The Girl On Legare Street (12 page)

He faced her and held out his hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Jack told me all about you.”

I looked at Rebecca, who seemed to be as surprised as I was. “Really?” we said in unison.

My dad frowned as he looked from one of us to the other. “Mostly because of your connection with Emily.”

“Oh,” we said again in unison, but Rebecca sounded disappointed.

Rebecca shook his hand. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Middleton.”

“You’ve done your research,” he said, acknowledging her use of his correct rank. In the past, when he was still drinking and people in bars would look at his insignia and medals and call him General, he wouldn’t correct them.

“It’s my job, sir. I’ve been working on this story about your ex-wife for some time now. You’d be surprised at the information I’ve discovered.”

His eyes flickered over to mine in an unasked question before they returned to Rebecca. “Oh, you’d be surprised how many hidden skeletons we have in our family. Not that we’d share them with you, of course.”

“Really? And I think you’d be surprised how enterprising my methods can be when it comes to digging up family secrets. Not that I’d share them with you, of course.”

To my indignation, my father laughed before beaming at Rebecca in admiration. “Well, I can certainly see why Jack still talks about you.”

Eager to see her leave, I said, “I’ve got an appointment, so if there’s something you came to tell me . . . ?”

Her gaze was chilly as it rested on me. “Yes, sorry. I received a call this morning from one of my sources at the coroner’s office with a pretty good scoop. I’ve already written my story and filed it with the paper with instructions not to run it until I spoke with you first.”

“So if we don’t like what you have to say, you won’t run the story?” I tried to keep the belligerence out of my voice but I couldn’t help it. There was something about Rebecca Edgerton that reminded me of biting into cold ice cream.

“No. I’m only doing this out of courtesy because of your connection with Jack.”

I crossed my arms so that my hands wouldn’t find themselves around her neck. “Then you’d better hurry up and tell us so you can get that story printed.”

Without preamble, she said, “They’ve received the preliminary results of the examination on the human remains found in the sailboat.” She paused for effect. “It’s definitely a female and they estimate she was about twenty years old at the time of her death.”

“That certainly tells us nothing,” I said, keeping my arms crossed.

“Oh, there’s more.” Her eyes brightened like a child’s on Christmas morning. “The top portion of the skull was largely intact, but shows signs of trauma—as if the head sustained an injury by a blow or a fall. That could have been the cause of death.”

I let my arms drop. “Well, then. Go ahead and print it. The media can’t possibly want to ask me about a homicide that occurred a hundred years before I was born. And personally, I couldn’t care less. It’s old news, in other words.”

Rebecca bristled, apparently at my lack of amazement at her researching prowess. “Well, I guess that’s all the information I have to tell you.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll be going, then. Nice to meet you, Colonel. . . .”

Her voice trailed away as a ray of yellowy light struck the stained-glass window. At the same moment, heavy clouds broke away in front of the sun and opened the sky like a door. “That’s—incredible,” she said, her gaze focused on the window with its hidden figures and secret meanings.

I wanted to stop her, to pull her away from it and explain that it was my window and the best part of my childhood—the one thing from the past I had allowed myself to cherish the way some people cherished old things—and I wasn’t in the mood to share it, least of all with her.

“This is really unusual for a house this old,” she said, walking nearer.

My hands balled themselves into little fists, my fingernails digging into my palms. “It’s not original to the house,” I said as my father stepped between Rebecca and me.

Rebecca pulled a notepad out of her purse and began to write. “It looks like it might be late nineteenth century.” She faced me. “Am I right?”

I gave her a grudging nod. “You seem to know a lot about old houses.”

She studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “You pick things up when you’re in this business, I guess.” She returned to jotting notes onto her pad. “Do you know who had it installed?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Why would you want to know?”

She didn’t bother to look at me as she wrote, but I sensed that despite her tone, nothing she said to me was offhand. “You never know what will work in a story, what sorts of little tidbits would make it more interesting.”

I turned to face the window again, surreptitiously tucking the locket back into my blouse, feeling the surprising heat of it on my bare skin, sensing again that somebody had just let it go from a tightly held fist. “Really?” I said.

“Really. It’s what makes a good journalist.” She put her pad back into her purse. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, so I’ll let you go. When I see Jack, I’m going to ask him to go see if Yvonne Craig might know something. She’s a real wealth of information about Charleston and its history, you know.”

