The Guests on South Battery

by Karen White

  “You must be Dr. Wallen-Arasi. I’m Jayne Smith, and I appreciate you coming out today.”

  Sophie pumped her hand up and down. “Please call me Sophie. Everybody does.”

  “For the record,” Jayne said, “I like your shoes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen patent leather on a Birkenstock before.”

  “Remind me later and I’ll write down the name of the store.”

  I was relieved to see panic flash in Jayne’s eyes. “Don’t worry,” I said. “She’s been threatening to tell me where she shops for years, but I’ve yet to be persuaded to join the dark side.”

  I missed Jayne’s reaction because I was watching Sophie, a small pucker between her eyebrows as she studied Jayne. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure we haven’t. But I get that a lot. I must have one of those faces.”

  “Yeah, probably.” Sophie smiled, then turned back to her car and pulled a folded square of cloth out of the passenger seat. “I brought a housewarming gift.” She unfolded it and held it up. “It’s an anti–cruise ship flag. Every homeowner in Charleston should display one in protest.”

  I sighed. “Jayne just got here. Let her assimilate first before she’s forced to take a position on such a hot topic, all right?” I took the flag and refolded it, then placed it back in Sophie’s car.

  Sophie frowned at me, then refocused her attention on the house, sighing as if she’d just witnessed a miracle. “So, this is your inheritance.”

  “Technically,” Jayne said. “I just happen to own it now—but only temporarily.”

  “I’m sure you’ll change your mind when you see what an architectural masterpiece this really is. It’s been owned by only two families since it was built, and I’ve never had the pleasure of going inside before, so this is a real treat.” Sophie stepped back to see the facade better. “To the untrained eye, it’s just a typical double house of cypress and heart pine above a stout brick basement. But when you study it a little more closely, you’ll see that its Georgian simplicity is lightened by dentils under the corona of the eave cornices, the pattern repeated in the bull’s-eyed pediment and pillared portico. It’s really quite lovely.”

  I wondered if Jayne’s glazed-eye expression matched my own.

  “How old is it?” Jayne asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure, but definitely pre–Revolutionary War.” Sophie headed toward the split staircase under the portico that led from the sidewalk to the front door. “One of my students several years ago included this house in her dissertation. It has a very interesting bell system based on differently toned chimes for each room. Part of the interview process for servants was to make sure they weren’t tone-deaf so they’d know where they were needed. I think the bells are still in the house, although I doubt they’re still working. But what a piece of history!”

  Jayne and I shared a glance behind Sophie’s back.

  A very fat ebony cat emerged from between the iron slats of the gate, struggling just a little to get its rear end all the way through. It plopped down on the sidewalk and stared up at us with one dark green eye, the other socket covered with a slit of pink, furless skin. It yawned with disinterest and then waddled its way toward the other side of the stairs until it disappeared.

  “I hope the house doesn’t come with a cat. I’m allergic,” Jayne explained.

  “Why would you say that?” Sophie asked from the top of the stairs.

  “Didn’t you see that enormous black cat come from the garden?” I asked. “It was so large I have to assume it’s loved by somebody.”

  Sophie shrugged. “Either that or there are plenty of rodents to keep it busy.”

  I sent her a warning glance, but she was already studying the moldings at the top of the two portico columns.

  I began climbing, only realizing that Jayne wasn’t behind me after I’d unlocked the lockbox and then the front door, pushing it open to the familiar smell of dust, mothballs, and old polish. And something else, too. Something I couldn’t identify that smelled vaguely medicinal and reminded me of my grandmother.

  I looked inside at the high-ceilinged foyer, peering past the dull pine floors into the front parlor. Heavy cornices with wedding-cake ornamentation capped the tall ceilings, the missing chunks resembling the teeth on a jack-o’-lantern. Like silent ghosts, sheet-covered furniture sat around the room suspended in time.

