The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  Nola began. “So, if you’ll recall, when Dad first gave me those four words to make some sense out of, Cooper and I sat down to try to categorize them, see what they had in common.” She looked around the table, meeting everyone’s gaze, the blue intensity in hers just like her father’s when figuring out a tangled mystery with obscure clues. It’s what he did best, and apparently, he’d passed it on to his older daughter. Maybe his younger daughter, and son, too, but it was too early to tell.

  “Melanie?”

  I realized Nola had turned around to look at me, while I’d been staring at Jack and thinking about our children. “Yes?”

  “Are you with us?”

  I nodded. “Of course. Go on.”

  “So, Cooper and I made these columns and wrote down adjectives to describe each word and see if we could find any similarities. We did that for days, going over and over the columns, coming up with new words that I wouldn’t even know existed if I hadn’t used Google. Or had been working with someone besides Cooper.”

  They shared a glance and Jack frowned. Either he was getting better or his radar where Nola was concerned wasn’t affected by the flu.

  Nola continued. “The only thing we noticed was that three of them could be identified with a color—cognac is brown, goldfinch feathers are yellow, and Burgundy wine is often red. But that left us with the kitchen maid. Even back in the seventeen hundreds, they probably came in different colors. It made no sense, so Cooper and I just figured that we were pointed in the wrong direction.”

  Dramatically, she picked up the book and held it open for everyone to see, splay backed like a book an elementary school teacher was reading to her students. I recognized the painting showing a woman with a white cloth hat and what appeared to be a clay pitcher pouring milk into a bowl. “This is a famous painting by the Dutch artist Johannes Vermeer. Its official name is The Milkmaid. But”—she paused for dramatic effect—“perhaps because of what most people think a milkmaid should look like—a young woman out with the cows gathering milk, maybe—the painting is more commonly known as . . .”

  She paused again, but instead of gritting his teeth, Jack smiled. “The Kitchen Maid.”

  “Bingo!” Nola’s smile matched her father’s. “I felt really dumb because we’ve been studying Vermeer all semester, so I knew a lot about him, so this should have clicked a long time ago. What was really interesting and caught my attention finally was his color palette.”

  Nola’s arms were drooping from the weight of the book, so Cooper stood and took it from her while I took his vacated seat at the table. “Thank you,” she said, and I hoped Jack couldn’t see the look on her face when she smiled at the young man.

  Nola’s brows knitted. “Where was I?”

  “Vermeer’s color palette,” Cooper said gently.

  “Right. So each painter pretty much had their signature palette. During the seventeenth century, when Vermeer was painting, there were only about twenty pigments available to him, and he chose to work mostly with just seven.” Her smile broadened as she used her index finger to indicate the background in The Milkmaid. “His palette was unusual because of the pigment he used to create shadows on whitewashed walls that were warmer than those created with black pigment used by other artists.”

  “And that pigment was . . .” Cooper announced like a master of ceremonies, and I wondered if I should do a drumroll on the table.

  Jack and I stared blankly at Nola and then Cooper, as if waiting for them to turn the page and reveal the answer, because apparently we had no idea.

  “Umber!” Nola shouted.

  Cooper placed the book on the table. “So, basically, we now have four objects with identifiable colors: brown, yellow, umber, and red.”

  I sat up. “And that means . . . ?”

  Cooper and Nola shared a glance before looking back at me. “We’re not sure. That’s why we were hoping we could brainstorm a little bit now.”

  Jack reached for the notebook and pen and Cooper slid them down the table. Across the top of a blank page, Jack jotted down the four words and their four corresponding colors. “What we need to do now is put this all in the context of the Vanderhorsts at that time. What they would have been familiar with and what connection to those four words and/or colors they might have had. A familiarity known by Lafayette so that his letter would be understood by them and hopefully not by any others.”

  “Our thoughts exactly, sir,” Cooper said. “And since we’re working on the premise that this might be connected to the French king’s treasure, we’ve been looking at those four colors in that context.”

  Jack was still scribbling but looked up at Cooper. “And what have you found so far?”

  “Nothing yet, sir. But I’m prepared to stay here all night with Nola and help figure it out.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  “Dad!” Nola shouted, her face a mask of mortification.

  “No, sir,” Cooper said, a pink stain on his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “We did figure out one thing, sir, in regards to the umber. Mrs. Vanderhorst was an avid art collector. There are actually quite a few paintings she acquired while living at Gallen Hall that were later donated by the family to the Gibbes Museum. It was well-known that her favorite artists were Rembrandt and Vermeer. So it would make sense that she’d know about Vermeer’s preferred palette.”

  “And the marquis would have made it his business to know this,” Jack said, thumping the end of his pen against the notebook before dropping it, then slumping back in his chair, his face taking on a waxy sheen.

  “Jack—you need to rest.” I stood and went to him. Cooper and Nola moved toward him, too, but I waved them back. “No sense in three of us getting exposed—I promise to be careful.” I helped Jack stand, and I could hear his teeth chattering again. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

  “I love it when you say that,” he croaked.

  “Dad!” Nola shouted. “We’re still here, you know.”

