The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  “Here, then,” she said, diving into her coat pockets and pulling out a pair of thick gloves. “These are waterproof and fleece lined.” I gratefully accepted them, knowing they’d be a lot warmer than my leather gloves. “And this.” She placed a thick knit hat over my head, pulling it below my ears and tucking in my hair. “But it doesn’t mean I’m agreeing that you should be doing this.”

  “I know. And if anybody asks, I’ll let them know that you tried to stop me.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Jayne stepped forward to tuck my scarf into the collar of my coat. “I have a phone charger in the car, so plug in your phone so it’ll have a full charge by the time you get to Gallen Hall. I want you to call me when you get there, and I’ll want you to check in every fifteen minutes with a text. And if you don’t, I’m calling Thomas.”

  “Really, Jayne, I don’t—”

  “That’s the deal. Either agree or I’m going to tell Jack right now.”

  “Fine,” I said, moving toward the door, making sure no one else was in the foyer to see me leave.

  “Dad’s shed is unlocked,” Jayne said. “You’ll want a shovel and a flashlight.”

  “Right,” I said, embarrassed that I probably wouldn’t have thought about either until I was almost at the cemetery. I pulled open the door and saw Greco’s hurricane lanterns flickering brightly as white flakes blew across the piazza, dancing around the glass like fairies.

  “My car has front-wheel drive,” Jayne offered. “But if there’s anything more than half an inch, you won’t get any traction. Just remember to keep your phone charged.”

  I nodded, walking toward the door at the end of the piazza, afraid to look back just in case I changed my mind.

  “I love you, Melanie. I’m glad you’re my sister.”

  I just nodded as I let myself through the piazza door, unable to speak because of the sudden lump in my throat.

  CHAPTER 34

  Fat snowflakes were falling by the time I pulled onto the Ashley River Bridge. Only a few other drivers braved the roads, tempting fate and the potential closing of the bridges. I tried not to think about how I would get back with closed bridges and icy roads. Charleston hadn’t had a significant snowfall since 1989, so, except for the northern transplants, not many of us knew how to drive in snow.

  My hands hurt from clutching the steering wheel too tightly. I flexed my fingers, trying to make the blood flow back into the tips. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road to check on the status of my phone charge, but I’d plugged it in just as Jayne had instructed. Remembering her concern brought me a small comfort, making me feel less alone on my mission, the cord charging my phone like a lifeline.

  I found the road to Gallen Hall after missing it the first time because of the snow. My father’s gardening tools shifted in the trunk, clanking loudly as I slowly drove over the uneven dirt road, straining to see through the falling snowflakes. In addition to a battery-powered camping light I’d found in the shed, I’d brought a shovel, a spade, and a pick. I’d grabbed the latter at the last second, realizing that the ground would be rock-hard from the cold. I refused to consider that I might not be strong enough to swing the pick with enough force to even break the surface. Failure wasn’t an option, not after I’d come this far. I thought of Jack and how much finding these rubies would mean for him both emotionally and professionally. I recognized, too, that I wanted Jack back—the charming, smart, and capable husband and father I loved. With renewed determination, I straightened my shoulders, then turned Jayne’s car into the deep, dark woods, where the trees seemed to swallow me as I drew closer to the house.

  When I neared the edge of the woods, I stopped the car and switched off my headlights so I wouldn’t alert anyone who might be in the house. My plan was to slip into the cemetery without being seen, do what needed to be done, then head back home before the snowfall got heavy enough to close the roads. It had seemed like a clear plan when I’d left the house, and only now that it was too late could I spot the giant leaps of faith it would take to successfully execute it. I glanced at my phone, knowing one call from me for help would be all it would take. But I had to try. And if I failed, then I’d call.

  I peered down the dark road, the snow reflecting the ambient light from the sky like some celestial flashlight, making it easier to see. With a sigh, I reached over to the floor of the passenger seat and grabbed Jayne’s umbrella. Bracing myself against the cold and snow, I jumped out of the car and began walking through the thin coating of snow, stopping before I reached the horseshoe of the front drive in an attempt to remain unseen.

