by Karen White
I turned back to the tree, focusing on a small robin’s nest ornament, the single egg made from a wooden button. My cheeks heated as if she’d just scolded me, which, I suppose, she had. “So,” I said. “Hypothetically speaking, if I were psychic, what would you ask me to do?”
“Hypothetically, if you were psychic, I’d want you to ask Adrienne who killed her.”
I thought for a moment, remembering the apparition I’d captured on my phone while taking pictures in her house. But I didn’t want to scare her. I paused, trying to find the right words. I cleared my throat and said, “From what I’ve been told, it never works that way. It’s like the living and the dead still speak the same language but just use a completely different dialect. And there’s, like, a . . . time delay. Remember what it used to be like speaking long-distance on a landline before fiber optics? Where one person asks a question, and by the time the other person hears it, they’ve already started asking their own question? So, no. It’s never as easy as just asking.”
I almost mentioned the Hessian soldier who’d once haunted my mother’s house on Legare Street. I’d had complete conversations with him, and I hadn’t understood why I’d been able to until my mother explained that he must have also been able to communicate with spirits when he was here on earth. But I couldn’t tell Veronica that. Because I wasn’t supposed to know what it’s like to speak to the dead.
I realized Veronica was staring at me.
“So I’ve heard,” I quickly added. “And a lot of times, the spirits aren’t strong enough to convey an entire message. It takes a lot of energy just to make themselves seen.” Or smelled, I almost added. “Then they have to find a way to deliver the message as quickly as they can, which usually lasts for a brief second. It’s why so many messages from the other side seem coded. It’s just quicker for them to say what they have to say.”
“So you’ve heard.”
I nodded. “Right.”
“In that case, I’d ask you to keep the lines open, then pay close attention when she gives you a message. Like compelling you to walk upstairs to an attic where you hadn’t planned on going.”
“And if I did, and I somehow managed to figure out who did this to Adrienne, what would you do?”
“I’d tell Detective Riley and leave out any mention of your name in any publicity that might surround the story of solving a twenty-year cold case. I’d never find the words to adequately express my thanks, but I’d promise to never stop trying.”
My eyes stung and I quickly blinked them. “That’s good to know.”
“So you’ll help me?”
Our eyes met and I swallowed. “If I were a psychic, I’d find it very hard to say no.”
Any response she had was lost as repeated loud knocks sounded on the front door. I rushed to open it, then wished I hadn’t. Rebecca stood on the front porch looking flustered and a little disheveled, which, for her, consisted of a hair out of place and her pink hair bow slightly askew. She carried a silver flocked tabletop Christmas tree, complete with a bedazzled star tree topper and a pink feather garland.
I moved back to allow her and the tree inside the vestibule. “I don’t know why you can’t get that doorbell fixed, Melanie. I’ve been ringing and ringing and freezing to death outside. Did you forget I was coming?”
“Funny—it worked for Veronica. And, yes, I did forget. Veronica and I have been busy all morning finishing up all the fireplace mantels and we just completed decorating the last tree in the dining room.”
Her pink-lipsticked mouth formed a pout. “But Sophie said I could put my tree in the dining room.”
I shook my head, pretending to think. “No, I’m pretty sure she said laundry room. Since it’s tabletop size, we all thought it would look best sitting on top of the washing machine.”
Her lips pinched together. “Marc and I are donating a lot of money for this event. I would like to think that gives me some kind of bonus.”
“Of course it does,” Veronica said gently as she took the hideous tree from Rebecca so my cousin could take off her pink faux fur coat. “That’s why we’re putting your tree in the laundry room. It will be the centerpiece since no other decorations will be in there to compete with the beauty of your creation.”
I wanted to high-five Veronica for not mentioning that the reason it would be the only Christmas-themed item in the laundry room was because the laundry room wasn’t likely to be seen by any of the guests.
“Thank you,” Rebecca said, sounding slightly mollified. Addressing Veronica, she said, “I’ve got a whole bag of ornaments in the shape of little dogs that I bedazzled in my car. If you’d like to go ahead and bring the tree to the laundry room, I’ll go get them. You can help me put them on the tree.”
“Will do,” Veronica said, as I admired her ability to keep her eyes from rolling. “Oh, and please thank your husband again for that generous donation to Ashley Hall. I’ve already spoken with the school, and since I know Melanie is crazy busy this time of year with work and her family obligations, I told them I will be happy to host the film crew at my house for my portion of the progressive dinner so they won’t have to bother Melanie. Can you please let him know?” She smiled brightly, then left, leaving Rebecca to just mutter, “Sure,” as Veronica disappeared into the back of the house.
When Veronica was out of earshot, Rebecca put her hand on my arm. “How’s Nola doing?”
I stiffened. “Physically, she’s fine. Mentally, well, she says she’s never going to drive a car again. Especially not after what that horrible Harvey Beckner said to her.”
“I know.” She leaned closer to me in a conspiratorial way. “He’s not my favorite person, either. Marc’s writing the screenplay, you know, because nobody else is really qualified to tell the story—”
“Except for Jack,” I interrupted.
