The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  Dark brown eyes stared at me from the portrait as I crossed the foyer, and I tried to convince myself that it was the artist’s talent that caused the effect. I climbed the stairs, stopping in front of the painting. I let my hands fall to my sides as I examined the woman in the green dress, her creamy skin contrasting sharply with her dark hair, the delicate nose set in a slim face defined by high cheekbones and sharp angles.

  But her mouth couldn’t be described adequately. Rosy pink lips were half-open, as if she’d just finished speaking, the corners of her mouth turned up in a Mona Lisa smile. With those lips, coupled with her mesmerizing eyes, she wouldn’t have surprised me if she had stepped down from the frame and continued down the stairs. I probably would have been less surprised than the average person, but still.

  “It’s the woman in Yvonne’s book,” Jack said. “It was a black-and-white copy, but it’s definitely the same portrait. And am I the only one who sees the resemblance to Mellie?”

  “Not at all,” I said, flattered but not convinced. Even from the confines of a portrait, it was clear that the beauty, elegance, and poise this woman possessed were inborn. If I had any of those qualities, it could only have been accidental and only on my best days.

  “No, he’s right,” Jayne said as she moved to the bottom of the stairs. “It’s not so much a physical resemblance per se—although you both have those awesome cheekbones, and there’s something to the shape of the eyes. It’s more your expression. I see it on your face a lot—that look that says you don’t have a clue as to what you’re supposed to do next, but you’re going to pretend that you do.”

  I frowned down at my sister, wanting to ask her when she’d become such an expert on human behavior, but stopped when I realized that she might not be too far from the truth.

  “You might be right, Jayne,” Jack said, looking past me at the portrait so he didn’t see my annoyance. “And Yvonne was right, too. Eliza was pretty hot.”

  I gave him the look I gave to other Realtors who insisted their poaching of a client was accidental. “Really, Jack? Is that how you’d want men to refer to your daughters?”

  He cleared his throat. “I meant to say Eliza was a remarkably beautiful woman. Just like you. Probably intelligent, too.”

  We all turned to look at the portrait together, my eyes drawn to her neck and its lack of jewelry. And the absence of a red welt marring the perfect skin.

  “That’s definitely her?” Jayne asked, coming up the stairs to stand behind me. “The woman you saw on the stairs at home?”

  The sound of Anthony’s crutches crossing the marble floor echoed in the large space. “It was her ghost you saw?”

  I met Jayne’s eyes briefly before turning to look at Anthony. “Yes. I’m pretty sure it was her. She looked just like she does in this portrait. Except . . .” I paused, wondering what was different besides the missing ligature marks. My gaze traveled to the peacock brooch, the four multihued gems catching the light from an unseen source.

  “Except?” Anthony prompted.

  I frowned at the portrait. “I’m not sure. I saw her for such a brief moment that it’s hard to recall. But I do remember her eyes. At first they were angry. And then, right before she disappeared, they seemed so . . . sad.”

  My eyes dropped to the brooch, and I had a sudden recollection of how I’d felt that she’d wanted me to notice it. To pay attention to it. “There’s something about the brooch, I think. Something she wants us to notice.”

  Jack leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied a thin gold chain that was wrapped around the ribbon and her dark curls, then turned his gaze to the brooch. “Maybe it’s the light the artist wanted to paint in, but it doesn’t look like the metal in the brooch is gold, does it? The color is off—and definitely different than the gold chain in her hair.”

  “It looks almost orange,” I agreed. “Not gold at all. And it’s uniform throughout, with the same orangey color, so it doesn’t appear to have been altered by whatever reflected light the artist might have seen and wanted to replicate.”

  “It looks like copper,” Jayne and Anthony said together.

  They looked at each other and Jayne smiled. “Jinx.”

  Anthony grinned back and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the cuteness of it. But my loyalty to Detective Riley held me back.

  “Assuming those are real stones,” Jack said, “I can’t imagine why they’d use a less expensive metal than gold. Copper is a base metal, not a precious metal. It could be pinchbeck.”

