The Strangers on Montagu Street (48 page)

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Authors: Karen White

Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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“You know, I have a GPS. All you have to do is plug in the address.  . . .”
“Those things are never right. Besides, I doubt any GPS could find it. It’s an abandoned homestead where nobody has lived for decades. That’s why Yvonne couldn’t give us a street address.”
“Mother, it uses a satellite. Anything that exists can be seen. . . .”
“There it is,” she said, almost chortling. “Nothing like good old-fashioned map reading to get you where you need to go.”
“Avoiding technology just means you’re getting old,” I said smugly as I turned onto an unpaved road, effectively silencing her.
Dust erupted under the tires, seeming to swallow up the road behind us. The car bumped over rocks and small limbs, making me wish I’d taken my dad up on his offer to borrow his truck. The old-growth pine forest loomed thickly over us, blocking out much of the sunlight and giving me the impression of being inside a cathedral. None of which did anything to soothe my nerves. With grave digging on the agenda, I hadn’t really expected anything would.
“What if somebody sees us?” my mother asked.
It had occurred to me to bring ski masks and something to hide my license plate, but I’d dismissed these ideas as being products of watching too many
MacGyver
reruns on late-night TV, my company during my recent bout of insomnia. Still, my being caught digging up a grave would look really bad when reported in the Charleston papers. Especially if they included a photo of me in my mom jeans.
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” I said. “Yvonne checked the records and verified that the house and property have been abandoned since the nineteen fifties, when Jonathan’s parents died. One of his brothers in north Georgia inherited it, but nobody’s lived here since then.”
“So we’re trespassing,” she said.
“Yes. But that would be the least of the charges if we’re caught.” I pressed down on the brake, stopping the car. “If you want to turn back, speak now.”
I followed her gaze out the back window of the car, to where all we could see was a swirling haze of orange-colored dust, and then to the sides of the narrow road with ditches leading down into the forest. She looked at me. “I think we’re beyond that now. Don’t you?”
I nodded, knowing she was right in more ways than one. I pressed my foot on the gas pedal, moving the car forward with the oddest feeling of being glad that there was no turning back.
The Victorian farmhouse, when we finally came upon it in a clearing, appeared to be waging its last stand against the encroachment of the forest. It was exactly how I had pictured it—with the peaked roof, large deep porch, and the straight lines of the porch supports straight out of a book of Americana. This style of house probably existed in most regions throughout the country, calling to mind large families and chickens in the front yard. Not murder and empty graves. The only difference between my mental picture and what I saw before me was that the house seemed even more abandoned and forlorn than I had imagined.
No glass existed in the windows, allowing for gaping holes through which one could see collapsed ceilings and fallen walls. A large tree poked through the roof, the dislodged slate shingles half-embedded in the ground below where they’d fallen, as if in testament to the violence of the storm that had thrown them there.
I put the car in park and turned off the ignition. “I’m assuming the family cemetery is out back.”
“That’s what Yvonne said.” My mother faced me. “You don’t like cemeteries very much.” It wasn’t a question.
“Nothing good ever happens while I’m in one.”
She took my hand and squeezed. “Remember, we’re stronger together. Don’t forget that.”
I squeezed back, then let go to exit the car. We stood in the deafening silence filled only with the background drone of thousands of unseen insects. I could smell the nearby marsh and the ubiquitous Lowcountry pluff mud, a scent I’d loved from the very first whiff. People say that’s how you can tell a true South Carolinian—if they don’t wrinkle up their noses at the unique smell of rotting vegetation.
“Do you feel anything?” she asked as we faced the desolate house whose yard seemed to be swallowing it whole, with weeds that grew through the slats in the porch floorboard.
“No. Not yet, anyway. Maybe there’s no reason for them to be here.”
My mother regarded me. “Or maybe we haven’t given them a reason yet.”
I swallowed heavily, trying to focus on the task at hand. I unlocked the trunk and handed a shovel to my mother, then took out the pick and another shovel for me. We were rounding the side of the house when I heard the distinct sound of a car door slamming.
I started and stopped. “Oh, no—somebody’s here!” I quickly calculated how long it would take us both to run to the car and back out over the long gravel drive, before looking over at my mother, whose expression wasn’t registering alarm or even surprise. Instead she actually looked apologetic.
Anger quickly replaced my fear. “Are you expecting someone?” I asked, moving ahead slowly while my suspicions rose, then were confirmed when I heard Nola’s voice.
“They’re here,” Nola announced, just as my mother and I rounded the corner to the back of the house.
Jack and Nola stood by his pickup truck, each holding a shovel. All we needed was a couple of pitchforks to reenact a medieval witch hunt.
“What are you doing here?” Jack and I asked simultaneously.
We looked at Nola and my mother, both of whom suddenly looked very, very guilty.
“Mother! What were you thinking?”
Very calmly she approached us. “I was thinking that we needed Jack’s help. Nola agreed.”
Nola stepped between Jack and me. “And it would be nice if the two of you would make up. I feel like that dude on
The Bachelor
trying to choose between the two of you. It’s just
wrong.
”
Jack was staring at me, his expression one of confusion. “What happened to you?”
You,
I wanted to say, but didn’t want to give him any more power over me. I couldn’t meet his eyes, remembering the humiliation of our last encounter. I stuck out my chin. “I’m on vacation. This is what people wear on vacation.”
The old familiar smirk lifted half of his mouth. “On a retirees’ cruise to Cancún, maybe. Where did you get those clothes?”
I tried to be offended but couldn’t. Even if Jack wasn’t mine, it was good to know he was still Jack. Regardless, I didn’t think either “Sophie” or “Goodwill” would be acceptable responses. Instead, I pulled together the last shards of self-respect and asked again, “Why are you here?”