  With an exhalation of relief, I saw no lights on in the house, nor did I pick out the shapes of a car or cars on the front drive. Either Anthony and Marc had stayed in town, not wanting to risk the weather, or they hadn’t yet figured out the final clue.

  I felt lighter as I made my way back to the car. I flipped on the headlights, then drove past the house toward the cemetery, stopping in front of the main gate, the lights from the car shining through the black bars and reflecting off the fat snowflakes. I put the car in park, leaving the headlights and wipers on before reaching under the seat for the drawings and the map that Jayne had placed there when we’d left her house.

  I pushed the seat back and placed the map on the steering wheel to orient myself to where the four black Sharpie marks indicated the spots in the cemetery. I looked up at the gate and the adjacent fence sections, then back to the map, realizing that the edges of the drawings corresponded to the iron gate designs that edged the cemetery.

  Like the red lights on the floor of a plane that led a passenger to the emergency exit door, the fence designs served the same purpose, instructing the treasure hunter how deep into the cemetery one needed to go before bearing left or right to each dot on the map. It was brilliant, really, and I turned my head to share it with Jack, too late remembering that I was alone.

  I remembered Yvonne telling us that no burials had taken place in the cemetery since Eliza, Lawrence, and Alexander had been interred in the mausoleum in 1782. It had never occurred to us to wonder why, even though Gallen Hall had been inhabited for more than two centuries afterward and people had presumably died during that period. The moratorium on burials had been part of Carrollton Vanderhorst’s great master clue, and we’d overlooked it completely.

  Not wanting to get the paper wet, I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the map with the dots marked, then of the pattern of each section of fence I needed to find. Having the images on my phone meant I could make them bigger, making it easier to see the intricate designs.

  I sent a text to Jayne to let her know I’d arrived, that there was no sign of Marc or Anthony, and that I was about to head into the cemetery. I made no mention of the fat blobs of snow now splattering quietly onto my windshield. I hit SEND, then slid the phone into my coat pocket. I’d deal with that later. Somehow. I popped the trunk, pulled Jayne’s hat lower over my ears, then exited the car.

  The smell of gunpowder permeated the air, the jangling of a horse harness ringing out in the quiet of falling snow. I quickly retrieved the camping light from the trunk, knowing with certainty that I wasn’t alone. I held it aloft, turning around in a circle, seeing no one, dead or alive, but registering the scent of horses and leather now mingling with that of gunpowder.

  “Eliza?” I called out, more because I needed to hear the sound of a human voice than because I expected to hear her answer. But she was there. I felt her presence, warm and comforting, as if she knew that I wanted to expose the truth about her death. And maybe even to let the world know that she’d been a patriot and had stayed true to her cause despite her heart calling her in another direction.

  Using the camping light to see the way, I walked through the unlocked front gate, pulling out my phone to access the map and guide me to where the first spot was indicated. A dark shadow emerged from behind an ancient obelisk at the r
ear of the cemetery. I jerked the light up, trying to find out who—or what—it was. The blood rushed through my ears, my breath frosty puffs blowing out in quick succession. I stayed perfectly still for a long moment, my gaze trained on the spot, but nothing moved.

  The sound of iron clanging made me jump. I swung the light toward the mausoleum, realizing it must have been the door swinging shut, briefly wondering why it had been open. The sound of whispering voices came from behind and in front of me, the snow seeming to blur the words, making it impossible to tell what was being said.

  My feet crunched over the frozen grass and a thin layer of snow. I was careful to avoid the sunken spots where Sophie had warned me the oldest wooden caskets, some piled in as many as three or four layers, had disintegrated under the ground, making the earth above the concave spots treacherous to walk on. I shivered at the thought of slipping beneath the surface and being buried alive, out here alone where no one could hear me scream. At least no one who could help me.

