow on a wooden marker.
I missed the arrow the first time and had to make a U-turn. We bumped along an unpaved road for a short distance before coming to a large wooden sign nailed to an ancient tree, and I was glad Sophie wasn’t there to see it. The blue paint had faded, but the large lettering was easy to read. GALLEN HALL PLANTATION.
Jayne looked at me. “Gallen Hall? I thought the Vanderhorst plantation was called Magnolia Ridge.”
“It’s actually the same place—just a different name. It’s a convoluted story, so I’ll tell you later—but I’m glad Anthony thought to mention it so I wouldn’t be driving all over looking for the wrong plantation. Apparently, things change slowly in South Carolina, because most people around here still refer to it as Magnolia Ridge even though the name change happened two hundred years ago. If I’d driven around asking for Gallen Hall, we might still be looking.”
We both turned back to the sign. Beneath the plantation’s name were the edges of black letters that were visible over deep and repeated gashes in the wood that appeared to have been made with a sharp stick. Or a knife. Clearly, someone was trying to obliterate whatever had been written there. I wondered if it had something to do with the failed winery. I could imagine that kind of treachery between brothers might lend itself to the force and violence needed for that kind of damage.
We passed through an open iron gate set between brick pillars, each with a concrete pineapple perched on top. According to Sophie, it was the symbol of hospitality in Charleston, hence the two dozen pineapples she’d ordered for my house for the progressive dinner. I’d told her that I hated pineapple and had given her a few specific suggestions as to what she could do with the leftovers after the tour. She hadn’t been amused.
As I drove down the long road edged with old-growth trees, my father leaned forward, peering through the windshield from the backseat. “So, this used to belong to the same Vanderhorsts who owned your house.”
I nodded. “Although it had passed out of the family by the time Nevin Vanderhorst left Fifty-five Tradd Street to me.” We all jerked as I swerved to miss a large rock in the middle of the road. “Joseph Longo owned it for a short time in the twenties, and more recently Marc Longo purchased the plantation, believing the Confederate diamonds were hidden here, and when he discovered that they weren’t, he tried to buy my house, believing—correctly, as it turned out—that they were there. Not that we allowed him to find them first.”
My father sat back in his seat. “Almost makes you feel sorry for the guy.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Jayne and I said in unison.
“Especially because he’s still not done trying to own my house,” I added. “But as our lovely librarian, Yvonne Craig at the Historical Society Library, has said, he’ll get what’s coming to him. Her only wish is that we’re all there to witness it.”
Almost under his breath, my father said, “Vanderhorst. Vanderhorst.” He tapped his fingers against the leather back of my seat.
“What is it, Dad?” I asked.
“I know I recently read something about the Vanderhorsts. Yvonne’s been helping me find old plans and articles in the archives about the gardens at our house and yours, so I’ve been reading a lot about the Vanderhorsts.” He scratched his head. “Something you said about the diamonds is ringing a bell.” He was silent for a moment, and when I glanced in the rearview mirror he was pursing his lips. He continued. “I remember making a copy of the article for you and sticking it somewhere, and then I promptly forgot all about it. I was distracted by a sketch I’d found of the parterre garden from our house on Legare and got all excited.”
I shared a glance with Jayne. “Yes, well, we found all the diamonds in the grandfather clock, remember? Still, I’d be interested in seeing the article. I’ve been working on a scrapbook for Nola, and I think a copy of it might have a place in the section on what our lives were like before she joined us. I don’t have a lot of material for when she was a baby and little girl, so I thought miscellanea of Jack and me and our lives before she came to live with us might be fun for her. I mean, the whole mystery of the Confederate diamonds is how Jack and I met.”
“I’ll look for it,” he said. “And we can ask Yvonne. She has a memory like an elephant’s.”
Yvonne was probably in her eighties but looked and acted like someone two decades younger. She had a terrible crush on Jack, with whom she’d been working for years on his book research, but I forgave her because I understood all too well how irresistible Jack’s charms were. It’s one of the reasons he had three children, none of them planned.
We came to an intersection and I stopped the car. A directional sign lay faceup, dirty and stained from the elements, half of a wooden stake still in the ground, its top half jagged and splintered where it had been decapitated. The letters on the sign were barely legible: GALLEN HALL WINERY.
“Anthony said the cemetery and mausoleum were near the house, so I’m guessing it must be this way.” I drove in the opposite direction of the defunct winery. I assumed we were heading in the direction of the Ashley River, as most river plantations had direct access to the river for shipping crops and for basic travel. I’d learned all that and more, apparently by osmosis, from hanging around Sophie. I’d even found myself using terms like curtilage and fenestration and wondering out loud if a particular paint color was historically accurate for a specific neighborhood when discussing a real estate listing.
The tall pines fell away, revealing an alley of magnolias, a leftover from the founding Vanderhorsts. I knew they weren’t the original trees, the life span of a magnolia being only eighty to one hundred and twenty years, although some were reported to be at least ten times older than that. But these were at least one hundred years old, their dark trunks thick and winding, giving the appearance of open hands with fingers holding bowls of wayward branches with shiny leaves. I imagined it was glorious to travel through the alley when the magnolias were in bloom in the spring. Yet a heavy feeling of dread that seemed to saturate the air as we drew closer made me hope that I wouldn’t be coming back.
“You feel that?” Jayne asked quietly.
I nodded, the hair on the back of my neck pricking at my skin like sharp fingernails. A large house loomed at the end of the alley, and directly to the left of it, separated by an enormous live oak surrounded by benches in its generous shade, lay the cemetery. An elaborate and
rusted iron fence with a closed gate would have informed any visitor what it was, but I knew because of the cluster of people in fashions from past centuries that were pressed against the inside of the gate, looking directly at us.
I started singing a loud rendition of “Knowing Me, Knowing You” while Jayne did her best to recall enough of the lyrics to sing along with me as we both tried to drown out the sound of multiple voices speaking at once.
“Stop,” my father shouted from the backseat. “What are you doing?”
I slammed on the brakes, jerking us all forward in our seat belts. “Sorry,” I said, keeping my face averted from the cemetery so they’d take the hint that we didn’t want to talk. “I thought before we went inside I’d tell you what Sophie told me about the house.”
“I thought you already did.” I met my father’s annoyed gaze in the rearview mirror.
I swallowed, relieved to hear the voices receding but needing more time to get them to stop before I was prepared to get out of the car. “Yes, but not about the architecture.” I gave him a shaky smile. “As you can probably tell, it’s not Greek Revival. The original house was built by a bachelor and was a simple farmhouse. By the time his grandson inherited the property in the early half of the nineteenth century and got married, the plantation was much more profitable. It was his wife who insisted on something grander, in accordance with their place in society, and she wanted what was all the rage in England at the time, and that was Italianate.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what features were required to make it fit in the Italianate category, but I was going only on what Sophie told me and that it looked nothing like Tara in Gone with the Wind. I just needed a reason not to have to continue on the road, mostly due to the British soldier in full redcoat uniform who was at that moment standing in the middle of the alley and pointing his musket directly at us.