“Yes, well, be that as it may, Marc’s working on the script and Harvey keeps on asking for more sex and violence and all sorts of things that weren’t a part of the original book. He wants to show a love scene between Joseph Longo and Louisa Vanderhorst.”
“What?” I said, horrified. “But she loved her husband. That never happened—never. That’s just a horrible fabrication—and skews the whole story!”
“I know, I know. Poor Marc. He’s really stuck between a rock and a hard place, isn’t he?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, sure I’d misunderstood. “Are you saying Marc is the victim here?”
Rebecca’s round blue eyes blinked slowly. “All I’m saying is that Harvey is being really unreasonable. Marc’s book is perfection as it is—otherwise it wouldn’t have hit so many bestseller lists, right? I don’t know why Harvey is requesting so many changes. But, anyway, I’ve been worried about Nola and I’m glad to hear she’s doing better.”
“At least until the film crews arrive in January to start filming the movie. I think she’s more upset about this deal than Jack and I are. She thinks it’s all her fault.”
“That’s silly. Just tell her it would have happened sooner or later. Marc always gets his way.”
“Really?” I said, crossing my arms. “Because he told me that he was going to own this house.”
“I don’t know why he wants this old, creaky house, but if he said he wants it, sooner or later he’ll get it.”
I waited a moment so she could let her own words sink in. “You do understand you’re talking about my family home, right?”
“Sure—but you never really wanted it, remember? Didn’t you use to refer to it as a goiter on your neck?”
“Yes, but that was before I married Jack, and before Nola came to live with us and the twins were born.”
Rebecca looked skeptical. “All I know is that you never wanted this house. That you’ve always hated old houses. That’s the only reason why I’m not fighting Marc on this. Because I know that it’s really what you both want.”
&nb
sp; I was so angry that I couldn’t find any words to argue. She must have taken my silence for agreement, because she put her hand on my arm again, and said, “I had another dream.”
“About something bad happening to Jack? I’m starting to think you’re making this all up just so we won’t fight Marc anymore.”
“No. This one wasn’t about Jack.”
She was scrutinizing me so closely that I had to step back. “Was it about me?”
Rebecca gave a quick shake of her head. “No. It was about Nola.”
My stomach and heart squeezed. “Nola?”
“Yes. At least I’m pretty sure it was her. It was a young woman about her age, and she’s the only person I know who fits that description, so I assumed it was her. There was . . .” She reached her hand up to her neck in a defensive gesture. “There was . . . there was a rope around her neck.”
My breath came in shallow gasps as my hand slowly drifted up to my own neck, as if to make sure there was nothing there.
Rebecca patted me on my arm. “I know—it’s hard to hear. But I also know you’ll figure it out in time to protect her. I’ll let you know if I have any more dreams.” She flashed me a bright smile. “Right now, I’m going to get those gorgeous ornaments from my car and help Veronica set up my tree. It’s going to be the most beautiful tree in the house, if not all the houses!”
I watched her leave, then stood where I was in the vestibule for a long moment, staring at the closed door. I’d heard Nola come in from school about an hour before and had the sudden need to see her, to make sure she was all right.
I took the stairs two at a time, surprised to find her door open and voices coming from inside. I peered into the room to find Nola on the bed with a large and very thick book on her lap and her laptop in front of her, the three dogs perched at the foot watching her. Greco stood by the wall between the windows, impeccably dressed as usual in suit pants, shirt, and tie, his jacket draped neatly over a chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he appeared to be examining ten paint swatches on the wall.
He looked at me and smiled, then went back to frowning at the wall. “Who knew there were so many shades of gray?”
“I thought there were only supposed to be fifty,” Nola said with a smirk.
“You’re not supposed to know about that book,” I said.
“There was a book? I only know about the movie.”
“Actually there were several—of both. Maybe we should look at the convent school in Ireland your dad keeps talking about.”
“But then you’d miss me too much.” She gave me a grin, then returned to her laptop.
I stood next to Greco, trying to ignore the jewelry cabinet with its open lid and all the doors and drawers wide open. “I thought gray was just black and white mixed together.”
“Sometimes,” he said, tilting his head. “But in different light, some can appear to be more blue, or green, or beige. Miss Nola would prefer a strict black-and-white gray. And it is my job to make sure that’s what gets put on her wall.”
I looked over at Nola, who was reading something on her laptop. “Why are you in here, Nola? Don’t you have a nice ergonomic desk and chair set up for you in the guest room?”
Without glancing up, she said, “Yes, but Greco is in here, and he’s the expert on the American Revolution, which is what we’re studying now. He’s a Revolutionary War reenactor. Did he tell you that?”
“He did,” I said. “But he’s not here to help with your homework.”
“I’m rather enjoying it,” Greco said. “I like talking about my favorite subject with such an interested and intelligent student.”
I grinned with pride, as if he were complimenting me. But I couldn’t take any of the credit where Nola was concerned. “Well, she does love history—which is a good thing since her father pretty much lives and breathes it.”
“He should try reenacting.”
Just the thought of Jack wearing a uniform did funny things to my stomach. “I’ll mention it to him.”