  Stepping back onto the portico, I said, “Coast is clear, Jayne. No cats that I can see.”

  She didn’t look convinced and her arms had returned to their crossed position over her chest.

  “Oh, my goodness. It’s a period mantel—with original Sadler and Green tin-glazed earthenware tiles!” Sophie called from inside the house.

  I smiled down at my client. “This is as good a time as any to see the interior, Jayne. Sophie’s enthusiasm can be contagious when it’s not being annoying.”

  I was rewarded with a half grin. Reassured that she’d follow, I walked back into the foyer, my heels echoing in the empty house. A sound like fluttering wings came from the room opposite the parlor. I turned my head in time to see a flash of white passing through the thick plaster wall, accompanied by the soft patter of small bare feet.

  An icy cold chill began to wrap its way around me as I listened to the sound of approaching feet, heavier than the first set, and definitely wearing shoes. My ears tingled even before I felt the hands gripping my shoulders and shoving me toward the door. I tilted my head to escape from what I knew was coming next—a cold, hollow voice whispering into my ear. The words were soft and feminine, but not enough to make them any less frightening. Frigid air scraped across the side of my head, punctuating each word as if to convince me that the voice wasn’t in my imagination. Go. Away.

  I began singing ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” as loudly as I could, my proven remedy to drown out voices I didn’t want to hear. It was something I’d learned as a child to escape the disembodied voices and still proved useful—but only when I’d prepared myself. And I hadn’t. My mother had been in this house multiple times to visit her friend Button Pinckney before she died, and I’d thought she would have mentioned a few extraneous souls.

  Sophie came from the drawing room, staring at me with wide eyes as I began to back out of the front door. My progress was suddenly halted when I bumped into Jayne.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  The temperature in the room had returned to normal, yet I had the sensation I’d had the day in my office when I met Jayne. That whatever it was was still there, but someone—or something—was blocking me from seeing it.

  “Yes,” I said, forcing a smile. “Everything is fine. I sometimes like to check out the acoustics in these old houses for fun.” I faced Sophie. “Did somebody leave a window open or crank the AC?”

  I noticed Sophie’s expression. “You must be coming down with something. I don’t think the house has central air, and the only unit I saw from outside was in an upstairs window.”

  I faked a cough. “Could be.”

  “Does it get as hot here as it does in Birmingham?” Jayne asked, her words stiffened by her clenched jaw. “I mean, would central air be required for resale?”

  Both Sophie and I stared at her for a moment, trying to see if she might be joking. Finally, I said, “It will really depend—you can either have the work done or reduce the price accordingly. Either way, summer in Charleston is like living in a toaster stuck on high. Air-conditioning is generally not considered optional.”

  I left the front door open, telling myself it was with hopes of crisp, fresh air instead of giving me the option of a quick exit.

  Jayne still had her arms crossed, but she was looking at me with an amused expression. “ABBA, huh?”

  “You like them?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t say that. They were a little before my
time. I saw the movie Mamma Mia, though, so I’m familiar with their music.”

  Sophie began walking toward the staircase. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Melanie’s a little obsessed. She denies it, but I’m pretty sure she has a white leather fringe jumpsuit in her closet.”

  I joined Sophie at the staircase, but Jayne remained where she was, her gaze focused at the landing where the stairs took a turn and disappeared from sight. I followed her gaze, then stopped. The fat cat with the missing eye sat on the landing staring disinterestedly down at us. “How’d that get in here?” Jayne asked.

  “Must have sneaked in while we were talking. I’ll send someone from the office who likes cats to come get it to see if it has a tag.”

  “And if it belonged to Button Pinckney?”

  “I guess it will go to a shelter.”

  “What cat?” Sophie asked.

  “That one,” I said, pointing to the empty spot where the cat had been. “Well, he or she was here a moment ago. It’s rather chubby, and is missing an eye. I don’t know how easy it will be to find it a home, so let’s hope it doesn’t belong to the house.”

