The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  “Francis Marion. During the Siege of Charleston he and his men used guerrilla warfare to attack the British. He was never captured and he managed to wreak devastating losses on the British and bolster the morale of the patriots. Many patriot sympathizers hid him in their houses as he moved through the Lowcountry. I’m assuming the Vanderhorsts must have been sympathizers since the name Gallen Hall was mentioned in his personal papers.”

  “And this list . . .” Jack began.

  “Came from Francis Marion’s personal documents from the war. I found it when I did an archive computer search using the words ‘Gallen Hall.’ It’s amazing what computers can do these days, isn’t it? And to think everything used to be in these little card files. . . .”

  “Oh, I still use card files,” I began, but Jack cut me off with a throat clearing before turning his attention back to Yvonne. “So, what did this list tell you?”

  “Well, nothing at first. These items were apparently a shipment that originated in Virginia and was headed to Gallen Hall, and given to the Swamp Fox for safe transportation.” She slid another page in our direction. “Which I might have overlooked, Jack, if you hadn’t scanned those papers for me last night. Because this is from the housekeeping journal at Gallen Hall, showing a delivery of the exact same items on March 27, 1781.”

  Jack’s brow furrowed. “And because there’s no such thing as coincidence, this must mean something?”

  “But of course,” Yvonne said. “I haven’t had a chance to go through everything you sent yet—I just need a couple more days to do a thorough job—but here’s a few more things I think you might find interesting before we get back to our sweet Eliza.” She slid three more pages toward us.

  She pointed at the first one. “This is a timeline of the American Revolution. I wanted to know what was going on in Virginia in 1781, just in case that might shed some light on all this.”

  “The Siege of Yorktown,” Jack offered.

  I looked at him with surprise and admiration, wondering where he’d kept this nerdy side hidden from me and finding it rather sexy.

  Yvonne looked at Jack like a teacher encouraging her favorite student. “And who was the commander in charge of the American forces there?”

  Jack blinked for a moment, thinking, while Yvonne gave me a courtesy glance to see if I might be able to come up with an answer.

  “Look at the list again, Jack. Not the typical list of necessities, is it? But if you had to guess a country of origin for at least two of the items,what would be your best guess?”

  We both looked at the list. “France,” I ventured.

  “The Marquis de Lafayette,” Jack said at the same time.

  “You both get As.” Yvonne beamed.

  “Okay,” Jack said slowly. “So what does this have to do with Eliza and anything valuable that might still be hidden on the property?”

  Yvonne folded her hands primly in front of her. “As you know, the marquis was French and had the full support of the French king, as France had officially recognized American independence in 1778, most likely to thumb their noses at their enemies, the British. It is not documented, but there were rumors that the king of France, in addition to promising troops and ships to support the American cause, had also given the marquis something very valuable to support the Americans financially—namely, to fund spies. It wasn’t easy to garner help from well-placed individuals who had so much to lose if caught. Priceless jewels or gold or even art would make a fine incentive.

  “There is no official record of this happening, but there are certainly enough rumors and vague letters in various historical archives attesting to the probability that it did happen. However, if the treasure—and we still don’t know what it might have been—did make it stateside, there is no record of what happened to it or where it might be today.”

  Jack slid the list closer. Almost under his breath, he read it out loud twice. “Cognac, feathers of goldfinch, kitchen maid, Burgundy wine. Those four items don’t go together. I can almost buy that Lafayette would be delivering cognac and Burgundy wine to supporters in South Carolina, but a bird and a kitchen maid? I don’t get it.” His eyes widened. “There must be a code in there somewhere.”

  “Most likely,” Yvonne said. “Although I must admit I haven’t figured out exactly what yet.”

  I wanted to say that was exactly where my thoughts had been headed, but that would have been a lie. Instead, I said, “Do you think this is what Marc was looking for?”

  Jack slowly shook his head as he regarded me. “It’s possible, although there was nothing in the shoebox or the folder that mentioned it. Unless he read something in the papers he already discarded.”

  “There’s more,” Yvonne said.

  We both looked at her, and it appeared Yvonne was enjoying the suspense just a little too much.

  She slid an enlarged copy of a grainy photograph in our direction. I recognized the triangular shape of the mausoleum I’d seen at Gallen Hall Plantation. This was an old photograph of the front of it, showing the names and dates of the mausoleum’s residents engraved on the granite.

  I recognized Eliza Grosvenor’s name, but the other two names, Lawrence Vanderhorst and Alexander Monroe, were unfamiliar, except for the Vanderhorst last name, of course. The only thing that stood out was that all three had died in 1782, Eliza in July and the two men on different dates in October. “Do we know anything about the two men?” I asked.

  “We do now,” Yvonne said as she slid two more pages toward us, both apparently from the same book as Eliza’s biography.

  I squinted at the photograph of the mausoleum’s plaque while I waited for Jack to read the two biographies. He was silent for a few minutes, then straightened. He took a deep breath. “Well, that’s an unexpected turn of events.”

  “What?” I said without looking up, distracted by something in the photograph.

  “Alexander was a British soldier quartered at Gallen Hall during the occupation of Charleston, which began in 1780. And Lawrence”—he paused for effect—“was engaged to marry Eliza.”

