The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  A quick intake of breath let me know that Jayne saw him, too, but my father appeared unaware of the soldier or his gun as he continued speaking. “Was she the one who changed the name of the plantation from Magnolia Ridge to Gallen Hall?”

  “No,” I said, the tremor in my voice almost imperceptible. “That was done around the time of the British occupation of Charleston during the Revolution, not that long after the first house was built. But all of the older maps and even some of the new ones still refer to it as Vanderhorst–Magnolia Ridge Plantation. I wonder if it bothered the subsequent owners that people still referred to it that way—as if the Vanderhorsts had never left.”

  “Maybe they haven’t,” Jayne said, half under her breath.

  I gave her a sharp glance, noticing how she was sitting up straight, her gaze focused on the road ahead of us.

  I continued. “Sophie wasn’t able to find out the reason for the name change but thinks it might have had something to do with a family rivalry the Vanderhorsts had with the Draytons. The Draytons’ Magnolia Plantation was established around the same time, but the Vanderhorsts wanted the name for their own plantation, so they just added the word Ridge to differentiate. Someone eventually saw reason and changed the name to avoid confusion. To make sure that everyone knew which plantation they were visiting, the Vanderhorsts added real peacocks to the lawn, where they flourished until the Civil War.”

  As I stared out the windshield, the specter of the soldier began to shimmer as waves of light rose from the ground like steam, before he disappeared completely.

  “What happened to the peacocks?” Jayne’s voice was stronger than mine had been, but I could still detect a slight quaver.

  “They ate them.” We exchanged a glance. “It was during the war and everybody was starving.” I frowned as the sun glinted off of what could have been a part of a musket that was no longer there. “On a happier note, according to Sophie, a peacock symbol has been used on everything that ever originated from the plantation since the name change, including rice barrels and all of the furniture. I bet it was one of the first uses of a logo.”

  “Can we keep going?” my father asked impatiently. “I’m speaking at the gardening club at our meeting tonight, and I’d like to be able to go over my notes first.”

  “Of course,” I said, reluctantly putting my foot on the gas again and moving forward down the lane. The full house had just come into view when we heard the sound of a siren behind us. I moved my car to the side for the unmarked car with the flashing dashboard light to pass, blowing up dirt onto my car before it came to a squealing stop in the circular drive right at the front steps of the house. Not sure what I was supposed to do, I followed, parking my car behind it.

  Detective Riley, wearing dark sunglasses and a jacket and tie, stepped out of the driver’s-side door and looked back at us with an obvious frown. Jayne tensed beside me. “He’s tall. His shirt is blue.”

  My father had already stepped out of our car and was walking toward the man with an outstretched hand and smiling with familiarity. I grabbed my sister’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Come on, Jayne. Get it together. We’ve been practicing, remember? It’s Detective Riley. Thomas. We know him. You’ve been on dates with him. He’s a nice guy.”

  I watched as she swallowed, nodding. “I can do this.”

  “Yes,” I said, opening my door. “You can. Unless you want to pretend you’re a dumbstruck teenager meeting Elvis for the first time.”

  We walked together toward the detective, who greeted us both with a perfunctory nod, reminding me that Jayne said they’d had a fight. “So good to see you, Thomas,” I said with a smile, unused to his brusque greeting. “Why are you here?”

  His gaze moved to Jayne and then back to me. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  Jayne spoke up before I could. “We’re meeting with Anthony Longo.” Her words were slow and deliberate, but at least they were coherent.

  His frown deepened. “Well, I’m afraid he’s not here.”

  “He’s not? Because we have an appointment.” I paused. “And how would you know he’s not here?”

  “Because he’s in the hospital. Someone tried to run him off the road on the Crosstown. He’ll be okay, but his car is totaled.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said, the skin of my neck prickling even more. “What happened?”

