The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  I didn’t mention that Jack had been at home working, or that I knew where the spirit had come from. Nor did I mention that I had no idea why.

  “Did you tell Jack about the apparition?”

  “Of course.” Jolly chewed on her bottom lip. “Especially because there were some definite unfriendly vibes coming from the man. And when I looked at his face, his eyes were just dark, hollow circles. So I thought Jack should know.” Her expression was sympathetic. “I will admit that Jack seemed a little startled—not everyone expects to hear that they’re being shadowed by an evil spirit.”

  I realized my jaw was nearly numb from clenching my teeth. I almost didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice when the words finally tumbled out. “Did the spirit . . . say anything?”

  Jolly’s bright green eyes stared straight into mine. “Ghosts don’t talk, dear. You’ve been watching too many reruns of Ghost Whisperer.” She leaned forward, Christmas bulb earrings swinging. “It’s more of a . . . mental connection with the spirit. And let me tell you, this was an angry spirit and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear what he was saying. Except . . .”

  “Except?” I prompted.

  “Except I felt something beneath his anger. Something that felt a lot like . . . heartbreak. Not just a broken heart, but a seared heart. Like he was a man who’d been horribly betrayed by someone he’d deeply loved. So I decided to listen to what he was trying to communicate to me.”

  The phone rang, startling us both. “One moment,” she said as she answered the phone, then placed the call on hold.

  “And?” I asked impatiently.

  She pressed her lips together. “I don’t usually use this kind of language. . . .”

  “Just tell me, please.”

  “I was pretty sure he was trying to say, ‘Traitors deserve to die and rot in hell.’”

  Icy fear dripped down my spine as I recalled the same words in my own head at the mausoleum, and then coming from my mother’s mouth in Nola’s bedroom. I swallowed. “Was that all?”

  She paused, then shook her head. “No. There was a name, too. But I got the impression that he was thinking it was Jack’s name, except it wasn’t.”

  “What was the name?”

  Jolly’s green eyes widened. “I’m pretty sure it was Alexander.”

  There was only one Alexander I knew. Alexander Monroe. The name on one of the crypts in the mausoleum. The British soldier billeted at Gallen Hall during the occupation of Charleston.

  “Hmm,” I said, pretending that the name didn’t mean anything. “Very interesting. And you told all this to Jack?”

  “Yes, of course. I assumed he would mention it to you, although he did say you were under a lot of stress right now with the holidays and the film crew in your house and getting ready for the progressive dinner. Jack said you’re hosting twenty-four couples for the main course? And all on top of you having two little ones and a teenager and a full-time job. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.” She gave me a sympathetic smile. “That Jack is such a wonderful husband—so compassionate and caring. That’s probably why he didn’t bring it up. It’s not an emergency or anything. I mean, it’s not like ghosts can hurt you, right?”

  I stared at her for a moment without comment. “Right,” I said noncommittally. “Well, thanks for letting me know. And for these.” I held up the pink message slips. Walking back to my office, I was left to wonder why Jack hadn’t mentioned any of it to me. As I closed my office door, I felt a small surge of anger. It might be petty, but feeling left out was the one thing I couldn’t live with and that always made me revert to the old Mellie. Even with that knowledge, the hurt didn’t dissipate, making me decide that when Jack was ready to share what Jolly had just told me, I’d tell him about the bees in Nola’s bedroom and what had happened when my mother touched the bedpost.

  I hung up my coat on the coatrack, buttoning it up to the collar and checking the pockets even though I’d just checked them before I’d left the house. It was an old habit, started when I was a young girl taking care of my alcoholic father, checking his pockets for flasks or small bottles so I could destroy them before he remembered where they were. It was the kind of old habit that was difficult to break. Along with drawer labeling so my father didn’t have to struggle in the morning picking between black and navy socks.