Greco picked up a sample quart of paint and screwed on the lid. “This one is definitely out. It’s much too beige—and Miss Nola is just not a beige person.”
As he spoke, Nola shifted her legs on the bed, making the three dogs adjust their reclining positions, resulting in the thick textbook beginning a nosedive off the side. I caught it midslide, slapping it against the bed on the page where Nola had it opened.
Nola pressed her hands against her heart. “Good save, Melanie. I hope it’s not damaged. It belongs to Greco and it’s really old.”
“No worries,” the designer said. “I’ve practically memorized it. It actually belongs to my great-uncle, a professor of history at Carolina back in the day. Quite well respected in his field. His expertise was focused on spies throughout American history, particularly during the Revolution.”
I looked down at the splayed page and stopped, noticing the large picture at the top of the page. “That’s Gallen Hall. Nola, did you know that it was owned by the same Vanderhorsts that owned this house?”
“Yes, Captain Obvious. You and Dad have only been talking about that nonstop for days.”
Greco was saying something about blending two of the paint samples to make the perfect true gray, but I was listening with only half an ear as I read from the textbook. “This is interesting,” I said, my heart beating a little faster as I saw the small picture beneath the one of the mansion. “Another reference book I saw also mentions that Lawrence Vanderhorst might have been a spy and was discovered shot in the chest, and that his killer was never found. But this is new.” I stopped for a moment to find the part in the text again, and squinting so I could see it, I read out loud.
“‘When Lawrence Vanderhorst’s body was discovered on the morning of October twenty-eighth, the only thing clear about his death was that it had been caused by a single bullet to the chest. Several people from the house rushed outside at the noise but could only find footprints in the dew leading to and from the house, one set apparently being the victim’s. All servants and family members were interviewed, but no clear evidence suggested that any of them were involved. His murder has never been solved.’”
I read it again to myself, thinking how strange it sounded that no one was arrested despite the evidence pointing to someone who’d been in the house at the time of the murder. I looked up to where Greco was painting another swatch of color on the wall, and then over at Nola, who was looking down at her laptop and absently rubbing her neck. I became aware of a scratching sound in the room, like a small animal trapped inside the walls, trying to get out.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?” Nola looked up at me.
“That sound. That scratching sound.”
Greco shook his head, but it was too late to pinpoint where it had come from, as it had already stopped. I placed the book back on the bed in front of Nola. “Could you please bookmark that page? I want to make a copy of it when you’re done so I can show your dad. I have no idea if it means anything, but it couldn’t . . .”
I forgot what I was saying. On the wall behind Nola, above the headboard, the word Lies had been scratched into the paint.
Nola looked at the word, then back at me, her eyes wide. Slowly we both turned to Greco.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “it’s a good thing we’re planning on painting the entire room.”
CHAPTER 17
I stood at the threshold of Jack’s office, listening as Nola plucked out a desultory tune on the piano. It wasn’t the ideal spot for the instrument, but both Jack and Nola insisted being together in a shared space was good for their shared artistic vibe. It made my heart happy to watch them work in the same environment, knowing it was one of the reasons for their close father-daughter bond. Considering they’d been separated for most of Nola’s life, their bond was no small feat. Nol
a and I were close, too, and I tried not to take offense that she never dared roll her eyes at her father, saving all that for me. Nor did she deprive him of his favorite foods. Nola insisted this was her way of showing me affection, but I wasn’t convinced.
Jack huddled over his desk, poring over documents related to Gallen Hall and the three people buried in the mausoleum. He still hadn’t heard back from his architect friend, Steve, and we were holding out hope that the architectural renderings would contain the one thing we needed.
As I entered the room Jack and Nola sighed in unison, pushing up the hair off their foreheads with the heels of their left hands as they stared down at their individual work spaces.
“You about ready to go?” I asked Jack.
It took him a moment to answer, as if he were unwilling to pull himself away. He moved his chair back before looking up at me. “Sure. Let me grab my jacket.” He looked back at the papers on his desk, then slid his gaze over to Nola. She’d had a doctor’s appointment at noon and then managed to convince me afterward that she could just go home instead of back to school because all she had left were PE and music.
“Need to take a creative break?” he asked.
“Even if it’s not creative, I need a break. I keep coming up with absolutely nothing new here. I’ve been adulting all day, and I’m done.”
“Adulting?” I asked, pretty sure that if I looked that one up in Webster’s, I wouldn’t find it.
Both Jack and Nola looked at me with matching frowns.
“You know—being an adult,” Nola said, speaking slowly as if explaining something to the twins.
“I don’t think that’s a real word,” I said.
“It is.” Jack stood and took his jacket off the antique coat rack behind the door. “If you watched any reality TV or subscribed to certain channels on YouTube, you’d know that.”
“YouTube?” I asked, thinking I’d heard of it before—probably during carpool with Nola and her friends, which was generally a huge font of knowledge.
“I’ll tell her in the car on our way to Gallen Hall,” Jack reassured Nola. “If only so she won’t embarrass you in front of your friends.”