The House on Tradd Street (24 page)

“Man,” he answered without pausing to think.

“Couldn’t you at least pretend to be stumped?” I replaced the cane against the wall. “Mrs. Houlihan said that the Vanderhorsts were known for their love of riddles.”

“Really?”

I looked at Jack, curious at the tone of his voice, but he’d already gone back to examining a box of what appeared to be old shoes. I looked around me at the stacks of books, papers, trunks, old clothing, and furniture. The blue tarp covering the hole in the roof chatted in the breeze, reminding me of why there seemed to be pigeon crap over most of everything, including the huge buffalo that dominated one side of the sizable attic. The smells of mildew, dust, and humid outside air were nearly too thick to breathe.

Jack followed my gaze. “I think we should get all of this stuff out of here as soon as possible, before there’s any further damage. We’ll have to do it before they repair the roof anyway, so we might as well do it now.”

I nodded. “We can sort of triage the stuff we find and then have your parents come over to tell us what kind of furniture we have.”

Jack moved toward an open trunk near the door. “I think the only reason why the photo albums and camera were in such good condition is because they were in the trunk. No pigeon crap.”

I peered inside the trunk and saw seven more albums identical to the one I’d already started looking through. Even with gloves, I was hesitant to reach in and touch them. The out-of-body experience I’d had the previous day wasn’t something I was eager to repeat. Unfortunately, I knew that I didn’t have a choice.

“Check this out,” Jack called from the opposite end of the attic. He’d opened a tall armoire, exposing yards of lace, silk, and feathers. “It’s like a twenties costume store in here.”

Happy to leave the scrapbooks behind for now, I went over to investigate. Hatboxes were crammed on a shelf above the dresses, and satin shoes with buckles and heels crowded the space below. I touched a faded peach silk dress with my gloved hands, its hem blackened with mildew. “I bet these were Louisa’s,” I said softly.

“I think you’re right,” said Jack as he pulled back the neck of the dress to find a hand-sewn label:
Made expressively for Louisa Gibbes Vanderhorst.
He pulled open a small drawer inside the armoire. “And look inside here. All of her lace handkerchiefs with her monogram and silk stockings.” He reached inside and held up a handful of brittle dried rose petals. “Looks like somebody stuck these in here to keep the clothes fresh.” He put them back inside the drawer and wrinkled his nose as the smell of rotting clothes and mildew wafted out at us. “Sort of like insuring your boat after the storm.” He stared into the dark armoire. “You know, if I were Mr. Vanderhorst and my wife had run off with another man, I would have burned all of her things. Or at least given them away. I don’t think I would have saved everything like a kind of memorial for her.”

“Maybe he thought she was coming back.”

Jack looked at me, his eyes sad, and I wondered if he was thinking of the woman he’d once planned to marry. “I don’t think so. He had the entire armoire moved up here, out of his sight. Like he knew she was gone for good, but he couldn’t stand to get rid of everything that reminded him of her.” He shook his head. “No, he knew she wasn’t coming back. But he never stopped missing her.”

I remembered the ghost I’d seen with Jack and recalled what she’d said.
I never stopped loving him. I never stopped.
And then, right before she vanished,
Tell him I love him still.
I wondered briefly if I had it all wrong, if the woman was really Louisa and she hadn’t been talking about Jack at all. But she didn’t appear to resemble the photographs I’d seen of Louisa, and she was definitely different from the woman I saw in the garden, and when I’d seen her with Jack, I’d felt that love and grief had been directed at him. I’d felt the tears she’d shed for him and so had Jack, although he didn’t know it.

I studied Jack’s face in the dim light of the single bulb, seeing his chiseled features and sad eyes, and listened as the house breathed around us, as I reconciled myself to the fact that I needed to find not one missing woman, but two. I told myself it wasn’t to right old wrongs, or grant an old man’s dying request; it had everything to do with getting the dead people to leave me alone. But even I had limits to lying to myself.

“Do you still miss her?” I asked.

He looked at me sharply. “Miss who?”

“Emily.”

