by Karen White
“Hello, Melanie? This is Yvonne Craig at the historical society library, returning your call.”
I sat up straight, remembering the octogenarian’s perfect posture. “Hello, Yvonne. Thanks for calling me back.” I found myself holding my breath, wondering if I’d finally have something to work on instead of just another question.
“Well, I would have gotten back to you sooner, except that Rebecca Edgerton has been bombarding me with requests for her ‘famous Charleston citizens of the last fifty years’ project. I’d normally stick her at the end of the line except that Jack called on her behalf and told me it would be a personal favor to him if I moved her up to the front.”
“Did he now?” I felt something thick and heavy in my gut.
“Actually, she was here a little earlier, which is why I couldn’t take your call.”
“She was?”
“Yes. She was here looking for more photographs of your great-grandmother Rose, as well as your mother.”
“Oh.” I frowned, wondering why Rebecca wouldn’t have told me what she’d planned to do. Granted, she was a little shaken when she’d left the house after the incident in the hidden room, but I would have thought she’d at least mention it since it involved my family and me. “I understand,” I continued. “I was calling to find out if you’d had any luck with tracking down the window order, and the Crandall family tree.”
I could hear the smile in Yvonne’s words when she answered. “Yes, actually, on both counts. I’ve made copies and put them in a folder for you.”
I stopped myself from pumping my fist in the air. “That’s wonderful. I can be there in fifteen minutes to pick them up.”
“No need for that. Rebecca explained that the two of you were working together, so I gave the folder to her. I didn’t want to, but she was insistent and promised she’d deliver it personally.”
“Really?” I said, trying to still the panic rising up in me. “Did she mention when she might be dropping them by?”
“She didn’t really say, but she led me to assume that she was bringing the folder directly to you. Didn’t you get it?”
I forced a smile into my voice. “Not that I know of. But I wasn’t home earlier, so she might have left it in the mailbox or something. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
“I’m sure it is. Although I will say that I’m a little annoyed with Miss Edgerton. The book with the Crandall family tree and history was discovered missing after she left and I’m wondering if she might have accidentally taken it with her. I’ve tried calling her but I haven’t been able to get ahold of her yet. If you reach her before I do, would you please ask her about it? I’m sure it was an accident, but still.”
With a sinking feeling, I said, “I’ll be sure to ask her, Yvonne.”
“If it’s of any help, I do remember the information regarding the window changes. Another librarian obtained the copy of the Crandall family tree, so I’m afraid I’m completely useless with that source of information.”
“That’s fine. I’ll see it when I get it. But what did you find out about the window?”
“You were right, Melanie. The glass maker who originally installed the window, John Nolan, sold his business in 1900 to another Irishman, Patrick something-or-other—my memory’s not that good—and it stayed in his family until the 1950s, when the demand for artistic glass dried up and the business folded.”
I tried to stifle my impatience. “That’s all very interesting, Yvonne, but . . .”
“I know, sorry. I get lost in the details sometimes. But anyway, I found two ledgers of purchase orders for the new company; the first one from the twenties and the second one from the forties.”
“And?” My foot tapped furiously on the floor.
“You’ll never believe who placed the order to change the window.”
“Try me,” I said through gritted teeth.
“The name on the purchase order was Sarah Manigault Prioleau.”
My mind went blank for a moment. I’d been so sure she’d say Rose’s name that when she said Sarah I was disoriented. “Sarah? Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. I’ve a memory that’s sharper than most people half my age.”
“I know. I didn’t mean it as an insult. I’m just—surprised. Sarah was my grandmother, and I knew her. Yet she never told me anything about the window.”
Yvonne was silent for a moment. “Or maybe she did. You’ve mentioned how she was fond of puzzles. Maybe you just weren’t aware at the time.”
I thought of all the times my grandmother and I had spent in the room with the sunlight streaming through the window, and sitting outside in the garden on the reverse side. But I’d been so young then; anything she might have said had long since been forgotten. Maybe simple exposure to the window was her way of implanting it in my memory.
“Maybe,” I said uncertainly.
“There was a sketch with the purchase order, and I made a copy of that, too. Although you’ve already noticed all of the changes from the original order.”
“And it’s in the folder you gave Rebecca.”
“Yes. I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”
“No, Yvonne. You’ve been nothing but helpful. One more question, though. Do you remember when the window was changed?”
“Of course.” Again, she sounded wounded, as if I somehow doubted her mental capacities and I made a mental note to be more careful with my questions in future. “I’m usually not as good with dates as I am with names, but I remember the year because it was the year I got married: 1947.”
I closed my eyes, trying to recall the dates on the family tree that I’d seen recently. My eyes popped open. “That was the year after Rose died.”
“Hunting unicorns again, Melanie?” I heard the smile in Yvonne’s voice.
“I’m thinking there might have been a deathbed confession of some sort, and this was my grandmother’s way of recording it for future generations. She did love her puzzles.”
“That’s very good, Melanie. And exactly what Jack said, too.”
“You’ve seen Jack?”
“No. He called me this morning. Wanted me to check to see if I had anything—birth records, death records, marriage certificate, anything, really—on a Meredith Prioleau.”