  He was silent for a moment, as if deciding how much he could say. “It’s not clear, although witnesses say it appeared to be a single-car accident. He wasn’t exactly . . . coherent. Kept talking about someone hiding in his backseat and causing him to wreck. And then he said he was meeting someone out here at the winery and that he was afraid the same person might be here to harm them. I thought I should check it out. Imagine my surprise to find it’s you.”

  While we’d been talking, my father had begun heading toward the cemetery, walking with a limp I knew he didn’t have.

  “Dad? Where are you going?”

  He continued walking toward the cemetery gate as if he hadn’t heard me.

  Jayne began moving toward him. “Dad?” she called, but I was too worried about him to be annoyed at her use of the word Dad. “What’s wrong?”

  As he approached the gate, it swung open with a loud squeal of rust and old iron.

  “Stop!” I yelled, the temperature plummeting.

  He stopped, then slowly turned around, but it wasn’t him. Not really. It was the same salt-and-pepper hair, the same strong jaw and crooked nose from having been broken several times in bar fights before he’d gotten sober. But it wasn’t my father. Whoever it was had distorted his features, making them run together like ink in rain.

  I stopped ten feet in front of him, the scent of something vile sliding off of him in waves. Bile rose in my throat. “Daddy?” I said, using the name I hadn’t called him since I was six.

  His mouth twisted and his eyes went hollow. “Go! Away!” The voice was loud and booming and definitely not his. His knees began to buckle, but I couldn’t move. It was as if someone was holding my arms behind me. Thomas sprinted forward and reached my father before he could hit the ground.

  CHAPTER 7

  I stood in the back garden watching Sophie’s graduate students—the few who agreed to come back—excavate the cistern, staying far enough back so that the whispers of unseen people remained unintelligible. Her graduate assistant, Meghan Black, wore cute bow-shaped earmuffs and what appeared to be a pink tool belt over a quilted Burberry jacket while she bent over a row of muddy bricks with a small brush. I could only wonder what her monthly dry-cleaning bill must be. Maybe her mother paid for that, along with the clothes.

  I recalled what Anthony had said about the cistern’s bricks having come from the mausoleum at Gallen Hall and knew he was right. Ever since I’d seen the specter of the man holding the piece of jewelry standing by its edge, I’d known something besides buried pottery and silverware was causing the air in the back garden to beat like the wings of a bird. I’d just ignored the truth, something at which I was very proficient. I wasn’t sure if the dark shadow in Nola’s room was related to the cistern, too, or simply something unpleasant brought forth during an unfortunate (and hopefully isolated) Ouija board game Nola had played with her friends Lindsey and Alston. Or maybe they were connected somehow, the energies of three teenage girls summoning the dark spirits that lurked in all shadows, waiting for an opportunity to invade our lives.

  “You sure look sexy when you’re thinking.”

  I didn’t startle, having sensed Jack’s presence from the moment he entered the garden, my awareness of him like that of the ocean’s tides for the moon. Or, as he’d once told me, like the wrong paint color for the Board of Architectural Review. He wasn’t wrong.

  He kissed the side of my neck, then slid his arm around my shoulders. I hadn’t thought to put on a coat, and I was grateful for his warmth. �
��Aren’t you cold?” he asked, pulling me against him.

  “I didn’t plan to be out here very long. I’m waiting for another designer to interview and thought I’d come check on the progress while I waited. I’d really like this to be done before the progressive dinner. It’s such an eyesore.”

  “Well, even if it’s still here, I’m sure your dad can make it look like it was designed to be here by Loutrel Briggs himself. Speaking of which, how is your dad? When I spoke with him last night, he said he was fine by the time he was loaded back into the car and denies any memory of what happened.”

  “Yep,” I said. “Only now he’s insisting that he might have blacked out because his blood pressure dipped. And he’s still not speaking to me because I insisted that he stay in bed and miss his gardening club meeting yesterday.”

  “That’s pretty serious. Did you have to lock him in his bedroom and bolt the windows? Either that or he really was hurting. That’s the only thing that would make him listen.”