He didn’t look away. “How do you know about Emily?”

“Your mother.”

He was silent for a moment. “What did she tell you?”

“That she literally left you at the altar. That she moved to New York, and you’ve never heard from her again.” I chewed on my bottom lip, unsure of my next words. Finally, I said, “Your mother told me that Emily was a journalist with the
Post and Courier
and that you met when you were doing research for a book.” I felt myself blushing and hoped he couldn’t notice in the dim light.

Jack turned away, facing a tall stack of books that looked like they’d been pulled from other parts of the attic and piled there, since they appeared amazingly dust-free.

“My mother is a wonderful woman, but she really needs to learn when it’s okay to share information and when it’s not. Did she tell you any embarrassing stories about when I was a toddler and liked to run around in a cowboy hat, holster, boots, and nothing else?”

I stared at the back of his neck, where his dark hair curled, making me think of what an adorable little boy he must have once been, and reminding me of how he looked asleep when his defenses were down and he was unaware that anyone was watching. “So, do you?” I persisted.

He didn’t turn around, nor did he ask me what I was talking about. Finally, he said, “Yeah, I suppose I do. I kept a box with her ring and hairbrush in it, so I guess I must. But I don’t think that she’s ever coming back.”

Softly, I said, “I don’t think she is either.”

I had walked toward him and the stack of books, and I didn’t think he’d heard me, because when he spun around, he seemed startled to find me so close. His eyes were wide as he stared into mine. He put his hands on my upper arms and put his face close to mine. “What makes you say that? Do you know something?” His hands squeezed a little tighter. “Did you see anything?”

I looked away. “It’s just a feeling.” I swallowed. “After speaking with your mother, I realized that Emily was probably gone for good.”

He dropped his hands. “I think you’re right. It’s just hard to believe that the person you think you’re going to spend the rest of your life with can disappear from your life.”

“So you don’t know what happened to her?”

He shook his head. “Not a word. Not even her boss at the paper knows exactly where she went or why.”

I wanted to tell him then what I’d seen, and deliver the message I’d been given. But when a person escapes being brutalized on the playground by denying what she really sees and hears, it’s not easy to believe that adults will have a different attitude. And besides, I told myself, I had no evidence that the woman I’d seen was Emily.

Jack moved away as if eager to change the conversation, and I got a good view of the books that had been stacked in front of him. I picked up the book on top and looked at it, reading the title out loud.
“Ciphers of the Civil War.”
I picked up the next one. “
The Adventure of the Dancing Men.
Sherlock Homes.” I turned to Jack. “Where did you find these?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I found them here and there in the attic. Some are moldy but a lot are in good condition. I guess a previous owner was really interested in ciphers.” He moved closer to me and took the two books from my hands. “It’s kind of an interest of mine, too, and I was hoping you’d let me read them while I was here.”

“By ciphers, do you mean secret codes?”

“Pretty much. In some of my previous books, especially those that involved espionage, I learned a lot about codes and code breaking. It’s a guy thing, I guess.”

“Well, you’re welcome to read them. But if you bring them downstairs, make sure you don’t flake off any mold onto the furniture.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he placed the books back onto the stack.

I continue to rummage, lifting dusty sheets to see what lay underneath and finding not only exquisite antique furniture but also everything from moth-eaten Civil War uniforms to piles of old magazines and brittle newspapers from the last hundred and fifty years. A heavy oak plantation desk sat partially hidden behind the buffalo, and I had to squeeze myself between them to examine the desk more closely. I pulled open the large center drawer, surprised at how easily it opened, almost as if someone had already been there before me. I reached in and took out a stack of papers.

Jack spoke from behind me. “The style of furniture is so different from what’s in this house that I’m thinking it might have come from the Vanderhorsts’ plantation.”

I nodded, my eyes scanning the documents as I riffled through them. “Do you recall the name of the plantation?”

“Magnolia Ridge.”

My eyes met his. “I think you’re right. Most of these papers are just shopping lists for supply trips into town and receipts for bolts of cloth and salt. But this”—I took out a sheet from the middle of the stack—“looks like the deed to the property.”