Before, I would have been angry that Jack’s mind had been quicker than mine in figuring out the next step. But now all I could feel was an odd relief that Jack hadn’t completely forgotten about me or abandoned the search. I frowned when it occurred to me that he might not be doing the research for me at all. I grasped the phone tighter. “He beat me to the punch. That was the next thing I was going to ask you. Have you had a chance to look, yet?”
“Just preliminary files so far. And I’ve found absolutely nothing. Any idea who she might be?”
“None. But I have a feeling she may be a contemporary of Rose’s. Maybe a distant cousin?”
“That at least gives me a time period to work with. I’ll call you on your cell phone as soon as I learn something.” She paused for a moment. “And do try to think of anything your grandmother might have said to you, something that maybe didn’t make sense to you back then but might now. I knew your grandmother, you know. Not well, so I suppose I knew more of her than anything else. But it was well known that she had a sharp mind and a sharper sense of humor, and loved mysteries, and riddles, and pranks more than anything. She was also secretly hated by a lot of the women in town because of how she remained whiplike thin yet ate like a pack mule.”
I smiled, remembering my grandmother and how we used to fight over the biggest piece of chocolate cake. “I will,Yvonne. And thank you.”
I hung up the phone just as I heard high heels coming from the foyer. “In here,” I called, expecting to see Rebecca and more than a little bit relieved. When my mother appeared from around the corner, I must have gasped in surprise.
“Are you all right, Mellie? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Her eyes twinkled, b
elying the seriousness of her question.
I stood, pocketing my cell phone. “Very funny, Mother. And no, I haven’t seen anything. I think the large number of people working in the house during the days keeps them at bay. Were you looking for me?”
“Yes, actually.” She leaned forward and before I could step back, she’d plucked a clump of sawdust from my hair and held it up. “I don’t think gray is your color, dear.”
Before I could stop myself, I smiled, amazed how natural it had felt to have my mother teasing me and making jokes the way mothers were supposed to. At least how other mothers did.
I backed away, feeling self-conscious now as I raked my fingers through my hair. “So what did you need?” I asked, careful to keep my voice neutral. The open hostility had passed if for no other reason than I found it exhausting to keep it up while we lived in close quarters. It might also have had something to do with the fact that my mother had held the journal to help me, regardless of what effect it might have on her. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t forget it.
Small lines formed between her eyebrows. “Rebecca came by the house a little while ago.”
I straightened. “Did she leave a folder for me?”
She shook her head. “No. Actually, I think she took something.”
“What? There’s nothing of any value in the house right now except for a few pieces of heavy furniture.” I thought of the sapphire necklace and earrings, but after the incident in the kitchen, I’d had them stored in a safety-deposit box at my bank. I’d figured it was in my best interests to keep them out of the house.
“The journal. I didn’t realize it was gone at first. When I came downstairs, I felt a cold draft and found General Lee outside and the kitchen door open. As I went to retrieve the dog, I saw Rebecca getting into her car. I called for her, but she either didn’t hear me or pretended not to. Regardless, she got in her car and drove away.
“It wasn’t until I got to the kitchen that I remembered you’d left the journal on the kitchen table. And it wasn’t there anymore. I checked on the counters and everywhere else to see if it could have been moved, but it was gone.”
I started breathing heavily as anger and worry bonded together in a gathering snowball. I wasn’t sure which part to be more upset about: that she’d stolen the journal or that she’d left General Lee outside in the cold. “Are you sure it was Rebecca?”
My mother gave me a hard glare. “Blond hair, pink coat, perky steps?”
“Right.” I flipped open my phone and hit redial again, trying to reach Rebecca on her cell. I flipped it closed when I reached her voice mail. Then I tried Jack’s cell and home number, with the same results.
“Do you know what she’s up to?” my mother asked.
“No clue,” I said, sliding down the wall and landing in a pile of sawdust, but I didn’t care. I was overwhelmed by questions with no answers, and the only person I knew of who could help me figure them out wasn’t taking my phone calls.
To my surprise, my mother sat down, too, albeit more elegantly and managing to avoid the piles of sawdust stacked around the room like a minefield. “So what are you going to do about it?”
I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I just have no idea what direction to move in next.”
“So you’re giving up? Just like that? That’s not the Melanie Middleton I’ve heard about.”
I turned my head to glare at her. “And you would have heard a lot up there in New York or whatever corner of the world you were.”
Her soft smile didn’t falter. “Actually, yes. I always had the Charleston paper forwarded to me wherever I was. I have a scrapbook of every sale you’ve ever made, every article about all your sales awards, and every ad, with some questionable choices in hairstyle, I might add. But I have them all. A mother’s brag book, I guess you’d call it.”
I looked down at my sawdust-encrusted hands, not knowing what to say.
Softly, she said, “So the Melanie Middleton I thought I knew was tenacious and didn’t quit. It seems to me you should think of this whole thing as a listing with multiple offers, and you’re going to get a huge commission if your client gets the bid.”