  When Jack laughed at some of my quirks, I sometimes had the urge to explain why I did these things. But then I’d have to explain to him why I still did, even after all these years of my father being sober. If only I knew the answer, then maybe I could stop.

  I moved to the Keurig machine—a birthday gift from Jack—on my credenza and was selecting which flavored coffee I wanted from the rack of alphabetized K-Cups when a flash of red caught my attention. Keeping my body still, I shifted my gaze toward my desk and froze. The heart-shaped red pillow that I’d taken from Veronica’s attic sat on my chair, propped up so I couldn’t help but notice it.

  Putting down my coffee mug, I walked over and picked up the pillow, thinking—hoping—it was a different one. But because of how things worked in my neck of the woods, I knew hoping was a lot like planning on putting out a forest fire with a single puff of breath. I studied the pillow, noticing the neat hand-stitched seams along the ruffled edge, the nubby red material that appeared as new and vibrant as it probably had thirty years before. I brought it to my face and sniffed, recognizing the faint scent of Vanilla Musk perfume.

  I pressed the intercom button on my desk phone and waited for Jolly to pick up. “Jolly, has anyone been in my office since I left it yesterday?”

  “No, Melanie. Just the cleaning people. Why? Is something missing?”

  I stared at the small pillow still clutched in my hand. “No, actually. It’s—”

  “The Farrells are here. I’m sending them back now.”

  “Thanks—” I started, but she’d already hung up, the sound of dead space quickly replaced with that of tapping on my office door. “Come in.”

  Michael opened the door and stepped back to allow Veronica to enter first, his hand solicitous on the small of her back. Veronica startled when she saw what I held in my hands, her eyes questioning. When Michael noticed it, too, I saw him do a double take, but otherwise he gave no sign that he recognized it.

  I indicated the chairs in front of my desk. “Please, have a seat.” Not knowing where else I could put the pillow, I tossed it on the seat of my chair, then sat on it, hoping I wasn’t offending anyone. “Sorry,” I said in explanation. “Bad back.”

  They both stared at me, expressionless. To break the awkward silence, I offered them both coffee, and when they declined I pulled out a brand-new yellow lined notepad from my top desk drawer. I had a laptop, a desktop, and an iPad, but nothing could beat plain paper and pencil. And whatever I wrote never disappeared into a cloud, or whatever that thing was where Nola continued to tell me I should be storing documents.

  “So,” I said, getting ready for my sales pitch. “I’m glad that my friendship with Veronica has brought you in today, but I also hope that you’ve done some research into my sales record to know that I’m the best agent to list your historic home.”

  “Of course,” Michael said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward with his arms on his thighs—what my boss, Dave Henderson, called the “power stance,” meaning a client was ready to sign on the dotted line. Except I hadn’t gotten that far yet. “So can we dispense with the chitchat and get the house on the market today?”

  I placed my perfectly sharpened number two pencil on the pad and looked up at Veronica, who was staring at her lap. “Today?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “I see no reason for delay. We think it will move fast, so we’d also like to look at options for a good family home to move into. We’ll include Lindsey in the decision, of course, but it will be mostly Veronica’s choice.”

  He put his hand
on her arm, but she was now looking directly at me.

  “I see.” I picked up my pencil again. “So, let’s start with that so I can begin thinking about available houses. Veronica, what would you like to see in a new house?”

  Michael spoke before Veronica could open her mouth. “We’re flexible on location—Mt. Pleasant and James Island are possibilities. Probably not downtown or South of Broad because we definitely want something more modern than what we have now.” He smiled at his wife, oblivious to the fact that she was neither smiling nor nodding but sitting stoically and staring into space.

  He continued. “We’re both tired of the maintenance and upkeep on an older home. And with Lindsey going to college soon, we’d like to spend our downtime traveling and doing things together instead of spending all that time and money repairing things on the house.” He pointed at the pad of paper. “Aren’t you going to write that down?”

