The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  I nodded. “Yes. We know what happened to all of the diamonds, and found the remaining ones that hadn’t been given away or sold. I wish there were more.” I hadn’t meant to say that, at least not out loud to an almost stranger. There was just something about Meghan’s open and eager face that encouraged confidences.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Very,” I said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

  She continued to look speculative. “Well, there was a reporter from the Post and Courier—Suzy something—who came by yesterday. She’s writing a story on hidden historical treasures that might be found in the Lowcountry. She mentioned the pirate treasure supposedly buried on Sullivan’s Island, the Confederate gold and diamonds, and the connection of the last two to your house. I told her you would be the best person to ask about that because all I knew was that I was supposed to be excavating the cistern and so far had only discovered broken bits of pottery and bones.”

  “That’s all, then? She didn’t say anything else?”

  “Actually, she did. Something about another treasure—from the American Revolution. Something given to the Americans by the king of France maybe? She said there are plenty of rumors about what the treasure might be, but nobody knows for sure. She wanted to know if I’d heard anything about that, or if you’d mentioned it to me.”

  My mouth went completely dry. I had had a dozen or so phone calls and texts from Suzy Dorf, which, as usual, I’d ignored. She’d been nothing but a thorn in my side since I’d inherited the house on Tradd Street. Besides being nosy and too inquisitive about the rumored possibility that I could speak to the dead, her worst fault was being friends with Rebecca. Now I wondered if I should have been so hasty with the DECLINE button on my phone.

  “I see. And was Mr. Longo there when she stopped by?”

  Meghan shook her head. “No. He’d been sent out to get more batteries and lightbulbs since everything was losing power and every time they flipped on a light, the bulb would explode.” She raised her eyebrows, as if she expected us to reassure her that this was perfectly normal. Which it was, of course. For us.

  “Interesting,” Sophie said, her tone indicating that the subject was anything but. “Did she happen to mention why she thought Mrs. Trenholm would have any knowledge about the French treasure?”

  Meghan shook her head again. “She didn’t, and I didn’t ask. It was getting dark and I still had a lot more work to do in the cistern while there was still daylight. None of us like to be there after the sun goes down.” She didn’t need to explain that the reason was only partially because it was hard to excavate without full light.

  “That’s fine,” Sophie said reassuringly. “You’re doing a great job, by the way.” She indicated the wooden door resting on the newspaper. “And thanks for bringing this to me—I’m sure it’s important; I just can’t figure out why yet.”

  “Yay,” Meghan said, giving a little clap with her hands. “You’ll let me know when you figure it out, all right?”

  “Absolutely,” Sophie said. “Now, go make a wreath for your mom and have fun. Nola and her friends are here to help get you started. . . .” Her words trailed off as we followed her gaze to the first table in the opened carriage house, where Nola, Alston, and Lindsey were supposed to be welcoming the participants, taking tickets, and explaining how the whole process worked. Instead, the three girls were sitting at the table with their heads bowed over a thick textbook that was opened between the three of them while people milled about in front of them trying to figure out where they should start.

  I exhaled a deep breath. “Hang on—let me go find out what’s going on with those three Gen Zers.”

  “Hey, don’t knock millennials—we’re not all bad!” Meghan looked genuinely upset.

  “Sorry,” I called as I walked across the courtyard to where the girls sat at a long table under one of the arched openings, my heels slowing me down as I tiptoed over the dirt in an attempt to save my shoes. I stopped in front of the table, waiting for one of the girls to look up. When no one did, I cleared my throat.

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Trenholm,” Lindsey said sweetly. “We didn’t see you standing there.”

  “Or the other twenty or so people who are looking for a little guidance here.” I frowned at the three of them, wearing matching black Ashley Hall cardigan sweaters with long-sleeved purple polo shirts, plaid skirts, and black tights. They never intentionally coordinated what color polo or tights they were going to wear, as allowed by the school, but somehow they always ended up looking like fraternal triplets. Personally, I liked that they always matched. Maybe because I was the thwarted mother of twins who preferred things to match but whose efforts were never appreciated.

  Nola sat back heavily in her chair. “Sorry. It’s just that Lindsey reminded me this morning that our art history teacher told the class on Thursday that we were having a quiz on Dutch painters on Monday and I forgot to bring my art history book home. It’s going to be a big part of our final exam, too, so we have to know it.”

  “I forgot my book, too,” Alton said. “And it’s like ten percent of our grade, so we need all the time we can get to study.”

  I glanced down at the thick book with shiny pages and a photograph of a painting of a woman wearing a Dutch cap and a bright blue apron, pouring what looked like milk from a pitcher. I frowned, remembering how obsessive I’d been about grades at that age, and even felt a small tug of panic in the pit of my stomach. I glanced at my watch. “You’re supposed to be here for two more hours. How about I relieve you for an hour so you can go study? But only an hour. I’ve got work to do today, too.” I didn’t mention that part of that work would involve solving the photo puzzle on Jayne’s dining room table.