  “Exactly what I thought. You know he loves his gardening club. The only thing that pacified him was Jayne’s assurance that she would speak for him at the meeting since she was already familiar with his notes on the subject matter. They apparently spend a lot of time together in the garden.”

  “Thank goodness for Jayne, then,” he said.

  “Yeah. Thank goodness.” The white-hot seed of something that had implanted itself in my stomach yesterday when Jayne had made her offer and my dad had accepted seemed to explode in fireworks of heat as I relived the conversation. I turned my head to look up at Jack. “Aren’t you supposed to be writing?”

  He averted his gaze, studying the activity inside the cistern with great interest. “I’m just taking a break—I’m allowed breaks, aren’t I?” His voice held an unfamiliar edge to it.

  “Of course. But I heard you playing with the children in the nursery, so I was just wondering. Everything all right?”

  “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “Just working through a scene with Button Pinckney and her sister-in-law,” he said, referring to the former owners of Jayne’s house on South Battery. “It’s tough creating dialogue for real people, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I said. “But I have every confidence your book will be the next Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Isn’t that what your editor said?”

  “Former editor,” Jack corrected, his expression solemn.

  My gaze traveled behind him to Nola’s bedroom window, and I wondered if the passing shadow had been my imagination. It’s now or never. I took a deep breath and did a proverbial girding of my loins. “I need to show you something.”

  He quirked an eyebrow and gave me a lascivious grin. “Me, too. Do we have time?”

  I gave him a playful shove, wondering if he’d ever grow up and hoping that he wouldn’t. “That’s not what I meant. I have a picture that Meghan took of the back of the house. There’s something in it you need to see.”

  He glanced over at Meghan, happily brushing mud off of what looked like an old stick. “She just came back to work today after having her cast removed. When did she take the picture?” His eyes narrowed as he regarded me.

  “Hello?” A tall man wearing an immaculate gray suit stood on the path that led from around the side of the house. “Your nanny was on the front porch with two of the most adorable babies and she told me I could find you two back here.” He walked closer with his hand outstretched. “I’m Greco.”

  I was too relieved by my temporary reprieve to be startled by the stranger’s appearance. He shook both of our hands as we introduced ourselves, then waited for us to speak. When we didn’t, he prompted, “The designer. We had an appointment?”

  I looked at him with confusion, taking in the yellow silk Hermès tie and the coordinating pocket square in his jacket. He was very tall with intelligent eyes and a warm smile and, even better, came without any spiritual hangers-on. “Yes,” I said, “but I was expecting someone named Jimmy—a friend of our handyman, Rich Kobylt. Did I misunderstand?”

  He laughed. “My last name is Del Greco, but my first name is James—or Jimmy, according to my friends and family. My sister was the one who said that Greco sounded more like a designer.”

  Jack grinned, clearly amused. “Can’t argue with that. So you and Rich are good friends, huh?”

  Greco nodded. “We’ve been best friends since grade school. We were even roommates at Clemson. Stayed in touch even after I left for nursing school. I’m an RN and MSN, but after all my friends and family started asking for my design help, I realized I was in the wrong profession.”

  Jack nodded in understanding. “I sometimes wonder the same thing. Mellie has said more than once that I’m always the person to go to when it comes to placing the stray ottoman or accessorizing a bookshelf.”

  Greco looked at Jack with appreciation. “It’s a skill everybody thinks they have, but few actually do.”

  “Yes, well,” I said, leading him toward the kitchen door and wondering if it would be appropriate to ask him what he and Rich Kobylt had in common, since it apparently wasn’t fashion.

  General Lee, wearing his cone of shame, stood facing the wall when we walked into the kitchen. Even though the cone was clear, he acted as if he couldn’t see through it and nobody could see him. Except for eating and drinking and going outside briefly to relieve himself, he’d stayed in that position, stoically accepting his fate. It was sad and sweet at the same time, and I gave him extra treats when no one was looking and gave him a countdown to when he could see Cindy Lou Who. I wasn’t sure which perked him up more.

