The Guests on South Battery

by Karen White

  “Glad to hear it,” she said. “One would think that by this time I’d have been mentioned in the dedication of one of your books.” She stared pointedly at Jack.

  I stared at my husband. “I can’t believe that you’ve never done that despite all the help Yvonne has given us. Really, Jack.”

  “Actually,” he said, and I noticed a tic in his jaw, “I was planning on dedicating the book I was working on when I met Mellie to Yvonne. And then the book wasn’t published.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Jack. Despite being a dyed-in-the-wool Episcopalian, I do believe in karma. Mark my words, Marc Longo will get what’s coming to him eventually. Hopefully we’ll all be lucky enough to witness it in full living color.” She grinned, her perfect dentures gleaming.

  She turned to the books spread out in front of us. “So, let’s take a look at what I found. I was not fortunate enough to find the original blueprints for the Pinckney house on South Battery. However, I think I found something even better.” She spun an old leather-bound volume around to face us. “The blueprints for the house that stood there before it was built.”

  Yvonne folded her arms primly in front of her as we examined the old sketch of a modest dwelling that had once occupied the lot where Jayne Smith’s house now stood on South Battery. “As you can see, the property was once fronted with swamp that led out to the Ashley River. Starting in 1909, city leaders had the swamp filled in and the level of the land raised and created Murray Boulevard.”

  I kept silent, wondering what any of this had to do with anything.

  “Let me guess,” Jack said. “The man who built it was a sea captain.”

  Yvonne gave him an appreciative look. “You’ve been cheating on me and doing your own research.”

  “Guilty as charged. I thought I’d do some poking around just in case I might find something that could lead to my next book, and I came across the deed to the original plot of land, owned by Captain Stephen Andrews.”

  Yvonne looked at him expectantly.

  “Gentleman Pirate,” he added.

  “Although it was never proven; nor was he hanged at what is now White Point Gardens with Blackbeard and Stede Bonnett, as he easily could have been. Despite guards watching his house, he managed to escape to Barbados, where he lived out his long life. And had many children with younger and younger wives, into his nineties.” She set her mouth in grim disapproval.

  I was getting impatient listening to the boring history of someone who’d died a long time ago and didn’t even own the house I thought we were investigating. “And the point of all this would be . . .”

  Both Yvonne and Jack sent me a blank look, similar to the ones Sophie gave me when I was suggesting a cheaper, more sensible alternative involving replacing anything old in my house.

  “Well,” Yvonne said patiently, “with Charleston Harbor leading right out to the Atlantic, having a house this near the water made illegal activities such as pirating and smuggling—and perhaps escaping to another country—a lot less complicated than if your house were farther inland.”

  I sat up. “Like a tunnel or something?”

  “Exactly,” Jack said. “And even when a house is leveled for whatever reason, and a new one is built over it, any tunnels and staircases leading to them might not have been destroyed.”

  “But what does that mean?” I persisted.

  “Nothing yet,” Jack said. “It’s just a piece in a puzzle. It may mean absolutely nothing, but we won’t know until we put all the pieces on the table.”

  He had the old spark in his eyes and it made me happy to see it, and grateful that he was the writer in the family and I was just the Realtor who saw dead people. Because I found it very difficult to get excited about houses that no longer existed, and even those that still did. Unless I was selling them.

  Yvonne slid a manila folder toward us and opened it to reveal several photocopied papers. She picked up the top sheet and put it in front of us. “I did find this write-up from 1930 when the house was renovated by none other than Susan Pringle Frost, the mother of the preservation movement here in Charleston. It was featured in Architecture magazine and includes a floor plan you might find helpful.”

  Jack tapped his fingers on the tabletop while he studied the drawing. I pretended to look at it, too, but without my reading glasses—securely tucked into my nightstand—all I could see were fuzzy black lines.

  “And this here?” he asked, pointing to a square drawing of more fuzzy black lines.

  “That’s the first floor, otherwise known as a basement and only used for storage of nonperishable items, since it was prone to flooding,” Yvonne pointed out.

  “Or for temporary storage of pirated items until they could be distributed elsewhere,” Jack added. “And if there was access to these storage areas during Prohibition, I’m sure they could have been used for contraband alcohol.”

  “Without a doubt,” Yvonne said with her genteel smile as if we were talking about our favorite type of tea. “But from the documentation here, all access points from the house were sealed during the restoration, and the area filled in to reinforce the home’s foundation.”

  Jack sat back, a look of disappointment on his face. “Well, there goes one story idea. I was hoping to go treasure-hunting—with Jayne’s permission, of course—in the bowels of the house. But it appears they don’t exist anymore.”

  Yvonne slid the folder closer to him. “When one door closes, another one opens. Take this home—you never know what else you might find.”

  Glad to have the mind-numbing talk about the house over with, I turned to Yvonne. “I know we can dig up more information on the Pinckneys in the archives, but I was wondering what you knew about them, being family. My mother was a school friend of Button’s, but they lost touch after she left Charleston in the early eighties and she just knows vague details. We’re really trying to figure out why Jayne Smith, who never met Button, has inherited her entire estate. There has to be a reason other than Miss Pinckney was a philanthropist who liked helping animals and orphans.”

