The House on Tradd Street (43 page)

“Good point,” I said, slightly mollified. “But what did it say?”

“Gibberish, actually.” He pulled out a piece of paper from his back pocket. “I copied it here.”

I unfolded the page and saw a string of thirty-two letters from the English alphabet, without spaces and without any discernible order:
IFANKRNGMFEFIVEEMNROQNPDKNIASRKE.
I looked up at Jack. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It’s a substitution cipher—a basically simple one, as long as you know the key word that makes the code work. Every spare moment I’ve been trying different words to see if any of them work, but nothing seems to fit.”

“So that’s what all those cipher books were about in the attic—and why you wanted to borrow them.”

“Pretty much.” He had the decency to look sheepish. “If I’d discovered anything, I would have told you, you know. Even if I’d known you would be pissed off at me for the rest of my life.”

I looked at him with as much hurt and recrimination as I could muster but didn’t say anything.

“Anyway, the books are all from the last century, which makes me think it was Robert Vanderhorst who changed the clock face.”

“Which means that whatever is revealed by the clock could be about either Louisa or the diamonds.”

“Or both,” said Jack, carefully closing the clock face again. “And there’s one more thing.” He turned the old key in the wood casing of the clock and pulled the heavy hinged door open. “I found a secret compartment inside here.”

“And you didn’t think to show this to me earlier?”

“I didn’t see the need. It’s empty.” He knelt in front of the opening that revealed the clock’s inner workings while I peered behind him. Reaching to the far left side, he pressed a button that was flush with the inside cabinet, and made of wood. It had been invisible to the bare eye and most likely could be found only by touch. A small door popped open, and Jack moved back, allowing me to see better.

I stuck my hand in and felt around the inside of the small compartment, knocking on the bottom and sides. The top was open, a dark tunnel going up inside the clock. “I guess you’ve already figured out that there’s no space between the walls of the compartment and the outside of the clock.”

“Yep. And I’ve stuck a flashlight in the hole at the top, and it looks like it goes straight up to the pediment. I’m thinking that if this was ever used to hide the diamonds, they’re long gone now.”

I stood up and shut the hidden compartment, then closed the glass door, turning the key slowly until it latched. “There’s something else—something I remember from last night when you were giving me CPR in the garden.”

He raised an eyebrow but I didn’t take the bait. “I saw her . . . Louisa. She was kneeling by the fountain, pushing back the grass, as if to show me those Roman numerals. Since the fountain didn’t exist when Louisa lived here, I’m assuming Robert had it built. And that the numerals meant something to him.”

“I think you’re right. I’ve been playing with the numbers, and so has your dad.” He sent me another apologetic look. We’ve been trying to discover if they correspond with any birthdates, ages, dates in history, or anything significant to the Vanderhorst family. And nothing. We’ve found absolutely nothing.” He ran his hands through his hair, something I began to suspect he did a lot of when trying to work through a problem. I imagined he did it a lot while he was working, like a writerly habit, and I found it just a little bit attractive. He turned to me. “I’d like to see the picture of Louisa and the diamond while we’re here. I might be able to tell from the size and shape whether it’s what we’re looking for.”

“Assuming they’re still around to be found. But, sure—the albums are upstairs. I’ll show you before we leave. And I’d also like to see what you have as far as the clock cipher is concerned. I’m actually pretty good at puzzles.”

“Have at it,” said Jack. “I’d be more than happy to show you my wax rubbings.”

I made a move to elbow him, forgetting that I still held the framed photograph pressed between my elbow and my side, where I’d tucked it to touch the clock face. The frame fell to the floor, the backing separating from the picture and glass. As I bent to retrieve it, I noticed lying under the glass a torn piece of paper that had evidently been stuck between the photograph and the backing of the frame.

“What is it?” asked Jack as I picked it up and straightened.

“I’m not sure. It looks like part of an envelope.” The side with part of the flap still intact was blank but when I turned it over, a name and partial return address was scrawled on it:
Susannah Barnsley,
and then the words,
Orchard Lane.
I held it up for Jack to see. “Neither name rings a bell for me.”