  Jack grinned through his chattering, then reached back toward the table. “I need my notebook. For later,” he said after he saw my alarm.

  Nola grabbed it and handed it to me, and I carried it upstairs while my other arm was wrapped around Jack’s shoulders. I gave him an Advil, then tucked him into bed, adding another blanket at his request.

  “Put the notebook and pen here,” he said, indicating the space where I usually slept in the bed. “For when I wake up and feel better.”

  “Sure,” I said, “but don’t work too hard. You really need to rest so you can get better.” I sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the hair from his forehead. “Is there anything else you need?”

  He raised his eyebrows in a familiar gesture.

  “Jack—you’re sick, remember?”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m dead,” he muttered. “Anything else I can be mulling over while I’m stuck here?”

  The word dead reminded me of something Anthony had said. “Maybe. Anthony and I were talking earlier, and he mentioned how he’s pretty sure it’s Eliza Grosvenor who pushed him down the stairs at Gallen Hall. He gets really bad vibes when he passes her portrait, so he thinks she hates him. He suggested that maybe he resembles somebody from her life that she didn’t like.”

  “Or maybe she just hates men.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. It’s only Anthony she seems to pick on. And she definitely doesn’t hate men. I think she kissed Greco.”

  Jack lifted his head from the pillow, then immediately laid it back down. “When did this happen?”

  I couldn’t remember what I’d told him and what I hadn’t. He still hadn’t told me what Jolly had mentioned—the evil presence from the cistern that had followed Jack into my office. In a fit of pique I’d decided to keep the bee incidents and my mother’s outbursts from Jack unt
il he shared with me what he’d learned. It was childish and stupid, and I’d already decided that I was going to tell him everything. As soon as he was better, when he could process it all. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway. I looked down at my hand where I wore the signet ring and placed my other hand over it.

  “He had to stop by to pick something up before heading out to a living history event and was dressed in his complete British regimental uniform. He was standing in Nola’s room when he said he felt a woman kiss his cheek. I’m pretty sure it was Eliza—I sense her a lot in there.”

  Jack was thoughtful for a moment. “So, Alexander was the British soldier quartered at Gallen Hall, but Eliza was engaged to Lawrence, the son of the family.” His eyelids were beginning to droop. “It’s interesting that she’d kiss a British soldier, don’t you think?”

  I looked down at the signet ring again, remembering how Greco had told me he’d felt the kiss after he’d slipped it on his finger. And how my mother was certain the owner of the ring was a woman. I lifted my hand to show him. “Greco found this in the bedpost. . . .”

  I stopped. Jack’s eyes were closed, the muscles in his face relaxed, his breathing even. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.” I stood, then leaned over the bed to kiss his forehead. “I love you,” I whispered, watching him sleeping for a moment before quietly letting myself out of the room.

  CHAPTER 31

  On Saturday morning, the day of the progressive dinner, I was up early so I could steer the final preparations. The night before, Nola had helped me pack up the twins and move them and all their equipment to Jack’s parents’. I’d argued at first that they wouldn’t be in the way, until Nola reminded me of how much JJ loved to throw all round objects he could get his little hands on as if they were baseballs, and how Sarah had taken to climbing into the Christmas trees in search of the shiniest ornament. I’d quickly acquiesced.

  Mrs. Houlihan, Nola, and Jayne would be on hand to help. Jack was still too sick to be out of bed, but Cooper said he’d be available if we needed extra help setting up the rented tables to accommodate the twelve couples who couldn’t fit around the table in the dining room.

  I’d printed out spreadsheets with a time schedule and tasks to be accomplished and by whom in the appropriate rows and columns. I labeled each one with the person’s name and then printed extra copies just in case anyone lost theirs, which seemed to happen a lot. The main dining room table was already set with my grandmother’s antique Belgian lace tablecloth and matching napkins and the Vanderhorsts’ stunning Imari place settings, the brilliant gold, red, and dark blue standing out like jewels against the white tablecloth.

  I hated to admit it, but the homemade centerpieces of oranges, pineapples, and pinecones that Sophie had forced me to make were a festive and gorgeous touch. As were Greco’s hurricane lanterns on the piazza, which he had returned to festoon with evergreen sprigs of pine, sapphire cedar, and boxwood. He’d even prepared enough to include in the centerpieces of the smaller tables, so they were as elegant as the main table.

  My phone beeped and I saw a text from Greco, and I was relieved that he texted like a real person and used full sentences and punctuation.

  I heard back from Uncle Oliver with a bit of information for you. Lawrence V. and his father were basically estranged although living under the same roof. It was rumored in some circles that one of them supported the patriot cause while the other remained loyalist. Not clear which one was which as historical information is conflicting. Whatever the truth, he believes it’s the reason Lawrence was killed.

  While I was still attempting to text the word thanks, another text popped up on my screen.

  You might also be interested to know that St. Gallen was the patron saint of birds. Uncle O. finds it interesting that the name change happened around the time of the Revolution and Eliza’s purchase of the first peacocks.

  He added a smile emoji to the end of that sentence and then a fist-bump GIF.