  Yvonne’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses. “Because, as our Jack has told us time and again, there is no such thing as coincidence.”

  I smiled in agreement, but I wasn’t sure if I liked her use of the word “our.” Last time I’d checked, our marriage certificate listed only his name and mine. I gave myself a mental shake and wondered when I’d stop being so insecure about Jack. He’d picked me, hadn’t he? Not that he’d really had a choice, seeing as I’d been expecting his babies. But he loved me. He told me that a dozen times a day. And not only was Yvonne old enough to be his grandmother, but I really liked her and I shouldn’t be having thoughts about asking for a meeting in the ladies’ room for a private chat about my man. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes, realizing those were the lyrics to a song I was too old to know about, much less remember.

  “You okay, Mellie?” Jack rubbed his hand on my back as every nerve ending in my body responded with a snap to attention.

  “Yes, just tired.” I gave Yvonne my biggest smile to show her I was truly sorry for my thoughts, making her regard me warily. “I was just hoping you could give us a little insider information about them. Maybe point Jack in a research direction we hadn’t considered.”

  “I can certainly try,” she said. “Although when Rosalind died, I’m afraid I lost touch with her children. I just knew that Sumter had moved to New York, leaving his ex-wife in the house with poor Button.”

  “Why poor Button?” I asked.

  Yvonne was thoughtful. “I suppose because as the only girl, she was the one always left behind to be the caretaker. Rosalind, sadly, had an extended period of bad health and Button stayed at home to take care of her despite having aspirations of going to college. She wanted to be a veterinarian—she was always taking in strays, then enjoyed nursing them back to health. When Rosa
lind finally died, it was too late for Button to go back to school or meet a husband. All the men in her group were already married with families. And besides, she had Anna and Hasell to take care of. Sumter was traveling so much at the time for his work that it was really up to Button to make sure Anna and Hasell had what they needed.”

  “Anna?” Jack asked.

  “Sumter’s ex-wife. Poor thing. She doted on sweet Hasell, took such good care of her through her many illnesses. None of the doctors and specialists she saw was ever able to tell her what was making her little girl so sick, but Anna kept up a brave face and told anybody who would listen that whatever it was, she’d find a cure and make her better.” Yvonne was silent for a moment, gathering her composure. “Sadly, that never happened. Sweet Hasell died when she was only eleven years old. She was such a lovely child, too. Funny, smart. And so kind. She loved all the homeless animals Button brought into the house. She even worried that her mother was wearing herself out taking care of her.” Her eyes clouded for a moment. “That child wasn’t even cold before Sumter divorced Anna and moved to New York. It’s no wonder Anna couldn’t cope with life on her own. So Button took care of her until Anna died in 1993.”

  Jack’s eyes were dark with thought. “I’m assuming Anna must have been around my mother’s age, but she was only about thirty-one when she died. Do you remember what happened?”

  She looked stricken for a moment, and I had to remember that not only was she a true Charlestonian, which meant she’d been born with a natural reserve, but she was also from a time before the Kardashians and social media, which made nothing private. She delicately cleared her throat. “I’m not really sure. The immediate family closed ranks and there was never any discussion in public. The obituary only read that she’d died at home.”

  A small shiver swept its way down my spine, like a cold finger slowly tracing its way down each notch of bone. “At home? As in the house on South Battery?”

  Yvonne nodded, and I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the presence of more than one spirit, one tugging on me to stay and the other telling me to go away. And then . . . nothing. Just the knowledge that someone, some thing was there that I wasn’t being allowed to see.

  Jack sat up, his elbows on the table. “Did you go to the funeral?”

  “No. I didn’t even know when it was. It was over before I even knew that she’d died.”

  She paused, as if considering whether to tell us more.

  Jack leaned forward and took her hands in his. “I’m sorry if we’ve brought up a sad memory.”

  Yvonne smiled appreciatively up at Jack. “That’s very sweet of you, Jack. But really, what I think you’ve done is made me aware that something was amiss. That something went unmentioned because it wasn’t seemly.”

  Jack held on to her hand without saying anything, and it seemed to be the encouragement she needed.

  “There was one thing. . . .”

  Their eyes met, and I found myself holding my breath.

  “Anna wasn’t buried at Magnolia Cemetery next to her husband and daughter. They buried her in her family’s cemetery in Aiken. As Button was the only remaining close family relative, that would have been her decision.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Jack said.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Yvonne leaned closer. “And I trust you to use this information with the strictest discretion.”

  “You know I never kiss and tell, Yvonne.”

  She flushed as she slid her hands from his. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” He quickly stood and moved around the table to pull out her chair, leaving me to my own devices.

  I picked up the folder. “Thank you, Yvonne, for your help. I’m not sure if any of this means anything that can help Jayne, but at the very least maybe it will get Jack started on his next book.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek, smelling baby powder and Aqua Net and being reminded of my grandmother.