  That made me look up. “So what happened?”

  “It’s not really clear. It just says that Alexander was found floating facedown in the Ashley River. Cause of death was accidental drowning.”

  “And Lawrence?”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “He was found four days later, a pistol shot to the middle of his chest. According to the biography, no one was ever charged with his death.”

  “According to that source,” Yvonne interrupted. “But in this source, an atlas of Revolutionary War spies published in the thirties, their deaths had something to do with a spy ring, and one of the men might have been a double agent, selling secrets.”

  Jack and I shared a glance, both of us recalling something Greco had told us about a spy ring. He’d been pointing to a peacock carving on the claw-foot of Nola’s bed.

  “What was the spy ring called?” Jack asked.

  “There’s not a lot of information on it,” Yvonne said. “Some historians even doubt its existence because there aren’t any existing rosters of member names. The only way they identified each other was in the use of a symbol shaped like a peacock.”

  I felt Jack looking at me, but I was focused on the photo in my hand. “I think the rumors were right,” I said, not looking up from the photograph of the mausoleum, the graininess of the old photo making details hard to discern.

  Jack stood behind me, his warm breath brushing the back of my head as I felt the tension in his body, the pent-up excitement that we might have found something, however obscure, that might help us break free of Marc’s hold on us.

  “Here,” I said. “What does that look like to you?” I pointed to the scrolling design that edged the plaque, so many swirls and curls that it was easy to hide a picture inside the design. Unless you knew what you were looking for.

>   I heard the grin in his voice. “It looks like the eye at the end of a peacock’s tail.”

  “I agree,” I said, smiling back. “Of course, it could just be a nod toward Eliza’s passion for the bird, since she’s interred there. Or not.”

  He kissed me briefly on the lips. “I told you we make a great team.”

  Yvonne gently cleared her throat.

  “The three of us make an extraordinary team,” he corrected himself before turning back to me. “Looks like we need to head back to the mausoleum and see for sure,” Jack said with enthusiasm. His smile dimmed a bit. “Although I’m not really sure what any of this means, or even if it means anything, but it least it gives me something to focus on other than Marc, and the book, and Desmarae, whose latest idea is for me to get new author photos of me shirtless. To attract that younger demographic.”

  “But does that demographic even know how to read?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that I just want to be left alone in peace to write, and not have to deal with all of this.”

  I grabbed his free hand. “I know. Hopefully we’ll hear back from your architect friend with something helpful soon. And in the meantime, I’ll call Anthony and set up a time for us to visit the mausoleum and hopefully figure this all out,” I said with a great deal less enthusiasm as I recalled with a sinking feeling the last time I’d been there, and the lingering stench of rotting flesh that had followed me home.

  “Don’t forget to let Jayne know, so she can come, too,” Jack said, gathering up the photocopies Yvonne had given us before enveloping her in a hug.

  “Of course,” I said, forcing a smile as I gave Yvonne a kiss on the cheek and a good-bye hug.

  Jack actually whistled to himself as we exited the library, despite angry looks from librarians and patrons alike. He took my hand and squeezed, and I willed myself to be just as thrilled as he was at our discovery, reluctant though I was to examine what it was that had dimmed my own excitement like a dark cloud scuttling in front of the sun.

  CHAPTER 15

  On my way to the kitchen the following morning to grab my coffee before work, I heard the twins’ babbling voices coming from Jack’s office. I peered around the door and spotted the children, still dressed in their matching Christmas footie pajamas, batting at a crumpled ball of paper while the three dogs looked on, mesmerized. There was a lesson to be learned here, I was sure, as I did a quick tally in my head of the money I’d already spent on presents for Sarah and JJ that would probably never be played with as much as this crumpled ball of paper.

  Jack sat on the floor near them, snapping photos with his iPhone. He’d already had to upgrade to a new phone with more memory because of the sheer number of photos he took of his three children. Except for the times when he turned the camera on me, my heart squeezed with every click, making me love my husband even more. Assuming that was possible.

  “Good morning,” I said, moving forward to kiss Jack. “I was wondering where my babies were and why the clothes I’d laid out for them were still on the bedroom chair.” I knelt in front of Sarah and JJ, kissing them on their soft cheeks while they made appropriate smooching sounds. They smiled at me but were quickly distracted by one of the puppies batting at the paper ball.

  I frowned as I stood. “And where is Jayne? I would hope that by now she’d know that the children should be dressed before . . .”

  “Hi, Melanie.”

  I swung around behind me, where Jayne stood with a cup of coffee, looking young and rested. Unlike me, who hadn’t had my coffee yet and who’d been awakened three times in the middle of the night by Sarah babbling to someone I couldn’t see. I’d smelled the roses, so I hadn’t been frightened. Just annoyed that as a mother herself, Louisa Vanderhorst didn’t recognize that I needed my sleep.

  Jayne clutched her mug a little tighter, making me realize I’d been staring at it. “Sorry, Melanie—JJ and Sarah looked so absolutely adorable in their pajamas that I thought we’d have a jammie morning. It’s so cold outside that I thought we’d bring pillows and blankets downstairs and piles of books and camp out in front of the fire. When it gets a little warmer this afternoon, I’ll dress them and take them to the park.”