  I shone the light at the fence, studying the pattern on each panel and comparing it with the picture on the phone. The snow was falling faster now, and I had to continually wipe it off my screen. I had reached the halfway point in the fence when I matched the pattern to the edge of the brick puzzle, telling me that it was time to turn right and head into the middle of the cemetery.

  The whispers, louder now, had the cadence of a taunt, or a threat. I stopped to listen, recognizing one word among the others, nearly smothered by the falling snow. Traitors. I swallowed down the fear and uncertainty. I wasn’t by nature a brave person, but at that moment I had no other choice.

  I walked around a slight indentation in the ground, then nearly ran into a headstone. I glanced down at my map to make sure I was at the right spot, then shone my light on the slate face of the headstone. The words were worn by the elements but still legible. Leaning closer, I read the name: HERA. I put the light closer, trying to find a last name or dates, but there was nothing. I squatted to see the bottom, scraping snow off to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. I sat back, staring at a carving that would be easily missed by the casual observer.

  It was of a peacock feather, long and slender, the eye clearly marked at its end. If I hadn’t been so cold and afraid, I might have appreciated the cleverness of it all. I remembered Anthony mentioning that Eliza buried her favorite peacocks in the cemetery, and seeing about a dozen stones with only first names on them on my previous visit. Until the Civil War, when the last one had been eaten, the family had apparently continued to bury the birds here, either intentionally or inadvertently helping to hide the four gravesites I was sure were indicated on the map.

  Encouraged by my success, I dug the heel of my boot into the ground in front of the stone, stirring up dead grass and dirt so I could find it again without using the map, assuming the snow stopped soon. Looking at my map again, my frozen fingers nearly dropping my phone twice as I remembered to text Jayne that I was okay, I found the other three graves, all with female Greek mythological names. I marked them with the heel of my boot as I’d done the first one, inordinately proud of myself.

  I wanted to sink down onto the ground and cry with relief. But I knew I couldn’t or I’d risk hypothermia. I needed to keep going. Jack needed me to keep going, no matter how many times in my head I could hear him telling me not to think I could solve all of our problems by myself. But I was here, and I had figured out where Lafayette’s treasure was buried. I needed to take care of this now, or risk our losing to Marc Longo one more time.

  First, I needed to sit in the car with the heater blasting to defrost myself. I knew I probably had a candy bar somewhere in my purse to give me a burst of energy I would definitely need. Then I’d grab the pick from the trunk and figure out what I was supposed to do with it.

  I was so focused on getting to the car that it took me a moment to become aware of movement from the direction of the mausoleum. A violent shiver went through me that had nothing to do with the snow pelting my face and freezing my toes as I recalled my arm being pulled through the gate by an unseen hand.

  A bright spotlight flipped on, blinding me, but not before I’d had the chance to register who the two figures were standing behind it.

  “Thank you, Melanie. Such a help, as always.” Marc Longo moved forward to stand in front of me. “You must be freezing.”

  I clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering, and looked behind his shoulder to see Anthony. He wasn’t cowering, exactly, but he seemed to want to hide behind his brother.

  “I hope you’re ashamed of yourself,” I shouted at him, although the effect was muted by my stiff jaw.

  “For helping his brother?” Marc offered. “He did the right thing. As you did, helping us find the treasure. For a brief moment, I thought Anthony and I should take the time to figure it out ourselves, and then I realized we didn’t need to bother. You’re such a worker bee, Melanie—we knew you’d be on it. We parked our cars out back and waited in the warm house for you to do all the work.” He feigned a concerned expression. “We left hot chocolate on the stove for you, if you’d like it. And there’s a fire going in the kitchen with a chair in front of it waiting for you.”

  I frowned. “What? And leave the treasure out here for you to find?”

