The Guests on South Battery (13 page)

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 Rosalind 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.

T
he 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 outside 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.

I pushed open the front door, pausing at the contraption in front of me. It looked like one of those double jogging strollers that I saw young, fit, and perky mothers running behind down Charleston's neighborhood streets, their jaunty ponytails bouncing happily through holes in baseball caps. I wondered if the client my mother was meeting with had brought it, because I couldn't think of any other reason why it would be sitting in my parents' foyer.

“Mellie? Is that you?”

“Yes, Mother,” I said as I made my way to the drawing room. I paused in the threshold for a moment, admiring the play of sunlight through the stained glass window. There was a secret message hidden inside, a mystery that Jack and I had solved, with my mother's help. She'd thought then that the two of us could go public with our abilities, that it was our duty to help others. I was still waiting to be convinced that it wouldn't destroy my career or my reputation.

“Come here,” she said, beckoning me to a mahogany game table where it was rumored Lafayette had once played cards. She sat opposite a red-haired woman who appeared to be around my age, the dark circles under her eyes making her seem older. My mother's gloves had been removed and were folded neatly on the side of the table, leaving no doubt that she'd been doing a reading.

“Good morning,” I said, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then nodded at her companion. “We're late for our walk, and I have an appointment to show a condo on East Bay at ten.”

“Sit down, Mellie. We're just about done here.”

I did as I was told, then looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Veronica, this is my daughter, Melanie Trenholm. Melanie, this is Veronica Farrell. I believe you've met her daughter.”

I stared at her with confusion, trying to place the name and the face. “I'm sorry . . .”

“My daughter is Lindsey. She's a friend of your stepdaughter, Nola, and they're in the same year at Ashley Hall.”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said, recalling the girl Nola had brought home. The girl with the Ouija board. There was something else about Lindsey that I had meant to remember but had forgotten. I wish I'd thought to weigh my brain before and after childbirth so I'd have proof that one loses a substantial amount of brain matter with each child.

A small smile lifted her lips and brought a lightness to her pale face. “And I know you from USC. We were in an art history class and worked on a project together.”

That was it. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead. “Oh, yes. Lindsey mentioned that to me. I'm afraid that I don't remember much about my college years. I think I've deliberately tried to repress those memories so I won't remember how lonely and socially awkward I was.”

She smiled fully now and I saw the resemblance she had to her daughter, despite their different coloring, their delicate, almost fragile bones, their high cheekbones and straight eyebrows. “Patrician” is the word I would have used. I did remember her now, albeit vaguely, and remembered why I'd probably dismissed her from my thoughts as soon as we received our grade on our project. She'd been one of those girls inordinately close with her family. Her mother or sister always called when we were working together, and instead of letting the phone ring she'd answer it, then spend precious work time recounting whatever it had been that had occupied their conversation. I'd found it tedious, although now I could probably admit that in my lonely, parentless state I'd been jealous.

“We got an A if I remember correctly,” I said with a smile, as if that might make up for a semester of being dismissive and aloof.

“We did. And well-deserved. You were so committed to getting good grades and it really got me involved. I remember you were very organized, and that was a good influence for me. I think that semester was my highest GPA of my entire college career.” Her smile faltered. “My sister visited me while we were working on it. She was staying in my dorm room, trying to decide between USC and the College of Charleston. You met her.”

It seemed important to Veronica that I remember. I frowned, trying to sort through my memories like sifting flour and seeing what got stuck. But nothing did. “I'm sorry, I don't remember. Although I do recall that you were close—talking on the phone a lot. Are you still close?”

A shadow fell over her face and I could hear her swallow. I became aware of the scent of a perfume that seemed oddly familiar. The only thing I was sure of was that neither one of my companions was wearing it or I'd have noticed it earlier. I watched as a halo of light appeared and surrounded Veronica, the scent of the odd perfume even more pronounced as the light undulated behind her. My eyes moved to the gilded mirror above a sideboard across the room, revealing the reflection of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, her hand on Veronica's shoulder, her black-eyed gaze staring directly back at me. I felt relief first—relief that I could still see spirits. And then surprise that whoever this was had been waiting for me.