  “Pinchbeck?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t the only uninformed person in the room.

  “It means a cheap imitation,” Jack explained. “It’s a mixture of copper and zinc and was originally used in costume jewelry and watchmaking. It’s supposed to look like gold, but when you hold them up together, you can usually tell which is the real McCoy.”

  “Eliza wasn’t a daughter of the family,” Jayne said. “She was Mrs. Vanderhorst’s ward. So maybe those are semiprecious stones set in pinchbeck.”

  “Then why is her portrait in such a prominent location?” Anthony asked. “If she wasn’t considered a member of the family, I mean. From what I understand, nothing’s been moved or changed since the Vanderhorsts owned the house, so these portraits have been here for a couple of centuries.”

  “Well, she was engaged to be married to Lawrence Vanderhorst, so she was soon to be a member of the family.” Jack’s gaze spanned the staircase wall. “It doesn’t look like his portrait is here. The rest of the male portraits are from different eras.” He climbed a few steps higher, stopping in front of two smaller oval portraits in gold frames. “Look at this. There’s a whole story here—two men about the same age wearing Civil War uniforms. One is navy blue and the other gray—probably brother against brother. It’s like the Vanderhorsts exist to give me book plots.”

  “True,” I agreed. “And our house.”

  “For now,” Jack said under his breath as he began to walk back down the stairs.

  Before following him I paused for a moment, looking back at Eliza’s portrait. Her gaze seemed to meet mine, and I had the sense that she was somehow disappointed in me. As if she were speaking loud and clear in a language I should understand, and I was still missing the point.

  Quietly, I asked, “What lies, Eliza?”

  I startled at Jack’s hand on my arm. “We’ll find out. Hopefully, it will lead us to whatever hidden treasure Marc Longo is after. And if not, to a bestselling book that gets made into a movie. I hear that happens sometimes.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard that, too,” I said, allowing him to lead me down the steps, feeling Eliza’s eyes following us down the stairs.

  As we headed out the door, Jack and I filled Anthony in on the details of what we’d learned so far from Yvonne, and then Jayne told him about my encounter with Eliza. She spoke calmly and concisely, which was why I allowed her to tell him about it, and because I wanted to make sure that Anthony knew Jayne had all her faculties. Not because I thought they should be dating, but because Rebecca was his sister-in-law, and I wanted to be sure he knew we weren’t all crazy.

  The late-afternoon sun slanted shadows across the drive, warping the shape of the house’s shadow on the shell-and-dirt drive. What little warmth the sun offered disappeared as we walked toward the cemetery gates, the temperature dropping by degrees as we got closer.

  The gates were closed but unlocked, and we stopped in front of them by unspoken agreement. Jayne and I shared a glance with each other, my concern mirrored in her eyes. I didn’t smell anything or see anything unusual. But the chill in the air had nothing to do with the season. It worried me. Someone—something—was here, waiting and watching. And the absence of everything but the chill meant the unknown entity was storing its energy.

  Jayne turned toward Anthony. “When do you normally sense you shouldn’t go any farther?”

&nb
sp; “Right here. As soon as I reach out to open the gate, I feel pressure on my chest. Like someone has a hand on me, holding me back.”

  “Is it just pressure, or a punch?” Jack asked.

  “Just pressure—at first. But if I keep going farther, the force of whatever’s holding me back becomes stronger, almost like someone’s trying to protect me. But if I keep pressing forward, the pressure on my chest . . .” He stopped, taking a deep breath. “It becomes almost suffocating. Like I’m being squeezed between rocks. And the few times I was able to make it inside the mausoleum, it became full-blown punches and scratches.”

  We all looked toward the mausoleum as if expecting someone to step outside and challenge us.

  “And Marc was able to go inside without a problem and dig around?” Jack asked.

  Anthony nodded. “I was, too—up until recently.”

  “Around the time of the heavy rains,” I said. “When the cistern collapsed in our backyard.”

  Jack looked at me. “I’m sure that’s not a coincidence.”