“I’ve heard that somewhere.” My dad shot me a warning glance for my sarcasm. It was one thing he’d never tolerated from me and something I’d learned to utilize only when he was out of earshot. I began walking toward the front door. “Thanks for stopping by. Can’t imagine that the news would create much of a media frenzy, but then again Britney Spears’ decision to go pantyless made front-page news. Go figure.”

Rebecca paused by the front door. “Be that as it may, it will be news for some. The Prioleaus have their reputation to maintain and I suppose the discovery of a body, regardless of how old, might be a trifle inconvenient, if not downright embarrassing.”

Her eyes were bright and clear as they regarded me, and not for the first time I felt a twinge of unease. There was something more to Rebecca Edgerton than she was letting on, something more than her connection with Jack or her pursuit of my mother’s story. I moved my hand to my neck to make sure the locket was well hidden inside my blouse, not entirely sure why I would choose to hide it from her.

She frowned slightly. “Do you smell that? I could swear it smells like . . . gunpowder. Yes, that’s it. It reminds me of the smell that hangs over battlefields when they do the battle reenactments.”

I pretended to sniff the air, although there was no need; I’d sensed the presence of my soldier from the moment we’d stepped into the foyer. “No, I don’t smell anything,” I said, opening the door wider so she’d take the hint and just leave.

She smiled. “Well, then. It must be a wood fire in somebody’s chimney. Thanks again, Melanie, and nice to meet you, Colonel,” she added over my shoulder. Returning her attention to me, she said, “And when you see Jack tell him to call me on my cell. He has the number.”

“Sure,” I said, smiling and waiting for my face to crack. It wasn’t until she was at the bottom of the steps that it occurred to me she was the first person besides my grandmother, my mother, and me who had ever sensed the soldier’s presence. I stared after her as she made her way down the walk toward the gate, and as I started to close the front door I became aware that the skin where the locket lay on my chest had become uncomfortably hot.

I’d just closed the last of my suitcases when I heard Jack call from downstairs. “Mellie? Are you here? I hope so because the front door is wide open.”

Crap.
I’d left the door open so I could shuttle my personal belongings from the house to the car in preparation for my move to the house on Legare Street. “Crap,” I said out loud as I yanked the suitcase from the bed and let it fall to the floor. General Lee pawed eagerly at the closed bedroom door at the sound of Jack’s voice. I scooped him up and whispered in his ear, “Jack is not our friend, remember? He eats little dogs for breakfast.”

His ears perked up and his eyes widened, but he turned toward the door again in anticipation of Jack’s arrival.

“Mellie!” Jack called again.

I opened the door a crack, listening as Jack’s footsteps faded toward the kitchen in the back of the house. Using the opportunity, I grabbed the suitcase with my free hand and headed toward the stairs. I was on the bottom tread when I heard Jack walking back from the kitchen. I ducked into the dining room, then looked furtively around me for a place to hide. All of the window treatments and furniture had been removed in anticipation of the floor stripping that was scheduled to start as soon as I moved out, leaving nothing to hide behind.

I eyed the butler’s pantry, the door partially obscured in the room’s wall paneling. Dropping the suitcase, I pried open the door and slipped inside just as I heard Jack’s voice in the dining room. Belatedly, I recalled the suitcase I’d left behind.

Jack rapped on the door. “Mellie? Are you in there?”

I was hoping that if I didn’t answer he’d go away. Any thoughtful, kind, and considerate gentleman would.

Without asking again, Jack opened the door and peered inside at the darkness—and me standing inside holding the dog.

“There you are,” I said to General Lee as I pushed past Jack into the living room. “I have no idea how he got in there.”

Jack’s lips twitched, but some element of self-preservation held him back from laughing outright. “You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

“Avoiding you? Of course not. Why would I do that?”

He shrugged, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes alit with an alarming sparkle. “I have no idea. It’s just that ever since we took our road trip to Mimosa Hall you haven’t answered any of my phone calls and you haven’t been home when I’ve stopped by.”

I focused on scratching General Lee behind the ears. “I’ve been busy. I had to put all of the furniture in storage, get all of the kitchen stuff on Mrs. Houlihan’s list together so she can operate in my mother’s kitchen, and then get myself packed up to go to Legare Street. It’s been time consuming.”

Jack rubbed his jaw, the sparkle in his eyes not diminishing. “Well, that’s a relief. I was thinking it had to do with me putting you to bed when you were half conscious.”

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Why? Did I say anything? Anything that might make you think less of me?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Actually, I was thinking you were avoiding me because you were embarrassed that I know what you sleep in at night. It was pretty horrifying, you know. All that flannel.”