“She died,” Veronica said flatly, as if she was used to keeping the emotion out of her voice when speaking about her sister. “She was murdered her freshman year at the College of Charleston. They never found out who did it.”

The light behind her brightened to a clear white, then vanished along with the scent of perfume.

“That's why Veronica came to see me this morning,” my mother said gently. “Detective Riley gave her my name and phone number with my permission, hoping that I might be able to help.”

I stood to leave. “Since you're obviously not done, I think I'll go walking by myself this morning.”

My mother put her bare hand on my arm. “Stay, Mellie. I wouldn't normally ask you to get involved with one of my clients, but because you already have a connection with Veronica, and have met her sister, Adrienne, I think you can help.”

I gave my mother a look that I hoped she interpreted as “wait until I get you alone” and resumed my seat. “I'm not sure how I can help. . . .” I got a whiff of the perfume again, recognizing it as the one I wore in college. Vanilla Musk by Coty. It was very popular in the late nineties when Adrienne would have been a freshman.

My mother turned back to Veronica. “You said you had something to show me, something that had belonged to your sister.”

Veronica nodded once, then reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a long gold chain with some sort of pendant dangling from it. I bent closer and saw that it had been broken in the middle, the clasp still closed. It was then that I remembered my conversation with Thomas when he'd asked me if I could help him with a cold case. Something about a broken chain found in the dead sister's trunk, discovered in the parents' attic and opened for the first time since the girl had been killed.

I held out my hand and watched as the gold links coiled into my palm like a snake, the broken pendant lying on top. One Greek letter sat at the apex, the second two letters dangling directly beneath lying horizontally, a manufactured jagged tear showing where a matching charm might attach. “I wasn't in a sorority, so I'm afraid this is Greek to me.” I hadn't meant it as a joke, but my mother kicked me under the table anyway.

“It's the intersection of Adrienne's sorority, Omega Chi, and another Greek organization with the letter Omega. Could be a sorority or fraternity—without the rest of the charm, we can't be sure. I have no idea where the other half might be.”

“Did her boyfriend's fraternity have an Omega in it?” I asked.

“No. She was dating a Kappa Sig, but he had an ironclad alibi and was never considered a suspect.” Veronica cleared her throat. “This is newly discovered evidence. Sadly, it was all twenty years ago, so people
have moved on, gotten married, forgotten about Adrienne. Even with this pendant pointing to something completely new, Detective Riley doesn't hold out any hope of solving the case. He's been attempting to find and interview sorority and fraternity members from organizations with Omegas in the names from 1996, but nobody remembers Adrienne.”

I turned to my mother. “Thomas told me about this case, and I explained that I wasn't ready to do this.”

I dropped the necklace onto the surface of the table with a solid and final
thunk
. The girl was still there. I couldn't see her in the mirror, but I felt her presence. Smelled her perfume. I shoved the necklace away from me, not wanting her to follow me home. “I'm sorry, Veronica. I truly am. I'd like to help you, I would. But I've got two babies at home, a career I'm trying to resurrect, a hole in my backyard, rotting windows, and a host of other issues I'm having to deal with right now. I'm afraid I just can't get involved—”

My mother reached out with her bare hand and grabbed the necklace, her elegant fingers folding around it as her head jerked back and her eyes closed. We were completely still for a long moment, and then her head began to shake back and forth as if to say
no
. And then, as if pulled from the ether, a man's voice came from my mother's throat, thrust from the depths along with the stench of mold.

“Don't!” the voice screamed. “You. Don't. Want. To. Know. The. Truth.” Spit foamed on my mother's lips, flecks of dirt appearing on her chin.

Veronica stood so fast her chair toppled backward onto the floor with a bang.

I reached over and grabbed the chain from Ginette's hand, and a small fizz of air left her lungs as her head slumped to the table. I stood, breathing heavily as if I'd been the one communicating with whoever or
what
ever that had been. “You should go,” I said to Veronica. “We can't help you.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, picking up her chair and sliding the chain and pendant into her pocket. “I'm so sorry.”

I heard her footsteps heading toward the foyer and then the front door opening and closing as I bent to my mother to check her breathing. Her pulse was steady, but she felt clammy to the touch. I helped her stand, then led her to the couch to lie down. Her eyes remained closed as I sat next to her, listening to her breathe, her hand in mine.