  “Probably not,” Jayne said. “Since the cistern’s bricks came from here.”

  “And because there’s no such thing as coincidence,” I said sharply. I wasn’t sure if it was the growing unease that made me snap at her or just her general air of confidence in almost every area of her life. I hadn’t been that way when I was her age. I had doubts that I was that way now.

  Her eyes met mine with understanding, which was even more irritating. I loved my sister; I did. I remembered being a little girl and telling whoever asked that what I wanted for all birthdays and Christmases was a sister. I was thrilled she was in my life. I just wasn’t as thrilled to find her moving into it like Goldilocks into Baby Bear’s bed.

  Feeling ashamed at my own thoughts, I gave her a big smile. “According to Jack, I mean.”

  She smiled back, making me feel even worse. “And you’re both right. Thanks for reminding me.”

  I caught Jack watching me with a questioning look and quickly turned toward Anthony. “I’m going to suggest that you wait here with Jack while Jayne and I try to get inside the mausoleum. Do you have the key?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t been able to get close enough to relock it since the last time I was there. The gate is shut, but it shouldn’t be locked.”

  I noticed for the first time the oak tree looming over the fence on the opposite side of the cemetery. Its ropelike roots pushed up the iron spindles of the fencing, slithering under the ground like invisible snakes, forcing headstones to lean haphazardly and give the impression of crooked teeth.

  “That’s probably the tree,” Jack said quietly.

  I nodded, liking the way our thoughts often worked in tandem. I examined the circumference of the tree, the heavy elbows of the branches bent to hold drapes of Spanish moss, and I estimated the tree’s age to be close to three hundred years old. “It’s definitely old enough,” I agreed.

  “Old enough for what?” Anthony asked, his voice too loud.

  “To be the tree from which Eliza hanged herself,” Jayne said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried through the empty cemetery like a last breath.

  Lies. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined the word whispered again in my ear. I looked at Jayne and she was staring back at me with wide eyes, and I knew she’d heard it, too. She reached for my hand and I took hers. “Stronger together, right?”

  I nodded and we took a step toward the mausoleum. A breeze that scattered only the leaves on the ground but didn’t stir the Spanish moss on the trees swirled around our legs, pushing at our backs and propelling us forward.

  We took another step.

  “Stop.” We turned at the sound of Jack’s voice.

  “I don’t feel right about sending you in alone. I’m coming with you.” He took a step toward us, but I held up my hand.

  “It’s all right, Jack,” I said. “We know what we’re doing.”

  “We do?” Jayne spoke under her breath so Jack couldn’t hear.

  “Why don’t you and Anthony examine the rest of the cemetery, look for anything unusual on any of the headstones?” I suggested.

  “Some of Eliza’s favorite peacocks are buried here,” Anthony said. “But we’ll stay close to the mausoleum so we can keep an eye out.”

  Jack frowned, torn between studying headstones—one of his favorite pastimes—and staying close to me, one of my favorite pastimes.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, sounding more assured than I felt. “You’re close enough that if we need anything, you can be with us in seconds.”

  Wanting to get it over with before nightfall, I tugged on Jayne’s hand, leading her toward the entrance to the mausoleum. As Anthony had said, the doorway gate, with a square wrought-iron design at the top, stood slightly ajar. We peered into the dark interior through the slats of the rusting bars, seeing nothing but the dim outline of a single crypt opposite the opening.

  “The other two crypts must be on the sides,” I said, noting the plaque on the front of the triangular structure listing Eliza’s name along with the two men’s. I held up my phone and snapped pictures of the plaque and the gate to study later. I wasn’t interested in hanging out in this cemetery any longer than I needed to.

  “Let’s go,” I said as we flipped on the flashlights on our phones. I shone my light inside the space, stopping short at a rustling noise like that of a mouse or a bird. Or a long dress sweeping across a stone floor.

  “Did you hear that?” Jayne asked.