  I looked up at Veronica to gauge her reaction, but she’d returned her gaze to her lap. I replaced the pencil on the pad with a decisive snap. “Look, why don’t we work on this part later? I’ve already got about a dozen homes in mind—we’ll narrow it down by location later. Right now, I think we should visit your house on Queen Street and make a list of things that might need to be changed or updated before putting it on the market, so you can get top dollar.”

  “Oh, please,” Michael said. “There could be a gaping hole in the roof with rain pouring in and someone would still want to buy it because it’s historic and in Charleston.”

  “Well, while there is some truth in that, if the house needs expensive repairs or major updates, it will be reflected in the sale price. And if you’re wanting to replace it with another house in Charleston, you’ll want as much money from the sale as you can get.”

  Veronica finally spoke. “She’s right, Michael. I don’t want to skimp on the new house, since we’ll be there for a very long time. We have to think of the future, of possibly having grandchildren and making sure there’s room for them and yard space. It won’t be cheap.”

  His face softened, as if the mention of the word grandchildren had given him a new perspective. Or maybe it had been the words “it won’t be cheap.” “I see what you’re saying. But that doesn’t mean we should be dragging our heels.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But we need to make sure that we take enough time to do it right, however long that takes. Try to think of it in terms of money—the more move-in ready your house, the higher the asking price.”

  When Michael smiled, I realized we were finally speaking the same language. “Fine,” he said as he stood. “Then bring your pencil and paper and let’s head home so we can get started. Hopefully, it won’t take too long.”

  Michael was already walking toward the door and didn’t notice Veronica’s thumbs-up, which she gave me behind his back.

  “Hopefully,” I said, shoving the pad and pencil into my briefcase and retrieving my coat. “Just for good luck, let’s all cross our fingers that there’s nothing major that needs to be done on the house before we put it on the market.”

  Michael opened the door and held it for us, dramatically displaying his other hand to show his crossed fingers. “I got us covered.”

  Veronica exited in front of me, delivering a brief kiss to Michael’s cheek and distracting him just long enough that he didn’t notice the red pillow fly across the room and hit me in the back before falling to the floor.

  Michael glanced behind me briefly as if the flash of color had caught his eye. Then he followed me out the door, pulling it shut with a soft snap.

  CHAPTER 26

  I took a pedicab from the Farrells’ house on Queen Street to Charleston Place to meet my mother and the children because if I’d had to walk in my heels after exploring all three floors of the Farrells’ Victorian, I would have had to self-amputate at the ankles.

  I also had bruises on my rib cage and back from Veronica prodding me every time I said something was fine, and she’d continued poking me until I had ratcheted up the needed upgrade or repair to her satisfaction. By the time I left, my list was ten pages long, enough to keep the house off the market for at least a year unless Michael had his say. He certainly hadn’t looked happy as he’d closed the front door, and I doubted he would go along with even half of the suggestions I’d made.

  As I sat in the pedicab, I had the brilliant thought of calling Sophie and sending her over to Veronica’s to make a few structural suggestions, along with dire warnings. She was a college professor and quite good at intimidation and wearing down those who disagreed with her regarding old-house restorations. Which was why I’d spent more money than I had ever thought possible on a new roof and foundation, along with hand-painted wallpaper and hand-sanded floors. All because I couldn’t say no to Sophie, even though she dressed like a toddler who’d chosen her own clothes.

  I plucked my phone from my purse just when it started to ring. There was no name next to the familiar telephone number because I was too optimistic in believing that I’d never have a need to add her name to my contact list. I slid my thumb across the screen, then held the phone to my ear. “Hello, Suzy. This is Melanie.”

  “I can’t believe I’m actually speaking with you! You’re a hard person to pin down.”

  “So sorry,” I said, mimicking the bored tones I’d heard my coworker Wendy Wax using with one of her ex-husbands. “’Tis the season to lose one’s mind, and all that.”