  Marc threw back his head and laughed. He held a can out toward me. “I’ve brought spray paint to mark the four headstones, so when it warms up in a few days and the ground has thawed a bit, we can go in at our leisure and dig up Lafayette’s treasure. Except this time we’ll remember to lock the gate against intruders and have someone standing guard.”

  It occurred to me then that he didn’t know what the treasure was. And that it didn’t matter to him. All he cared about was winning and crushing Jack and getting what he wanted. If he came into possession of a fortune, too, even better.

  “But I found it.” I sounded like a child on a playground, but I couldn’t think of a better way to say it.

  “Yes, you did. But you found it on Anthony’s property. According to South Carolina law, it legally belongs to him. Sure, you could probably take us to court, but the process would be long and expensive and you and I both know that you can’t afford it. Who knows what the stress might do to Jack? And because you’re family, I’m not going to charge you with trespassing. This time.”

  An icy wind blew through the cemetery, slapping me in the face and forming small tornadoes of snow around us. I saw Anthony glance at them uneasily, and it occurred to me that the funnels might not be part of the natural world. The distinct clang of a horse harness made Marc spin around, taking the light with him. I blinked in the darkness, aware of the sparkle of a gold brooch against a dark form. And behind that was the man from the cistern photo—Lawrence, with the dark hollows for eyes, his white stockings bright against the night. And right before Marc’s light blinded me again, I saw the bloody hole in his white shirt.

  I was shaking with anger and cold and fear. I had lost everything, and I had no one to blame but myself. I had once loved my aloneness, my independence, which meant I didn’t have to rely on anyone but myself. Even with the expansion of my family in the last years, I’d still seen myself as a separate entity—out of either habit or stubbornness, I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter anymore. Whatever the reason, it had been my undoing.

  “But I found it,” I repeated, incapable of expressing every emotion that was running through me. I cringed at how toddlerlike I sounded and was oddly relieved that it was so cold that my watery eyes disguised the fact that angry tears were streaming down my face.

  “Like I said,” Marc responded calmly, “it doesn’t matter. Gallen Hall Plantation belongs to Anthony, and anything found on his property belongs to him.”

  “Not exactly,” a voice called from the front gate.

  “Jack?” I said, relief battling with horror in my voice.

  Marc jerked around, shining his light in J
ack’s direction, illuminating three figures walking toward us.

  “Jayne?” Anthony stepped forward, then stopped, as if realizing that she might not be happy to see him.

  I squinted through the dark and the falling snow, recognizing the tall form of Detective Thomas Riley, my knees almost weak with relief that I was no longer alone.

  Marc barked out a laugh. “Wrong again, Jack. Gallen Hall belongs to Anthony. Therefore, whatever is found here belongs to him.” He nodded in Thomas’s direction. “I’m glad you brought the police with you to help enforce the law. Although I’m hoping reasonable heads will prevail so we won’t have to reduce ourselves to using force.”

  Jack now stood in the circle of light but didn’t come stand next to me. He didn’t look at me, either, and I told myself it was so he could stare Marc down. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You’re right. Gallen Hall does belong to Anthony. But the cemetery doesn’t. When Gallen Hall was sold all those years ago, the cemetery wasn’t part of the deal. It was still owned by Vanderhorst descendants, until Nevin Vanderhorst willed it to Melanie. Which means that what is found in this cemetery belongs to her.”

  We all stared at Jack in stunned silence, until Marc struggled to find his voice. “You’re lying.”

  “He’s not,” Jayne said. “After Melanie left tonight, I realized too late that Anthony might lay claim to the treasure and I wanted to know the legal implications.” She shot a quick glance of apology in my direction. “So I told Jack everything, and he called Yvonne from the archives. She has access to several databases on her home computer and was able to look up the property deed to trace ownership. The cemetery wasn’t included in any sale, remaining the property of the Vanderhorst family until Melanie inherited Nevin Vanderhorst’s estate. She e-mailed me a copy, if you’d like to see it.”