  “Good heavens,” Greco said, coming to a full stop when he spotted the dog. “Do you do that to everyone who offends you?”

  I was a little resentful that he addressed his question to me.

  I frowned and Jack came to my rescue. “That’s General Lee. He’s just had his little procedure.”

  General Lee moved his head long enough to give us a deep, soulful look before resuming his examination of the wall paint.

  “Poor little guy,” Greco said. “I’d pet him, but I get the feeling he’d rather be alone right now.”

  Jack nodded. “He’s holding up well, under the circumstances, but he keeps shooting me warning glances not to get in the car with Mellie and allow her in the driver’s seat.”

  Greco raised his eyebrows but, being an apparently intelligent man, kept silent.

  After he declined my offer of refreshments, I led the way up the stairs while he took his time eyeing the foyer with obvious appreciation. “So,” Greco said as we walked, “have you met with any other designers?”

  Jack coughed. “Only about a dozen or two. Mellie is . . .”

  “Particular,” I offered.

  “Picky,” Jack said at the same time.

  I frowned at Jack. “By ‘picky’ he means that I like things . . .”

  “Her way,” Jack offered. “Besides impeccable taste and the ability to work within a budget, any designer we hire will also need to have some knowledge of psychology—especially obsessive-compulsive disorders.”

  My elbow contacted with Jack’s hard stomach, eliciting a satisfying oomph.

  “And probably self-defense,” Jack continued. “It’s a good thing you have a nursing degree—that’s definitely in your favor. Do you know how to use a labeling gun by any chance?”

  Turning my back on Jack, I faced Greco. “Ignore him. He’s a writer and lives in a fantasy world most of the time, so you really never know what’s going to come out of his mouth next.”

  “Good to know,” the designer said, looking refreshingly unfazed. Several of the other designers I’d interviewed had left before we’d even climbed the stairs, so I took this as a good omen.

  The bedroom door was shut, as it had been since we’d moved Nola into the guest room in March, when I’d seen the face in h
er window and sensed the dark shadow hovering in the upstairs hallway. It was still there, waiting. And watching. I just wasn’t sure for what. Or for how long.

  When I’d given the excuse of needing to redecorate Nola’s room to move her out, I’d had the worry of not having the money to spend on a major redo. But I’d been saved by my mother and Amelia agreeing it was a great idea since Nola was a young woman now and her bedroom should reflect her growing maturity. They’d been so enthusiastic that they’d decided to split the cost as a Christmas gift to Nola.

  “So,” I said, turning around to face the two men. “This is Nola’s room. She just started her junior year at Ashley Hall and we’d like to give her a room that not only reflects her eclectic tastes for her to enjoy now, but will be a warm and comfortable retreat to come home to once she starts college.”

  We stood smiling at each other in the hallway for a long moment before Jack coughed. “Maybe we should go inside and take a look?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” I put my hand on the doorknob and turned. Nothing happened.

  “Is it locked?” Jack asked, stepping in front of me to try.

  “I hope not,” I said, “since there’s only one key and it’s usually kept on the inside of the door.” Our eyes met in mutual understanding.

  Greco chimed in. “These old houses usually have a skeleton key. Maybe your housekeeper knows where it is?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “but I don’t think it’s locked. It’s just . . . stuck.”

  Jack tried turning the knob again, pushing hard against the door with the side of his body. I could see it give, the outline of light peeking out from around the frame. It definitely wasn’t locked, then. But something was holding it closed from the other side.

  The front door downstairs opened and closed. “Hello?” Nola called. “Anyone home?” I bit my lip, not wanting her to see the struggle and understand the reason for it. I heard the sound of her book bag being dropped at the bottom of the stairs—I needed to talk to her about that again—and then her feet running up the stairs, and knew I was too late to stop her.