Jack stepped forward, tripping over a deer head in his haste, and stood next to me. “Can I see that?”

I handed him the sheet of paper and he held it so that the single bulb shone on it. I peered over his shoulder, noting the date printed at the top: November 1, 1929. “Wasn’t that the year of the stock market crash?”

Jack nodded, his eyes scanning the small printing and squinting at the signatures on the bottom of the page.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a property deed to the Magnolia Ridge plantation. It would appear from this document that Robert Vanderhorst deeded the property to his wife, Louisa.”

I squinted my eyes at the signatures on the bottom, wondering why one of them looked familiar, but Jack stuck it back in the pile, and my thoughts were distracted by his last words. “Why would he have done that? They were married, and I’m not sure what the laws were back then, but I would bet that what was hers was now his.”

“That’s about it. But sometimes a man would deed property to his wife or relative in order to escape paying taxes. Or—” He stopped, as if hesitant to give anything away.

“Or what?” I persisted.

“Or to avoid having it confiscated by the government. Like for illegal activity.”

“Illegal activity? The Vanderhorsts?”

Jack grinned. “Oh, grasshopper, you have much to learn. Feel free to call me master as I enlighten you.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s late. Could you just tell me so I can go to bed?”

He stared patiently at me. “Mellie, what big social upheaval was going on in the late twenties and early thirties?”

I thought for a long moment. After I had reached the age of six, history ceased to be relevant to me, and I’d barely got by in my history classes in school as I learned enough to pass an exam and then happily forgot everything. “Well, girls started showing their ankles and dancing the Charleston. And you have to give me credit for knowing about the stock market crash.” I smiled up at him, proud to have dug that one out of the recesses of my memory.

“Does the Eighteenth Amendment or the Volstead Act ring any bells?”

“Happily, no.” I grinned.

“I’m talking about Prohibition. I’ve actually been out to Magnolia Ridge—before Mr. Longo purchased it—and I saw the remains of several stills. Apparently, Nevin Vanderhorst’s father was a bootlegger. Not that Charleston Country ever really went dry, but there was a lot of money to be made supplying the surrounding counties and states.”

“Sorry if I don’t get excited about this history lesson. But I saw no need to know my history when I was in school, and I see even less reason now. It’s all about dead people anyway.”

Jack raised an eyebrow as he turned his head to peruse the document again. “I guess you would know.”

I sucked in my breath. “Excuse me?”

Without looking at me, he said, “You dislike old houses because they seem to be owned by people mired in the past, and you’d rather see the real estate used for something more useful like a parking lot—unless you can sell an old house to some poor sod who doesn’t know what he’s in for and make a lot of money. So it doesn’t surprise me that you equate history with dead people, as something no longer relevant. And I’m sure none of it has anything to do with the fact that you were supposed to inherit your mother’s family home on Legare but instead she sold it to strangers after your parents separated.”

My shock and embarrassment quickly turned to anger. “Did my father tell you that little gem?”

“He didn’t have to. My mother told me after we stopped by for our visit.” He slid the document back into the drawer and closed it. “I guess that makes us even, then,” he said quietly.

“I guess so,” I replied, feeling tired all of a sudden. “I’m going to take a couple of these albums on my way down. We don’t need to get them all tonight, but if you could bring a couple down and leave them outside my door when you’re done up here, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he said as I gathered up two albums into my arms.

Straightening, I said, “By the way, have you had a chance to get your photos of the clock face printed yet?”

For a moment I thought from his expression that he wasn’t sure what I was talking about. “Oh, right. No. I haven’t had a chance. My camera’s not digital, so I have to actually take the film in to be processed. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” He rubbed his hands together. “So, what’s on the schedule for tomorrow?”

“I’ve got to go into the office tomorrow morning for a few appointments, but I should be back by noon. I’ve printed copies of the work sheet for everybody and e-mailed them—yours I put on your bed so you won’t need to be confused when you wake up in the morning and wonder what you should be doing.”