  “You are very welcome, Melanie. You know I enjoy these puzzles Jack likes to throw my way. Keeps me young. Well, that and Zumba.”

  My eyes widened in surprise but I didn’t comment. We said our good-byes, then left, Jack’s hand protectively on the small of my back as we walked down the front steps, both of us deep in thought.

  When we got down to the sidewalk, I looked up at Jack, his brow furrowed. “What’s bothering you?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s either the reason Button decided that Anna Pinckney wasn’t to be buried with her husband and child or the visual of Yvonne Craig doing Zumba.” He smiled, and I could have sworn my heart skipped a beat. “I think I need to find out more. I’m going to head to the Charleston Museum now to visit the archives and see what I can dig up.”

  “Don’t you need an appointment?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not always.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Just promise that you’ll let me know anything you find before you tell Jayne. She told me that sometimes the answers you find can be something you wish you never knew. Like she’s been down this road before and was disappointed. Like she’s tried to find her parents time and again and can’t stand to hit another dead end.”

  “And you don’t want her to be disappointed because then you might lose a nanny?”

  I shook my head. “No. I think it’s because I like Jayne, and I think she’s had a difficult life so far.” And because she reminds me a little bit of me. “I don’t want to be the cause of any more bumps for her.”

  “Deal,” he said, bending down to kiss me lightly on the lips. He handed me the car keys. “I can walk. I’ll see you at home.” Something about the way he said that sent goose bumps all over my body.

  “See you there,” I said, turning toward the minivan, Yvonne’s words twirling in my head. “She died at home.” I needed to go back to Jayne’s house, but not alone. If there was a presence in the house that wanted me to go away, there was only one person I knew who could help me overpower it. Or at least help me determine who or what it was, since my abilities seemed to have deserted me, and it was really starting to make me mad. I hit the speed dial on my phone and waited for my mother to pick up, remembering again Yvonne’s words, and wondering why Anna had been buried far away from her husband and only child.

  CHAPTER 12

  The warmer weather had returned, waking up all the dormant gardens Charlestonians took such pride in. Although it was only the beginning of February, flowers were sprouting from window boxes and planters—both easily removed to the indoors for the unexpected frost that was bound to descend before the official start of spring. It was how those native to the city could distinguish who was “from off.” The newly arrived residents started planting their annuals at the first waft of warm air, then were spotted weeping from their piazzas at the sight of browned and withered plants when the mercury plummeted below thirty the following week.

  I walked the few short blocks to my mother’s house on Legare Street, wearing the sneakers and yoga clothes she’d purchased for me. She’d said they were a gift to herself, as she’d decided to begin a walking regimen to stay fit and healthy. She had the stamina and figure of a twenty-year-old, so I had no idea why this obsession had suddenly taken hold of her, but she didn’t want to walk alone and I was the most likely candidate for a partner. My father preferred gardening to walking, although I think he might have found power-walking to be too much of a threat to his masculinity—as if gardening weren’t mostly a female-dominated hobby. But he seemed to enjoy his status as one of the few males in his gardening club.

  That was why I had aqua blue sneakers on my feet (the ones I’d worn during pregnancy were too stretched out to be worn by anyone except perhaps a baby elephant) and was wearing yoga pants in public—something I had actually seen Sophie doing more than once. I wondered whether the end of the world might be near, seeing as how Sophie and I were now wearing similar outfits.

  I paused ou
tside the gates of the house I’d lived in for the first six years of my life with my grandmother. I always felt her presence, but it was stronger here. I wondered sometimes if it was the memories of her I felt, or if she still hung out here to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. She still called me on the phone from time to time, so it was probably the latter, but being in this house always made me happy.

  My father had a flower box sitting on a wrought-iron garden table and was humming to himself as he placed lemon yellow petunias and gold gerbera daisies in the moist dirt. “Good morning, sweet pea,” he said as I kissed his cheek. “I know winter isn’t over, but I couldn’t resist planting something while the weather’s so nice.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, admiring the colors and placement. He had a real gift for gardening, which I was just beginning to appreciate. I knew what roses looked and smelled like, so that was a start.

  “Here for your walk with your mother?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I thought she’d be outside waiting.”

  He pursed his lips. “She had an early appointment, but she should be wrapping things up by now.”

  “An appointment?”

  He gave me a terse nod so that I’d know exactly what kind of “appointment” she had. Unlike me, my mother had no problem advertising her psychic abilities. My father preferred not to acknowledge it one way or the other. I guessed that was one thing I’d inherited from him.

  I sighed. “Where are they?”

  “In the downstairs drawing room.” He saw my dubious expression and then said, “Don’t worry—you won’t be interrupting anything important. Besides, she’s been here awhile already.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, wondering if I should be insulted he didn’t take our abilities seriously. It had been an ongoing battle between him and my mother, and had been partially responsible for their divorce when I was a little girl. Despite being exposed to several apparitions and paranormal events, he was the Doubting Thomas of the psychic world. He was very good at seeing and understanding only what he wanted to, a confirmation that I was, indeed, his daughter.