The relief made my toes tingle. Maybe the snatches of conversation that kept floating in my brain really had been a dream. I put General Lee on the floor. “It’s not like you haven’t seen worse,” I said, referring to sharing a bathroom with me after he’d moved in the first time so I wouldn’t be alone in the old house. There’d been more than one occasion when I’d neglected to remove my drying lingerie from the shower.

“That’s debatable.” Jack bent down to pet the dog, then eyed the suitcase. “Can I help you load your car?”

“All done,” I said, glancing at my watch. “And with five minutes to spare. Your mother’s meeting me over at the Legare Street house to talk about furniture, so I’ve got to run.”

“I know. She told me. That’s how I figured I’d find you here.”

Without asking, he picked up my suitcase and motioned for me to walk in front of him, General Lee tagging along behind us. “So what did you need to talk with me about that you couldn’t leave on voice mail?”

I walked into the foyer and opened the front door for him.

“Mrs. McGowan is back home and she gave me a call. Thought you might be interested in our conversation.”

I felt a little shiver of apprehension tease my spine, remembering the voice that had whispered my name, recalling my fear even through the haze of brandy. “What did she say?”

“She said that she makes the best blueberry cobbler and invited me to come try some next time I’m in her neck of the woods.”

I rolled my eyes. No woman, even one who’d never laid eyes on Jack, was immune to his charms. It was nauseating, really. “Did she say anything else?”

“Yep. That the name of the New England family that owned the house before the McGowans was the Crandall family from Darien, Connecticut.”

I waited for him to say something more. “And?”

“That’s all. Does the name ring a bell with you?”

“Not at all.” We reached my car and I moved to the driver’s side to push the trunk release, then waited while Jack added my suitcase to the rest of the bags inside. He frowned at them before shutting the trunk.

“She did say that she’d go through the old letters again and see if she can find out anything else. She does remember some kind of family tragedy from sometime in the latter half of the 1800s. Couldn’t remember exactly what. But she’s going to go back and look, see what she can find out, then let me know. Maybe I’ll go down for a visit and some blueberry cobbler.”

“You do that,” I said as I slid into the driver’s seat. I caught a movement near the old oak tree and I startled, remembering the woman and the child who had once haunted that section of the garden. But the person pointing a camera at me and crouched behind the Confederate roses was definitely not a ghost.

Jack followed my gaze and saw the photographer, too. “You go on ahead. I’ll take care of this guy. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. The media attention since the raising of the
Rose
had died down considerably during the ensuing weeks, but every once in a while an overeager photographer or journalist could be found waiting to catch me off guard. It was really no more than a nuisance, but I bristled at the attention. I read each headline with dread, waiting for the words “psychic Realtor” or “spook-seeing agent” attached to any of the articles or photographs. Luckily, everything had been focused on the sailboat and the human remains found on board, and my career was intact. For now.

“And could you please put General Lee in the kitchen?”

Jack picked up the dog, then saluted me before heading toward the garden.

I put the car into gear, then drove the short blocks over to Legare. I spotted Amelia’s Mercedes in front of the house and saw that she’d opened the gates to the narrow driveway at the side of the house—a premium in this South of Broad neighborhood.

After parking the car, I walked to the front of the house and found Jack’s mother sitting on a square plastic block that might have been an intentional seat, surveying the wreckage of the garden.

She looked up at me and smiled distractedly. “Hello, dear.” She indicated the wasteland around her. “There really aren’t words to describe this, are there?”

“No, there really aren’t. At least not ones I’d use in polite company. Not to worry, though. I’ve asked my father to turn his magic on this garden, just like he did for me on Tradd Street. He’s almost done with repairing the damage the police made when they dug up the fountain. I have every faith that he’ll make this one even more spectacular.”

Amelia raised both eyebrows. “And your mother is okay with your father being so close?”

“She didn’t have a choice. If she wants me to help her, my father is part of the package.”

She smiled as she stood, brushing off the back of her skirt. “I suppose that’s fair, then.”

I led the way to the wide front steps, inordinately relieved that I wasn’t alone. Not that the diminutive Mrs. Trenholm could offer any kind of substantial barrier between me and whatever it was that waited in this house. Still, I found comfort in another living, breathing presence.

I pulled out my key chain—every key neatly labeled with a different-colored dot of fingernail polish—and pulled out the Scarlet Woman key. I paused before sticking it into the lock. “I have to warn you, Amelia, it’s a little horrifying.”