“Me, neither.” He flipped it over several times, apparently deep in thought. “I’ll bring this to my friend at the library to see what she can figure out. Who knows: Maybe this Susannah might still be living.” He frowned. “But now I’m left to wonder if it wasn’t the clock at all that Louisa was trying to draw our attention to.”

“It’s not always apparent what a spirit is trying to say. And sometimes they’re not trying to say anything at all and just want attention.”

“Great. So that piece of envelope could just be something to make the picture fit better in the frame and mean nothing.”

“Or this Susannah Barnsley, whoever she is, and assuming she’s still among the living, could know where the diamonds are. Or where Louisa is.”

“Or maybe we’re both just crazy for believing that dead people can make contact with the living.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Or not,” said Jack with his trademark grin. “Why don’t you take me upstairs and show me the picture of the diamond? Then I’ll head out to the library while you get some rest. Hopefully, by the time I get back, we’ll have heard from your dad and Sophie.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said as I headed toward the stairs while Jack followed behind me. I stopped and turned around to face him. “Why are you calling me by my full name?”

His eyes widened innocently. “Because you told me to.”

“Oh. I did, didn’t I?” I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment as we continued to watch each other closely. Finally, I turned around and headed toward the stairs. “Well, you can stop it now. It sounds . . . odd coming from you.”

I heard the smile in his voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

We walked up a few steps, then Jack spoke again. “By the way, that was almost kiss number two, just in case you’re still counting.”

“I’m not,” I said as I made my way up the stairs, feeling Jack’s eyes on me the entire way to the top.

 
 
I was exhausted by the time Jack left after having seen the picture and verifying that the diamond Louisa wore was most probably one of the fabled diamonds. The near-sleepless night caught up to me as I opened up all the windows upstairs to create a cross breeze, and then, instead of driving back to my condo, I curled up on the sofa—feeling somewhat safer in the light of day—in the upstairs drawing room and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I’m not sure how long I slept, only that when my father shouted my name, I slid off the couch in a panic, hitting my head on the TV tray set up in front of it. Rubbing my head, I sat on the floor and scowled up at my father. “Daddy, I’m not a recruit. Please don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Sorry, sweetpea.” He smiled apologetically, offering me his hand. “I guess I’m a little out of practice. And I was a little too excited to wait for you to wake up on your own.”

Feeling my own excitement, I let him pull me up and sat on the couch. “What did you find out?”

I noticed the humidor tucked under his arm and watched as he placed it on the table. “Mr. Sconiers was able to develop the roll of film while I waited—probably because there were only three photographs exposed on the entire film.” He opened the lid and withdrew three black-and-white two-and-one-quarter-inch-square photographs, just like the ones I’d seen in Louisa’s albums. He handed them to me. “Tell me what you think.”

The first photo was of the fountain. The grass was shorter in front, the Roman numerals plain to see behind the clipped grass. “The only thing I’m noticing about the fountain is that there’s no water in it. It was dry when I came to see Mr. Vanderhorst, too, and my plumber can’t seem to get it to work.” I met my father’s eyes. “Maybe that means something.”

My dad pulled out a pocket-sized spiral notebook. “I’m writing down everything we find out. Even if nothing makes sense now, we might find something once we get it all together.”

“Good,” I said, flipping to the next photograph of the grandfather clock, the growth chart on the wall beside it barely visible. I looked at the clock face, noticing that it wasn’t the same one that was on the clock now. Feeling disappointed, I said, “Well, we’ve already figured that one out—Robert replaced the face with one that has some sort of code that Jack’s been trying to solve. I hope the third picture is something new.”

I flipped to the next photograph and paused. It was a portrait of a beautiful young woman, with light brown skin and pale eyes, seated on a piano bench. She was looking somberly at the photographer, a sad smile on her full lips. “Who do you think this is?”