  She took a sip from her coffee, reminding me that I was still staring at it. I forced my gaze to her face. “Um, sure. That’s fine.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, then quickly replaced it, aware of the sun streaming through the windows and probably highlighting the six layers of concealer I’d smeared under my eyes to hide the dark circles. “I guess I’ll, um, go get my coffee and head to work. . . .”

  Jack stood. “Wait. I’ve got some great photos of the kids you’ll probably want for the album. Look.” He put his arm around my shoulders to draw me nearer, then started swiping his thumb across the screen to show me photos of Sarah and JJ playing with the puppies and wearing their cute pajamas. Jack was right. They were great photos, and ones I’d probably include in their photo albums. Except in every single one, Jayne was there—either with the children in her lap or sitting between them or next to them. I wasn’t sure why that bothered me. She was my sister. Their aunt. She belonged in our photo albums because she was part of our family. But the gnatlike whine and itch of an unnamed irritation plucked at my conscience, making it difficult for me to meet Jayne’s eyes when Jack lowered the phone.

  “You’re right—they’re all great.” I began backing out of the room, hoping that some caffeine was all I needed to slap down that persistent whine in the back of my head.

  “And don’t forget to call Anthony—I went ahead and told Jayne about what we learned yesterday with Yvonne. She’s eager to return to Gallen Hall.”

  “Actually,” I said slowly, looking at Jack, “I already spoke with him. He said later this week would work, and since I knew you didn’t have anything on your calendar, I said we’d meet him on Friday at four o’clock.”

  “But Jayne will be watching the twins then,” Jack pointed out.

  “Oh, well,” I started to say, but Jack spoke first. “I’m sure either your mother or mine will be happy to fill in.”

  “I’ll call Mother and ask,” Jayne offered. “Not sure if we should mention this to Dad, though. What do you think?”

  Dad? “Um, well, assuming we don’t want a repeat of what happened last time, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Agreed,” Jayne said brightly. She drained her mug and put it on Jack’s desk before approaching, probably feeling it was safe now that her mug was empty. “While I was at the salon yesterday getting a mani-pedi, I did some thinking about everything that’s been going on here at the cistern, and the connection with Gallen Hall and all of that history.”

  I curled my gnawed fingernails with raw cuticles into my palms so no one would notice how long it had been since I’d seen the inside of a nail salon. “Yes?” I said, forcing myself to listen.

  “Remember the soldier we saw pointing the musket at us when we visited the plantation? Well, I find it interesting that one of Eliza’s roommates at the mausoleum was a British soldier. Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence, right, Jack?”

  She looked at my husband for corroboration before continuing. “What’s really interesting is that Alexander Monroe was a British officer billeted at the plantation during the occupation. So why would he be interred with a son of the household and his fiancée? They had the entire cemetery at their disposal—why not just bury him in a regular grave?”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Jack said, giving Jayne a look of admiration that made the gnat in my head buzz a little louder.

  Jayne continued. “And remember that smell in Nola’s room that happened when those letters appeared on her wall? It smelled like gunpowder and horses and leather, didn’t it?”

  I nodded. I’d thought the same thing but had kept it to myself, hoping to figure out what it meant firs
t. Maybe if I’d had the time to get my nails done, I would have figured it out, too.

  “Maybe it’s Alexander,” Jayne suggested. “Which means there’s a definite connection to the cistern and the mausoleum. Although, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I didn’t get a negative feeling from him, but there’s definitely a negative vibe in Nola’s bedroom.”

  “There’s a woman, too,” I added, avoiding Jack’s gaze. “I saw her on the stairs. Just once, and it was very quick. It was the day of the Christmas photo, and I only saw her that once. I didn’t connect her to the mausoleum, probably because I saw her here, and . . .”

  They were both looking at me with blank expressions, and I knew we were all remembering the argument I’d had with Jack that very afternoon when Nola had found the photos on my phone of the other spirit in her bedroom. The argument that had been about me not telling Jack everything. I swallowed. “It was very quick,” I repeated. “But I think she said something—it wasn’t very clear. I’ve been waiting to see her again so I could make sure I heard her right before I told anyone. I wanted to be sure.”

  Jack’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “What did you think she said?”

  I could still hear the “S” of the last consonant, slithering like oil inside my head. “Lies.”

  “Just that one word?” Jack’s eyes narrowed.

  I went to him and kissed him soundly on the lips, keeping it G-rated on account of Jayne and the children being present. “Just that one word. I promise.”

  His hands cupped my shoulders. “Is there anything else you think you might want to tell me?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t tell you about every ghost I see because you might start questioning my sanity. I can’t block them all.” I looked over at Jayne for corroboration and she nodded. “I didn’t think to mention the woman on the stairs because I thought it might be someone who’d followed me from outside and it was a onetime deal. It happens a lot. It might even have been something the girls conjured when they played with the Ouija board—there’s really no way of knowing. But now, in context with what Yvonne told us, maybe the ghost is connected to the cistern.”