“After seeing the garden, I think I’m prepared,” she said, straightening her shoulders.

I pushed open the door and we walked slowly into the foyer. We stood still in the quiet house as I listened for voices and Amelia took in the circus-like colors and the dearth of furnishings.

She spoke first. “I feel like I’ve been immersed in a Salvador Dalí painting. And that’s not really a good thing. I shudder to think what it looked like with their furniture. Your mother hinted at how bad it was, but even my imagination wasn’t this good. . . .” Her voice trailed away as she took in the zebra-striped shag rug.

Closing the door behind us, I said, “Thankfully, the previous owners took all of their furniture with them. They did leave behind everything in the attic, which appears to be old Prioleau family artifacts, but not a lot of furniture. I’m fairly sure my mother didn’t take it with her when she sold the house, so I’m left wondering what happened to it all.”

Amelia didn’t answer at first. Instead, she walked ahead of me into the drawing room with the large stained-glass window and looked at it for a long moment as if searching for the right words. She turned around with a soft expression on her face. Gently, she said, “The house was sold completely furnished. Your mother felt it best.”

I waited for her to elaborate, to explain how my mother could have thought that selling the family home wasn’t enough—that she’d needed to include all the furnishings, too, to complete her betrayal. But Amelia remained silent, her eyes kind.

“Of course she did,” I said, my voice harsher than I’d meant it to be, the hurt as fresh as it had been the first day I’d become motherless. “Come on,” I said, my voice lighter. “Let’s walk through and we’ll go over what kind of furniture we’re going to need.”

I made to move away, but Amelia held me back with a gentle touch on my arm. “The owners auctioned off the furniture not long after they purchased the house. I know because I was here and acquired several high-end antiques, which I subsequently sold to various collectors.”

I stared at her for a moment, working to keep the hope out of my voice. “Do you have records showing who the buyers were?”

“I have records of every piece of furniture we’ve ever sold since we opened the store. I’ll be more than happy to pull out the information. Then you and your mother can discuss if it’s something you want, and I’ll be happy to contact the current owners. Nothing’s guaranteed, of course, but if I explain that we’re attempting to return the furniture to its original home, they might be persuaded to sell.”

I’d stopped listening after she said “you and your mother.” Refurbishing this house wasn’t about my mother and what she wanted. I’d begun to think of it as my chance to get back a little of what had been taken from me. She’d already hired Amelia to procure furniture; she didn’t have to know where it came from. Smiling, I said, “I’ll be happy to take care of it. I’m sure my mother would want as many original pieces as possible.”

“I understand,” she said, and I knew she did and she wasn’t going to refute my words. “The good news is that one of the pieces I’d sold after the auction was recently reacquired. It’s at the store now.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a lady’s writing desk. It’s made of mahogany, and has beautiful carvings on the Queen Anne legs.”

My mouth went a little dry. “I think I know it. My grandmother had a desk like that in her sitting room.” My mind went back over the years to a memory of me sitting at my grandmother’s feet, brushing my fingers against the wood carvings of fish and seaweed carved into the wood of the legs.

Swallowing back the memory, I turned to Amelia. “How did it happen that it came back to you?”

Amelia began to walk around the perimeter of the room, frowning at the wallpapered walls covered with daisies and the garage sale chandelier. She used a manicured nail to flick at the high-lacquered violet paint on a window frame before turning to face me. “The buyers kept it for only about six months before they contacted me to find out if I’d like to buy it back.” She crossed her arms elegantly across her chest. “They said it had ‘strange vibes.’ That the temperature of the room where they’d placed it always seemed to be about ten degrees colder than the rest of the house.”

I stilled, unable to form a response.

She continued. “It’s been in the shop ever since. It’s a beautiful piece and gets a lot of interest, but potential buyers tend to shy away from it at the last moment. I’ll give you a nice price so I can make room for something else that will sell.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice sticky, “I’m definitely interested.”

“Wonderful.” She walked toward me and took both of my hands in hers. “I know none of this is easy for you. But it will be okay in the end. I promise you. I’ve known your mother for a very long time, and even if I don’t understand her motives, I know she makes all of her decisions from a good heart.” She squeezed my hands as I tried to pull them away. “She loves you, Melanie. You should never doubt that.”

She let go of my hands and I pulled away. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point, Amelia.” I held out my arm, indicating for her to move in front of me. “Let’s go look at the rest of the house to give you an idea of all that’s needed.”

She patted my arm as she walked by, but I looked away, seeing again a little girl who’d awakened one morning to find her mother gone.