  “That’s for sure.” Suzy giggled, sounding like the twelve-year-old girl she resembled. “I understand you have a full house right now with a film crew, a decorator, and a classroom full of preservation students in your backyard. How do you do it all?”

  “Is this an interview about my life? Because if it is, I can save us a lot of time up front and tell you now that I’m not interested.”

  She giggled again, setting my teeth on edge. “Oh, I’m sure your day-to-day life is fascinating, Melanie, but I’m calling about something else. Are you familiar with the series I’m writing in the Post and Courier about lost treasures in the Lowcountry? It’s a weekly serial in the Sunday edition.”

  I was too embarrassed to admit that I only had time to pull the real estate section from the paper and that, despite promises to myself that I would read the rest and become a better-informed member of society, the rest of the paper would usually end up in the recycling bin unread. Jack usually read the whole thing cover to cover, but I’d noticed recently he’d been too immersed in puzzle solving and going over the research materials that Yvonne would send over on an almost daily schedule to find the time to read the paper.

  “I think our neighbor’s dog has been taking our Sunday paper, because we haven’t received it for several weeks now. Her name is Cindy Lou Who, and she’s just the sweetest dog, but she does love a juicy newspaper.”

  I prepared myself for another giggle, and when I didn’t hear one, I pulled my phone from my ear to make sure the call hadn’t been dropped.

  “You know, Melanie, journalists and editors work very hard on the newspaper. We would all appreciate a little respect.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that Cindy Lou Who was chewing on it, Suzy. I was thinking she was probably taking it to read. She’s a very smart dog.” I wasn’t sure why I said that, only that my feet were hurting and the woman annoyed me.

  “Glad to know you have a sense of humor, Melanie. Rebecca says you’re probably going to need it.”

  I sat up. “What do you mean?”

  I could imagine the reporter shrugging her narrow shoulders. “You’ll have to ask your cousin. Now, do you have a few moments to answer some questions?”

  We were creeping down King Street, the traffic slower due to the heavy volume and the number of pedestrians doing their holiday shopping. “That would depend. About what?”

  “Lost treasures. For my series.”

  “Right. I’m
not sure if I have anything to add, unless you’re referring to the cistern in the backyard. They’ve found lots of broken pottery, if that’s what you’re looking for. I’d suggest asking one of the grad students working on the excavation, named Meghan Black. . . .”

  “I’m looking for something lost since the Revolution, something valuable given by the French king to the patriots, presumably to pay American spies.”

  I kept my voice even. “Well, we certainly haven’t found anything valuable—”

  “Yet,” she broke in. “While doing research on buried pirate treasure along the coast, I came upon the story in the national archives of Barbados, if you can imagine, of a treasure given to the Marquis de Lafayette in 1781 by the king of France. You’re probably wondering why Barbados—”

  “No, actually, I’m not. Look, Suzy, I don’t have any idea—”

  She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I was researching ‘the Gentleman Pirate,’ Stede Bonnet, who was born in Barbados and hanged in Charleston—or Charles Towne, as it was known prior to the Revolution. That’s why I was looking in the national archives of Barbados, and there it was—an obscure article about missing treasures that included Blackbeard, Bonnet, and”—she gave a dramatic pause—“the Marquis de Lafayette!”

  She paused again, apparently waiting for applause. When I didn’t respond, she continued. “Anyway, the article claimed that the marquis had been entrusted with delivering the French king’s gift to an unnamed American who’d been charged with the task of enlisting influential citizens in Charleston as spies for the patriot cause. Whatever it was must have been easy to transport and quite valuable, as most of the influential citizens in South Carolina at the time were wealthy landowners, and to be caught planning against the Crown would mean certain death in addition to the confiscation of all your property and leaving your family destitute.”

  We passed a storefront window, a cute dress catching my attention, so I missed the first part of Suzy’s next sentence, my focus snapping back when I recognized the name Vanderhorst. “I’m sorry—what did you say? About a Vanderhorst?”