  I waited at the doorway to the parlor, hoping Jayne would take the hint, but she remained where she stood, her feet planted like a recalcitrant toddler. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I reassured her. “I promise the cat will be taken care of.”

  She looked at me for a moment before stiffly nodding. Slowly, she moved inside, her gaze never leaving the top of the stairs. The skin on the back of my neck assured me that we weren’t alone in the house, yet the feeling of being barred from seeing anything extrasensory remained.

  The stench of decay and a sense of foreboding permeated the space, brightened only by the extraordinary light flooding in from the front windows. It would be even brighter once they were cleaned, but even now I could see how beautiful this house had once been. “The lawyer told me that Miss Pinckney never left her room on the second floor for the last few years of her life. She had a housekeeper and nurse who took care of her. That might explain the neglect of the rest of the house.”

  “It’s old,” Jayne said. “And it smells old. And . . .” She shivered, clenching her hands even tighter over her arms. “And I definitely don’t want to live here.”

  She moved toward the door but was called back by Sophie’s voice.

  “Oh, my gosh—I think it’s a William Parker glass chandelier. There’s only one other one I know of in Charleston and it’s at the Miles Brewton House. It’s worth a fortune.”

  We moved into the drawing room to glance up at the cloudy chandelier that hung crookedly from exposed wires, the plaster medallion that had once encircled the hole now crumbling beneath our feet.

  “I don’t think I’d pick that up if I drove past it at the curb with the rest of the garbage,” Jayne muttered.

  “And this wallpaper,” Sophie continued. “It’s hand-painted silk. You see the vertical lines that show where each strip is? That illustrates that the owners were wealthy enough to buy multiple strips instead of just one long one. They wanted the lines to show to display their wealth and status.”

  I looked closely but saw only faded wallpaper sagging from the weight of years, weeping at the corners from age and moisture. Where Sophie saw beauty, all I could see was decay. Signs of neglect were everywhere—from the scuffed and unpolished floors, to the mold spots in the wallpaper and the crumbling moldings that were now rapidly turning to dust. I was fairly certain that Jayne felt the same way.

  I practically had to drag Jayne with me as we followed Sophie from room to room, listening to Sophie list all the unique, valuable, and historical elements of a house that neither of us could really see or appreciate.

  I considered my house on Tradd Street separate from my thoughts on this house and most of the old houses in Charleston, if only because it was now my home and where I was raising my young family. My babies had been born there, and would learn to walk and say their first words there. The wooden floors would be scarred by the wear and tear of small shoes, scooters, and wooden blocks, marking the passage of another generation growing up at 55 Tradd Street. And I had visions of Nola getting married in the outside garden, and Sarah walking down the staircase in a prom dress waiting to greet her date. That particular vision also included Jack holding a rifle and looking menacing, but I shook it off quickly.

  The Pinckney house was just brick, wood, and mortar, the longtime residence of a family I’d barely known and had no connection to. I found myself torn on how to advise my client, knowing the mental, physical, and bank-account-draining aspects of restoring a historic home.

  I couldn’t look at Sophie, who was studying her surroundings as if she’d just found the Holy Grail, King Tut’s Tomb, and the Garden of Eden all rolled into one. Telling Jayne to sell it as is would break Sophie’s heart. And leave me vulnerable to her unique form of vengeance. The last time I’d advised a client to sell a house outside the protected historic district in dire need of repair and guaranteed to be demolished, Sophie retaliated by distributing flyers with a Photoshopped picture of me in a turban and one of my cell numbers printed on it, advertising free psychic readings. I’d had to change my number.

  “Did you hear that?” Jayne asked when we finally made it to the second floor.

  It had been a tinny, hollow sound. I would have thought I’d imagined it if Jayne hadn’t said anything. “Yes,” I said. “I think it’s coming from the room at the end of the hallway.”