  I nodded, peering inside and hoping I wouldn’t see anything. The circular spots from our lights illuminated dusty bricks and thick mortar on the walls, then square stone tiles on the floor. In three alcoves stone crypts nestled in the brick walls, lying in supposedly quiet repose. The light from my phone allowed us to see a broken corner of one of the lids, then trailed down to the bricks beneath each crypt.

  “Looks like hieroglyphics,” Jayne said.

  “Yeah, that’s what Anthony said. And Marc thinks it’s some kind of a code. Or it could just be fancy brick details because the bricklayer was feeling artistic.”

  “Do you really think so?” Jayne asked.

  “Not really. I’m just wishing this were all a lot easier so we could make it go away faster. We’ll take pictures to show Jack.” I reached up to push the gate open, just as it slammed shut in front of my fingers, the sound as final as that of a crypt lid being slid into place.

  I knew better than to blame Jayne for closing it and began to tug on the bars, hoping that common sense would prevail and the unlocked gate that had been ajar seconds ago would actually cooperate and open. It wouldn’t. I began shaking it until Jayne placed her hand on my arm.

  “Maybe what we need to see isn’t inside.” Jayne pointed at the complex design on the top half of the mausoleum gate, the swirls and lines as intricate and deliberate as those of a spiderweb. I lifted my phone and began snapping more photos.

  The breeze had picked up, dead twigs and leaves now hurling themselves at us. I looked up at what had been a brilliant blue winter sky and saw instead an ominous black shelf cloud hovering over us like a grim smile.

  Not completely convinced that we couldn’t gain access to the mausoleum, I stuck my hand through the bars, hoping to find some kind of latch I could release from the inside.

  I heard the crunch of running footsteps coming toward us, then Jack’s voice behind me. “It’s about to storm—we should get inside. . . .”

  I didn’t hear what else he said. Something yanked on my hand from inside the mausoleum, pulling so hard that my head banged against the iron gate. As spots gyrated in front of my eyes and my ears rang with a metallic echo, I heard a man’s voice, deep and gravelly, shouting loudly inside my head. Traitors deserve to die and rot in hell.

  “Mellie? Mellie!” Jack’s voice was frantic, his hand grappling with the gate, t
rying to force it open. “Jayne—help me!”

  Jayne’s hand squeezed mine as my knees hit the concrete step in front of the gate, my arm now numb, my head bruised. The stench of rot filled my nostrils as the heavy stomp of boots thudded across the mausoleum toward me. I closed my eyes in terror, prepared for the worst. And then whatever had been pulling on my arm suddenly let go, sending me backward into Jack’s arms. I looked up upon hearing the unsettling sound of squealing hinges as the gate of the mausoleum opened slowly. The specter of a British soldier in a bright red coat slowly faded into the dark abyss, leaving behind the scent of gunpowder and the unmistakable feeling of despair.

  CHAPTER 19

  The four of us stared at the opened gate leading inside the mausoleum as if it were welcoming us, as if it hadn’t just moments before been slammed shut and locked in our faces, and as if something inside hadn’t just been trying to rip my arm out of its socket. I looked at Jack, Jayne, and Anthony, their uncertainty about going inside apparent.

  Glad we were all on the same page, I stepped backward, eager to leave. As soon as my foot hit the grass a bolt of lightning shattered the sky and the smoke-colored clouds above us opened up, dumping sheets of icy water over us and the graves, rain pelting us as drops ricocheted off the mausoleum’s bricks.

  I felt myself pushed from behind by Jayne. “Go on,” she said, following me inside, then beckoning to the two men. “We’ll be safe for a little while. What just happened took lots of energy, and it will take a bit for whatever that was to recharge.”

  She was right, but that didn’t stop the shimmer of resentment I felt. Not because I really, really wanted to be hightailing it out of there and already in our car driving home and she was ready to get back to work. I felt resentment because she’d said it first and hadn’t hesitated to do the one thing none of us wanted to. What made it worse was that of the four of us, Jayne had the least at stake in this game. She was only there to help me. Somehow, that realization did nothing to soften the unwarranted bitterness burrowing into me like a wood-boring beetle planning a long stay in a dining room floor.