  The girls shot up from their seats at once. “Thanks, Melanie,” Nola said, giving me a quick hug. “I’ll dedicate my A in the class to you.”

  Nola scooped up the heavy book with both hands, and the three of them took off toward the house. I hoped they were aware that the Aiken-Rhett House was preserved and not restored—a distinction drilled into my head by Sophie—and that there was no furniture they’d be allowed to sit on. I turned away, intent on allowing them to figure it out.

  I smelled coffee and turned to find a recyclable cup held in front of me. I smiled up at Veronica and accepted the cup. “Thank you. You must be a mind reader,” I said.

  “I needed a coffee break and figured you probably did, too.” She took a sip from her cup. “I wish you’d been here earlier when we had a customer demanding plastic greens for her wreath so that she could keep it up as long as she wanted to without it turning brown. I thought Sophie might have a heart attack.”

  I laughed out loud. “I can’t believe I missed that. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so I’m moving slowly this morning.”

  Veronica nodded. She didn’t say anything, although I could tell by her air of anticipation that she wanted to. I remained silent, sipping my coffee, and waited.

  Eventually, she said, “Should I be concerned if the attic door opens on its own all the time now?”

  “Are you asking if you think there’s something structurally wrong with your house? I’d say probably not. Although I’m not an expert on that sort of thing.”

  “Adrienne’s trying to tell me something, isn’t she?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, smelling the dark coffee and enjoying the warmth on my bare hands. “Probably. Especially if this is something new.”

  “It is, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. It started the night Michael said he wanted to put the house on the market.”

  I looked at her. “When does he want to do that?”

  “After the first of the year.” She met my gaze. “He gave me an ultimatum. Either him or the house. He said if I valued our marriage, I’d sell and allow us to start over.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I’m afraid that if we move ou
t, we’ll lose Adrienne forever. And I’ll never know what really happened to her.”

  I stared into my cup, tilting it in my hand and making my reflection swirl on the dark liquid. “I’m crazy right now with all this Christmas stuff and the filming going on at my house—not to mention the excavation in my backyard.”

  Veronica’s face fell, and I briefly thought she might cry. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I thought for a long moment of the young dancer in the hotel the night before. Of all the times I’d been forced to sing ABBA songs to block out cries for help. I took a deep breath. “I might be able to help you—or at least buy you some time. Why don’t you call my office and set up an appointment with me? I can certainly list your house, just as I can certainly make it go as slowly as possible.” My boss, Dave Henderson, would kill me for hanging on to an unproductive listing, but I couldn’t tell Veronica that I couldn’t help her. Besides, I wasn’t promising that I could find out what Adrienne was trying to tell her. All I was saying was that I could buy her some time.

  Veronica grabbed my free hand and squeezed, her eyes moist. “Thank you, Melanie. Thank you so much. I don’t care what Rebecca says about you—I think you’re wonderful.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant, but a group of mothers from the school whom I recognized had approached the table and were already busy chatting to me and asking questions. I drained my coffee and turned my attention to them, all the while aware of the faint scent of Vanilla Musk perfume and the ribbon of icy air that caressed my cheek, leaving no doubt that the new activity in Veronica’s attic had nothing to do with coincidence.

  CHAPTER 23

  I woke up to a single ring of the landline telephone that was no longer plugged in but remained on my bedside table for occasions like this. I sat up quickly, not wanting to disturb General Lee or Jack, and held the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

  The snap and crackle of empty space filled my ear. I pressed the phone closer, hoping to hear my grandmother’s voice. She’d been dead for years, but she still preferred the phone to communicate with me. And only when she thought I might be in trouble. “Grandmother?” I whispered into the receiver, my stomach feeling as if multiple rubber bands were wrapped tightly around it. My greeting was met only with the electric sizzle of an ancient telephone line that shouldn’t be making any noise at all.

  “Grandmother?” I said again, still straining to hear. I waited for another moment, then slowly pulled the receiver away from my ear but stopped; the sound was as strident as a baby bird’s cry, beaming its way to me as if from another galaxy.

  Jack.

  “What?” I pressed the phone against my ear again. “Did you say ‘Jack’?”

  Another moment passed, and then I heard it again. Jack.

  “What about Jack?” My question was met by silence, even the crackling sound fading. “What about Jack?” I repeated. But the phone had gone completely dead; there were only the sounds of the old house and General Lee’s snoring for company.

  I hung up the phone and turned around to see if Jack was awake. A sliver of moonlight cut across his pillow, accentuating the white of his empty pillowcase. “Jack?” I said out loud, looking at the bathroom door for any light from beneath it. But the door yawned wide, an empty black shadow indicating no lights were on inside.

  I slid out of bed, making General Lee snuffle and adjust himself on my pillow, then go back to sleep. I glanced at the video monitor, but the nursery was empty except for the two sleeping babies in their cribs. Sliding on my slippers, I grabbed my robe and thrust my arms into it before hurrying out the door, the rubber bands around my stomach squeezing tighter. My grandmother never called just to chat.