  “What noise?” Sophie asked from halfway up the stairs. She was busy studying the cypress wainscoting that had been stained to look like mahogany and ran up the wall on the side of the staircase. There were nicks and chips in the wood, little placeholders in time left by people long gone. Or so we’d like to think.

  “It sounded mechanical,” Jayne said. “Like one of those old wind-up toys.”

  I was already walking toward the end of the hall, feeling the odd sensation of being pursued from behind, and a separate, more gentle presence in front guiding me down the dark hall. I still couldn’t see, but I could feel both of them, sense them the way a plant follows the light. Whatever it was behind that door at the end of the hall, I needed to get there before Jayne.

  I reached toward the round brass knob, but it was already turning, the door pushed open without any assistance from me. Jayne caught up to me in the doorway, apparently unaware that the door had opened on its own. We stared inside, taking in the large mahogany dresser covered in perfume bottles and tarnished silver frames filled with old photographs. A small end table was covered with an assortment of pill bottles and an empty water glass sitting on a lace doily. An enormous rice-poster bed held court next to it, the silk bedspread and pillows neatly placed on top. I thought of the housekeeper who’d taken care of the deceased owner, thinking she’d made the bed as her last duty to the old woman.

  A cold breeze greeted us and I watched as Jayne shivered, wondering if she’d noticed the temperature drop in the already chilly room. I wanted to stamp my foot in frustration at my inability to see whoever it was. It wasn’t that I wanted to see them. But if I knew they were there, I’d rather see them than just feel them. It made it harder for them to sneak up on me and surprise me when I least expected it.

  “This must have been Miss Pinckney’s room,” Jayne whispered, as if the old woman were still there, sleeping in the giant bed.

  “You’re probably right,” Sophie said from behind us. “It’s the only room where the furniture isn’t covered. And there’s an air conditioner in one of the windows.” She crossed the room to a rocking chair in the corner near the window unit, an elegant piece of furniture with slender spindles and delicate rockers on the bottom. A small chest sat beside it, a stack of books teetering on its wooden surface. Sophie picked up the book from the top of the pile. “Apparently, either she or her nurse really liked Harlen Coben and Stephen King.”

>   “Too scary for me,” I said, not overlooking the irony. I began walking around the room and pulling open the heavy curtains to let in light, feeling oddly compelled to do so. Almost as if somebody were telling me to do it. Yet each time I grabbed a drapery panel to open it, I felt an opposing force trying to stop me. Jayne watched me with a furrowed brow as I wrestled with each window covering. “They seem to be stuck on something,” I explained, yanking one across the rod. “Don’t feel obligated to keep these.”

  Sophie frowned at me. “I disagree. Those are Scalamandre, if I’m not mistaken. An exquisite reproduction of the originals, I would bet. Made to last, unlike so many things these days.”

  “Was this Miss Pinckney?” Jayne asked. She stood by the dressing table, a large oval frame in her hands.

  Peering over her shoulder, I saw a photograph of a beautiful young woman with a bouffant hairdo and thick black eyeliner, placing her in the late sixties or early seventies. She wore a white gown and gloves, and stood next to a young man only slighter older than she was. He resembled a young Robert Wagner—one of my mother’s old flames—and looked even more dashing in his white tie and tails.

  “Yes, that’s her. And I’m thinking this was taken at her debut. She, my mother, and my mother-in-law, Amelia, made their debuts at the same time. She said that Button’s brother escorted her, since their father had died when they were little.”

  “I’m pretty sure I never met her.” Jayne paused for a moment before carefully replacing it and picking up another, this one of three girls in Ashley Hall uniforms. Jayne pointed to the tall, thin girl in the middle, her bright blond hair held back by a headband, the edges of her shoulder-length hair flipped up. “I think this is her, too.”

  I took the frame from her, noticing how faded the photograph was, the years leaching color from the paper and the images. I smiled. “And that’s my mother and mother-in-law on each side.”

  “They look so happy,” Jayne said, replacing the frame.