My dad took the picture. “She’s got a copy of sheet music for ‘Oh, Susannah’ on her lap. I wonder if that means anything.”

“I think it might.” I reached into the back of my jeans pocket—the first pair of jeans I’d ever owned and purchased at the urging of Sophie, and Jack who were tired of my Lily Pulitzer capris—and pulled out the torn envelope.

“ ‘Susannah Barnsley,’ ” my dad read. “The name doesn’t ring a bell for me at all, and I’ve gone through all of the archived papers on this house and am pretty sure I haven’t seen that name.” He continued to stare at the photograph, humming a few bars to the song.

“Jack has a friend at the library. He’s gone to see today if she can find out anything in the archives.” I must have put an emphasis on the word “friend” because my dad looked at me carefully.

“Friend, huh? I’m assuming it’s a girl, then.”

I shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” To change the subject, I said, “Let me hang on to the letter written to Nevin, too. I’d like to go over it again, see if there’s anything we’re missing.”

My dad took the letter from the humidor and handed it to me. Before he could say anything else, my cell phone rang and I picked it up when I saw it was Sophie. “Hey, Soph.”

“Hi, Melanie. You sound better. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” I heard a baby crying in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the health clinic here on campus. I’m getting a shot that should help me with my dog allergies.”

“But you don’t own a dog.”

There was a pause. “No, but you do, Melanie, and we spend an awful lot of time together.”

I thought for a moment. “But General Lee has spent maybe thirty minutes in my company in the last five months.”

Sophie didn’t answer right away, and when she did, it was about another subject entirely. “I found out about your rose. My friend would need to do more scientific tests to be absolutely positive, but looking at the structure of the petals, he’s pretty sure it’s a Louisa rose. Does that help you at all?”

“I’m not sure. We seem to have a lot of pieces right now but none of them really fit together.”

“How’s the house?”

I could hear the apprehension in Sophie’s voice. “It’s fine. The kitchen’s gone, but the rest of the house will be fine after a good airing. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For continuing to work on the house while I was having my little pity party. It looked beautiful.”

There was an edge to Sophie’s voice. “Why are you speaking in the past tense?”

“Well, there’s soot over everything right now. Give it a few days before you come back over, all right?”

“Sure. Is there anything else I can do for you in the meantime?”

“Yeah, you can tell Chad that I’ve lined up four more condos for him to see and that I need him to call me back.” I was about to say goodbye when I thought of something else. I figured it was a long shot, but Sophie Wallen was often full of surprises. “One more thing—have you ever heard of a Susannah Barnsley?”

She didn’t even pause before answering. “Of course. Or at least I know her house. It’s on one of the architecture tours I give.”

I felt a little thrum of excitement flare in my chest. “Her house? Where is it?”

“On Chalmers—in one of those completely renovated neighborhoods. She was a mixed-race woman who was put up in a nice house by her white benefactor.”

My heart sank.
Robert had a mistress?
“Does she still live there?”

“No—the house and the whole neighborhood were pretty much abandoned by the nineteen fifties. It’s only because of the Historic Preservation Society that they didn’t fall under the wrecking ball.” I heard the outrage in Sophie’s voice and, for the first time in my adult life, could almost identify with it. “Did I help you at all?”

“You might have. I’ll let you know after I speak with Jack.”

A muffled name was shouted out in the waiting room. “They just called me, so I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”

“Bye, Soph,” I said, but she’d already hung up the phone.

“Jack’s here,” my dad said as he looked out the window that faced the side of the house. “What’s all that stuff he’s bringing with him?”

I moved to stand by my father, and peered out the window as Jack removed two suitcases, a box of books, and most surprising, a large potted orchid.

“How did he know that’s my favorite flower?” I muttered.

“Is it?” my dad asked, and we both stared at each other as we let the implications pass.

“He must have called Nancy,” I said as I admired the play of muscles as Jack lifted both suitcases with minimal effort and managed to balance the orchid, too.

“Looks like he’s moving back in,” my dad observed.