  Jayne was emerging from the dining room when I came down the stairs. I showed her the text from Greco. Her eyes widened. “The plot thickens,” she said. “And the whole Gallen thing—right under our noses.”

  “Apparently we weren’t the only ones, since nobody seems to have made the connection between Gallen Hall and peacocks.”

  I read the text again, remembering what I’d read in Nola’s borrowed textbook, about the only footprints leading to Lawrence’s body coming from the house.

  “So who killed Lawrence?” Jayne asked, giving voice to my own thoughts.

  “Someone close to him. Someone in the house. The only thing we know for sure is that it wasn’t Eliza or Alexander, because they were already dead.” I frowned. “But I know Eliza is connected somehow. She brought the peacocks to Gallen Hall, and then the name of the plantation was changed.”

  “Definitely not a coincidence,” Jayne said.

  I nodded. “All we know for sure is that she was engaged to Lawrence. But when Mother held the signet ring, she said the owner had been female.”

  “Then . . .” Jayne began but stopped as Mrs. Houlihan bustled past us clutching a feather duster on her way to the front parlor.

  “Let’s talk about this later—we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Jayne nodded, then held up what looked like an orange in her hand. “I found a bunch of these under the table and behind the draperies in the dining room. Are they part of the decoration?”

  I remembered a few of them flying around the table when I’d been in there with Michael, but I thought I’d removed them all. “No, not exactly. I think Veronica’s sister sent them to remind me that she’s still here and waiting to move on. Or JJ was let loose with a bowl of oranges.” I marched into the dining room and began to pick up the errant oranges.

  “And?”

  “And, what?” I lifted the long silk drapes and rescued two more oranges.

  “And are you going to help her?”

  I moved to the other window and checked under the drapes, finding one more piece of fruit. “I guess I’m going to have to. I told Veronica I would but that I couldn’t it do it right now. Michael wants to put their house on the market now so they can move, but Veronica feels that if they move out of the house, they’ll lose some vital clue to Adrienne’s disappearance.”

  “So you agreed to help her?”

  “Against my better judgment, I did—but not until after Christmas. I’m so insanely busy right now I just couldn’t add one more restless spirit to my plate. I think I’ve thrown in enough brakes on the house sale so that we have until after the first of the year before I have to actually do anything.”

  “Maybe I can help you.”

  I didn’t meet her gaze. “Maybe. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  I began walking around the perimeter of the room, searching for any missed fruit.

  “She’s right, you know,” Jayne said. “About losing some vital clue. I see Adrienne, too, sometimes, and I feel that time is of the essence. I’ve seen her a few times when I’ve been working with Veronica. They must have been very close.”

  I stood and faced my sister. “I guess so. Veronica still misses her and it’s been more than twenty years.”

  Jayne’s face looked wistful. “It must have been nice to grow up with a sister, don’t you think? Sharing confidences. And makeup. Clothes.”

  “And fights,” I added. “Most sisters I know have always done a lot of fighting.” I immediately regretted my words. For a brief moment I pictured Jayne and me with matching black patent Mary Janes having ice cream sundaes at the curved booth in the front of Carolina’s with our grandmother. Grandmother would have known that we’d each want our own since even now as adults neither Jayne nor I ever shared a dessert with anyone. And we would have been aware of the silent spirits around us at the other tables and standing nearby, but we wouldn’t have
been afraid because we would have had each other.

  I softened my tone when I saw her wounded look. “Yeah, it would have been nice not to grow up alone. And I’d rather have a sister than a brother. Especially for the sharing of clothes.”

  As if she’d heard only the first part, Jayne said, “I don’t think we would have fought.” She peered behind the dining room door and plucked out an orange I’d missed. “Because you and I have this thing we share—this gift or whatever you want to call it. It would have bonded us together. Kind of like how it’s bonding us now.”

  “True,” I said, wishing I felt as reassured as I sounded.

  She smiled and I smiled back, feeling only a little tinge of remorse that I couldn’t completely agree with her.

  I indicated the oranges we both held. “Why don’t we put these in the kitchen for Mrs. Houlihan? She’ll probably use them to whip up another batch of wonderful cookies that she won’t let me have.” I walked toward the kitchen to deposit the oranges in the bowl in the middle of the center island, Jayne right behind me.

  Jayne grimaced. “Probably. I find it’s easiest to resist sweets when they’re not in the house.”

  The look I gave her made her quickly switch the subject. “I missed you on our run this morning. You’re doing so well, and I feel it’s my duty as a coach to keep you motivated.”

  We returned to the dining room, where I glanced out the window. “Yeah, well, I was more motivated to get this day over with than to get frostbite. It’s really getting ugly out there.”

  “Oh, it was a little cold. But it’s all about the proper gear. I was well insulated and I brought my little hand warmers to stick inside my running gloves.” She considered me for a moment. “I think I know what I need to put in your Christmas stocking.”

  I forced a smile. “I like chocolate Santas, if anyone’s asking. Dark chocolate and solid—none of that milk chocolate hollow stuff. I might as well eat tofu.”