  I hurried down the corridor and paused at the top of the stairs. A light was on downstairs, and a few of the rubber bands slid off my insides. When Jack was writing, he often woke up in the middle of the night with a story idea that couldn’t wait until morning. I placed my foot on the top step, then stopped, aware of an odd sound coming from Nola’s bedroom behind the closed door. She was still sleeping in the guest room as Greco continued with his redo of her room, the paint and sawdust from the new built-in bookshelves and window cornices making it nearly unlivable. The restless spirits, too, if one wanted to count them as disrupters of sleep.

  After a quick glance toward the light downstairs, I moved slowly down the hall to Nola’s bedroom, brushing past the two miniature Christmas trees filled with tiny children’s-toy ornaments—one for a girl and one for a boy—that Sophie had insisted we needed. One shook and nearly toppled when my robe snagged on it, and I had to grab it by the stuffed teddy bear tree topper to keep it upright. I promised myself for the millionth time that next year we were going on a cruise and skipping the holidays completely.

  I paused a moment to flip on the upstairs hallway lights, and was not completely surprised when nothing happened. One of the screaming phone calls Jack had received from Harvey that past evening had been about these exact same lights. Apparently, there was something wrong with the Southern wiring (his words, not mine, and he used a few more descriptive adjectives before the word Southern) that was causing the lightbulbs to blow out as soon as the switches were flipped.

  I thought for a moment about getting Jack but stopped myself. If he was writing, that would be a good thing, and nothing I wanted to interfere with. I was an adult. And a mother of toddler twins and a teenage girl. There shouldn’t be anything left that could scare me. Surely I could handle whatever was behind that door. And if not, I could close it and then go get Jack.

  I gingerly touched the door handle, for some reason thinking it would be hot. The brass felt cool to the touch, so I wrapped my fingers around it, then pressed my ear to the door. I couldn’t identify the sound at first, probably because it seemed so out of context in my house in the dead of winter. A buzzing, like a man’s electric razor several decibels louder than it should have been, vibrated through the door, traveling from my head to my fingers and making them tingle.

  With a deep breath, I turned the handle, then pushed the door open enough for me to peer inside. Moonlight filled the unadorned windows, lighting the room with a blue-white glow. I reached around the doorframe for the light switch and flicked it on. Nothing happened.

  The buzzing was louder now, unbalanced, the source concentrated on one side of the room. The dusty scent of gunpowder drifted toward me and I glanced furtively into the dark corners for the musket-carrying British soldier I’d seen twice before. Except for the moonlight, the corners were empty, the room bare.

  Pushing the door as far as it would open, I stepped a little farther into the room, listening as the buzzing took on a new rhythm, a thud-thump, thud-thump. Like a beating heart. I swallowed, unwilling to let go of the doorknob just in case I needed to make a hasty retreat and needed to find the door. My eyes gradually adjusted to the moonlight, my gaze moving from one side of the room to the other, stopping when it reached the bed.

  Greco had stripped it of all its bedding and had been draping fabric samples over it for Nola and her grandmothers to pick and choose from. But the noise wasn’t coming from the mattress. It was coming from higher up. I looked at the foot of the bed, where the two carved bedposts jutted toward the ceiling like fat fingers. I blinked, my eyesight even worse in the dark, but good enough to tell that one of the posts was different from the other. It was thicker at the top, it seemed. Rounder. I blinked again. Moving.

  I stepped back quickly, my heels bumping into the edge of the open door. Taking a deep breath, I looked at the top of the bedpost again, trying to decipher what I was seeing, hoping against all hope that it wasn’t those flying palmetto bugs that were terrifying when they were solo. I had no word to use for when they traveled in packs.

  But they were buzzing. Like bees. Forcing myself to let go of the doorknob, I stepped closer to the bed to get a better look. One flew in front of my face as i
f on reconnaissance, and to my relief it was much smaller than a palmetto bug and most likely a bee. It buzzed and jerked, then flew back to join the cluster of buzzing insects swarming along the entire length of the bedpost.

  I walked across the room to examine the windows, wondering if one had been left open. Then I remembered. It was December. From what my father had explained to me about bee behavior, during the winter months bees stayed in their hives, keeping the queen warm until spring. There was another reason there would be a swarm of bees inside my house in December. An unnatural reason. My grandmother had once told me that bees were messengers from the spirit world. How appropriate, then, that I would have just received a phone call from her. As I stared through the hazy darkness at the buzzing, swarming mass on Nola’s bedpost, I wished she’d simply told me on the phone what she wanted me to know instead of sending bees. Apparently, simple wasn’t a word anyone in my family was familiar with.

  A shape drifted across the cistern below, a fall of light followed quickly by darkness. I stepped back, not wanting to be seen, and waited for whoever it was to show up on the other side. I squinted, wondering if it was an intruder of the flesh-and-blood type or of a ghostlier sort, unsure which one I’d prefer. I waited for whatever it was to emerge, but the night remained still and dark. But I knew there was someone—something—out there. I felt malevolent eyes on me, like sticky tar that clung to my skin.