Despite myself, I smiled. “Yeah, well, in that scenario I’d know what I was doing. I’m pretty much branching out into new territory here. We have portraits of girls with matching lockets but with initials we can’t trace, a ghost who hates me and wants to hurt me, a dead soldier who apparently wants to date me, a hidden room with an empty chest, a window in which Grandmother Sarah stuck a clue that I can’t figure out, and a dead body in a boat that once belonged to my family. And I don’t have a single thought as to how all of that might be related and/or how any of it might help me figure out how to exorcise the bad spirit who’s been in this house since you were a little girl.”
My mother was staring at me intently. “What did you say about your grandmother and the window?”
“Oh, right. I just received a phone call from Yvonne at the historical society library. She found a work order dating from 1947, the year after your grandmother Rose died, with Sarah’s name on the purchase order. She was the one who made the changes to the window: the addition of the decorative line framing the picture in the window, the angel’s head, and the addition of the people. Jack’s found some evidence that would suggest that our forebears were wreckers, but again there’s no solid proof of anything, although the picture in the window shows a beach and ocean.”
A slow smile spread over my mother’s face. “Your grandmother Sarah did leave a clue, Mellie.”
I frowned at her, not following.
“On her tombstone, remember?” She closed her eyes and recited the words slowly:
When bricks crumble, the fireplace falls;
When children cry, the mothers call.
When lies are told, the sins are built,
Within the waves, hide all our guilt.
I sat up a little. “Rebecca figured that the bricks crumbling are related to the Charleston earthquake in 1886, and because the sailboat Rose disappeared the same year, she thought the last line was about the boat. But I was the one who noticed that the lines framing the tombstone matched the design on the back of the window at your house, which brings me back to where I started. Yvonne—she’s been helping with a lot of the research—had a folder for me with some information regarding Grandmother’s purchase order for the window as well as a family tree for the Crandall family.”
“The Crandall family?”
“Yes. Their house in Ulmer has a portrait of a girl around the same period with an identical locket worn by the girls in our portrait. Jack and I were trying to find the identity of the girl in that portrait, hoping it might shed some light on the other two.”
“And what about the window order? What were you trying to find out?”
“I’m not sure. I was hoping that seeing in Grandmother’s own words what she was changing might help me figure out what she was trying to tell us.”
My mother leaned toward me. “But we’ve already seen her own words. On the tombstone.” Her eyes lit up, exaggerating her resemblance to my grandmother, and also reminding me that she was a Prioleau, too. “You’re forgetting a piece of this puzzle, the writer of the journal. It seems to me that her name is an answer to a question we haven’t thought to ask yet.” Standing, she began to walk around the room, managing to avoid the sawdust piles. “Let’s assume Rebecca was right and the first line is about the earthquake. Let’s assume, too, that she’s right about the last line.” She held up a finger on one gloved hand. “So here we have an unidentified body, although she’s found with a locket with the initial M on it.” She held up a finger on her other hand. “And here we have a name with no history: Meredith Prioleau. Have you asked Yvonne for any of the casualty lists from the earthquake?”
I had only a vague memory of studying the earthquake that had rocked the city almost one hundred years before I was born. I was proud to be able to point out the earthquake rods that were dril
led into the sides of most of the historic buildings in the city to prospective buyers. But this was the first time I’d really thought about the incident in terms of casualties. Hesitantly, I asked, “Were there casualties?”
My mother stopped her walking and stared down at me before sighing heavily. “About two thousand buildings were destroyed at a cost of about six million dollars at the time, and around one hundred people were killed. They’re not sure of the exact numbers because records were destroyed and record keeping wasn’t what it is today. Some bodies were never recovered.”
“Oh, right. I knew that.”
My mother frowned at me. “Regardless, it’s something that hasn’t been explored yet and it’s a place we can start without Rebecca. Or Jack.” She waved a gloved hand at my reproachful look. “Oh, I’m not blind, Mellie. I know he hasn’t been coming around or calling, and I’m not about to point fingers or blame anyone. Not yet, anyway. But I do think it’s time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself and move forward. Besides, nobody buys into the ‘poor me’ thing you’ve got going.”
She began to rustle around for something in her purse.
I swiped angrily at the sawdust that stuck to my eyelashes. “You have some nerve . . . ,” I began.
“You’re much too beautiful, talented, and successful for that to work anymore. Time to face the fact that you turned out pretty remarkable despite how much your parents screwed up.” She began to walk away. “Let’s go. We have work to do.”
“But . . .” I tried to formulate a rebuttal to anything she’d said, but she’d managed to insert something nice and I couldn’t. I jogged after her, grabbing my coat from the banister. “Where are we going?”
“To find Rebecca. Do you know where she is?”
“In Ulmer.”
This made her stop. “Do you know how to get there?”
I stopped, too, almost running into her. “I’ve been there once, with Jack. I think I remember the way. But it’s about a two-hour drive.”
She glanced at her watch. “Fine. I’ll drive, then, and get us there in half the time.”
I wanted to tell her no, to let her know that everything still wasn’t okay and that I had missed her for every day of the thirty-three years she’d been away. But she’d said the word “we,” and I found myself wanting to believe in second chances and starting over.