“For the same reason you are, I’m thinking.” He slid a glance at his daughter. “Nola told me about Julia’s letters. She’d heard enough to be able to let me know what was in them. But, being the intelligent person that she is, instead of telling me what she already knew, she allowed me to reach the same conclusion you apparently have—that Jonathan was the other body buried with William.”
Curious enough to forget my humiliation and the stabbing pain in the vicinity of my heart that came each time I looked at him, I asked, “What made you think that?”
He scratched the back of his head. “Well, his death from influenza in 1938 was too coincidental. First William, then the house fire, then Jonathan—all in the same year. There was no influenza epidemic that year, which doesn’t really mean he couldn’t have died from it; it’s just that his death was too . . . neat.”
“And there’s no such thing as coincidence,” Nola said, beaming.
“Fast learner,” Jack said, rubbing the top of her head as if she were a little kid. Frowning, as if he were trying not to show too much interest, he turned to me. “What about you? How did you figure it out?”
“The letters waxed poetic about the beautiful blond hair of the person Jonathan wrote to. According to the Manigault family photos that I’ve seen, Julia’s hair was dark brown. William’s was blond.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Anyway, Nola acted appropriately surprised when I told her about my conclusion and casually mentioned that if we could find Jonathan’s grave and discover it empty, we’d have a pretty good guess as to who was buried alongside William Manigault. I imagine she even convinced Yvonne not to tell me she’d already given you the same information on where to find Jonathan’s grave when I met with her yesterday.”
Nola focused on a rock on the ground in front of her with scholarly intensity.
Jack and I stood facing each other, our eyes not exactly meeting. “Well,” I said, “glad to have my conclusions collaborated. But I think Nola, my mother, and I can handle it from here on out. After all, none of this concerns you.”
My mother stepped forward. “Let’s not be so hasty, Mellie. Jack’s already here, and we could really use his considerable muscle to help with the digging. It will make it go twice as fast.”
As much as I wanted to contradict her, I knew she was right. An extra set of arms would make it all go so much faster—even if they were Jack’s arms. I figured that maybe I could work with my back to him so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Or hear him breathe, which would bring back way too many memories. With a heavy sigh that sounded a lot like Nola, I said, “Whatever.”
“No.”
The three of us turned to stare at Jack.
He crossed his arms. “No,” he said again. “I think Mellie should ask me nicely. As she pointed out, this has nothing to do with me. If she wants to borrow my muscles, she’ll have to ask.”
I felt my mouth drop open. “There is no way in . . .”
My mother spoke up. “My sciatica is really acting up, Mellie. I don’t think I’m going to be much help with the digging. Which would leave only you and Nola. And she weighs about eighty pounds soaking wet. So before you make any hasty decisions, please think about it.”
I tried to imagine doing all that digging by myself, and couldn’t get past the part where I’d need to break the surface somehow. Just thinking about it depleted my energy reserves, not to mention the time issue. The fear of discovery was never far from my mind.
I took a deep breath and sighed deeply. Looking at a spot behind Jack’s shoulder, I said, “Would you please stay and help us dig?”
“Since you asked so nicely,” he said, with a hint of a smile lingering in his voice.
I slid my gaze to meet his, noticing again how blue his eyes were, and how they weren’t mocking me but appeared instead to be searching mine. I looked away, for the first time not able to even guess what he might be thinking.
“Then come on,” I said, hoisting a shovel and pick, then marching past Jack.
“Nice jeans,” he said as I walked by, giving me a couple of ideas of what I could do with the pick and shovel besides digging.
Just as Yvonne had described, a small family cemetery lay situated behind the house, down a rock path that had been rendered almost invisible by tall weeds. A rusty wrought-iron gate surrounded the clearing with its small number of unkempt tombstones, their rounded tops made visible only by the shifting breeze.
“What is it with you Middleton women and family cemeteries?” Jack asked.
My mother raised her eyebrows and I knew she, too, was recalling the last time we’d been in a cemetery together as we’d tried to put the spirit of Rose Prioleau to rest. We’d come very close to having it all end in disaster.
“Except here I’m not feeling anything,” I said. “Like all the spirits here are resting peacefully.”
“Or aren’t here at all,” Nola added.
I hoped she was right.
We fanned out through the overgrown cemetery, reading fading inscriptions on the old grave markers. There were only about a dozen, and it didn’t take long for Jack to find it. “Over here,” he called, indicating a white marble marker in the shape of a cross. “Just has his name—no birth or death dates. Maybe Jonathan’s parents didn’t want their lie to be imprinted on a cross.”
We stood in front of the marker and stared at the flat expanse of dirt and grass that grew over the grave. Jack reached for the pick and I handed it to him, more grateful that he was there than I wanted to admit, and not just because of the added muscle. Still, I couldn’t look at him, and each accidental glance was like the slow peeling of a Band-Aid off a wound that wouldn’t heal.
“Move back,” he instructed. “I’ll start and then we can all take turns scooping out the dirt. We’re going to go about six feet long and six feet deep, and if we work fast we should have it done in a couple of hours.”
“Can you make it faster?” Nola suggested. “I’ve got plans tonight. With Alston,” she added hastily.
We stood back as Jack hoisted the pick and let it fall, and the first tremor of fear began at the base of my neck. I glanced at my mother and saw that she’d felt it, too.
“You’d better hurry, Jack,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll have two hours.”
His gaze traveled from my mother to me, and I knew he was remembering our last cemetery digging, too. He raised the pick above his head and drove it into the earth, and I felt the ground trembling softly below me, as if we’d awakened something that should have been left asleep.

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