The Girl On Legare Street (7 page)

Pressing my face against the window again, I strained to see further down the block and spotted Jack’s Porsche directly behind the Audi. The doorbell rang again and I ran down the stairs, then cautiously walked toward the door. Through the leaded-glass window I could make out the forms of two people, one male and one female. I wasn’t sure who the woman was, but the man was unmistakable.

“Jack?” I asked as I pulled the door open. “It’s six thirty in the morning.”

“Sorry,” he said, looking anything but. “I must have left my key in my room. But I knew you’d be awake, probably up alphabetizing your coffee table books or something, and would welcome the interruption.”

I opened my mouth to argue but shut it abruptly and not just because of how close to the truth he actually was. My gaze strayed to the blond woman next to him and I stared at her in surprise.

“Mellie, you might remember meeting . . .”

“Rebecca Edgerton,” I said coolly. “I remember. She’s a reporter, you know.”

“Yes,” he said, indicating for Rebecca to enter ahead of him. He blew on his hands, then rubbed them together before quickly shutting the door, leaving a chilly reminder of the cold weather outside lingering in the foyer.

I stood and stared at them, waiting for an explanation.

“Why don’t we go into the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee,” Jack said. “Then we can talk.”

“I’d love that,” said Rebecca. “We’ve been up all night and I could really use the caffeine.”

I shot Jack one of my mother’s looks with the raised eyebrow before turning to lead the way back to the kitchen. “All night, hmm?”

“I had my cell phone on, Mellie. All you had to do was call if you needed me.”

“We were just catching up,” Rebecca interjected. “Jack and I haven’t seen each other in a few years, so there was a lot of ground to cover.”

“I bet.” I went to the pantry and pulled out a large can of coffee. Jack appeared at my elbow and took it from me.

“You go sit down and let me do this.” Softly he said, “I don’t want you near anything that resembles a weapon.”

I did as he suggested, if only not to give Rebecca anything to write about, and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table across from her. General Lee entered the kitchen, then promptly moved to the table and parked himself at Rebecca’s feet, tilting his head to make it easier for her to scratch him behind the ears. I glared at him before turning to Rebecca. “So, you and Jack used to date before he met Emily.”

Rebecca smiled sweetly. “Yes. And then after Emily—left—we sort of lost touch. I guess the life of a famous writer keeps a person busy.”

Jack put a scoop of coffee into the filter. “Oh, that and other things.” He slid a glance at me and an unwelcome tingle erupted in my toes. “Which brings me to why we’re here.” He hit the ON switch on the coffeemaker and joined us at the table. “I think Rebecca can help us.”

“Help us?” I asked. “With what?” I stared at Jack, ignoring Rebecca. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her lift General Lee onto her lap, and the little traitor actually licked her cheek.

“Eradicating your mother’s house of its ghosts,” Rebecca said.

I threw my hands up. “Great, Jack. Why don’t you just broadcast the fact that my mother and I belong in a freak show? I have a business reputation to uphold, you know.”

Rebecca touched my arm. “He confided in me as a friend, not as a reporter, although I think my connections could help as well.”

“We don’t need any help, thank you. Jack and I have had some success in this area before, and with my mother’s assistance, I think we’ll have this problem solved very quickly.” I moved away from her, uncomfortable not only with her proximity but with her knowledge of my psychic abilities. It wasn’t how I identified myself. Rather, it was more like a genetic quirk such as curly hair or protruding ears. To be known as the woman who can see dead people was humiliating at best.

Jack leaned forward, his eyes serious. “You really think so, Mellie? Everything we’ve experienced so far has indicated that we’re dealing with a whole different ball game. It would appear that this—whatever we want to call it—has been hanging around the house for a long time, waiting for you.”

I swallowed. “That could be true. But, as my mother said, the two of us together should be enough to fight it.”

He didn’t drop his gaze. “Mellie, the two of you once lived in the house with your grandmother and the three of you weren’t enough. That’s what’s worrying me. That”—he narrowed his eyes—“and the thought that your mother isn’t telling us everything she knows.”

The same thought had been tugging at the back of my brain like a fly buzzing around my ear, but I kept swatting it away. I didn’t want to believe there was more to this story. Despite what others might believe, I was afraid of the supernatural. I wasn’t afraid of all spirits, of course, but certainly those that made threatening phone calls and physically attacked me. Just because I could see them or communicate with them did not make them my friends, which is why I needed to believe that my mother and I could make it go away and that there wasn’t anything else to worry about.

“I don’t think . . .” I began.

Rebecca interrupted. “I already told Jack that anything I eventually write about your mother will get her approval first. I understand that knowing about her psychic abilities, as well as yours, is privileged information and I won’t betray your trust. This is just one of those opportunities that could really make my career.” She regarded me hopefully, and once again I was struck by how familiar she looked—and not just because of her resemblance to Emily.

“Rebecca’s a bit psychic as well,” Jack added, and I could tell by Rebecca’s expression that she hadn’t wanted Jack to tell me. But when Jack looked back at me it was apparent that he knew how she felt and wanted me to know anyway.

He continued. “Not to the extent you are, though. She doesn’t see dead people, but she’s scary good at premonitions.”

Silently, I regarded Rebecca and was curious if she’d known about Emily’s illness and her subsequent death, but had chosen to keep it from Jack. And I couldn’t help but wonder if her reappearance in Jack’s life now had more to do with their past romantic involvement than any interest Rebecca might have in my family.

Rebecca splayed her fingers on the wood surface of the table—her skin pale, her fingernails polished a shiny petal pink. They, too, seemed familiar. “It’s in my family. My mother, aunt, and grandmother have it, too.”

“Rebecca’s already started doing research, finding out the names of both family members and close friends to help determine who the person found on the boat might be. Her sources would be a really great asset for you.”

I sat back in my chair, watching Jack closely and trying to understand why he so desperately wanted Rebecca to help us. Maybe it had something to do with her strong resemblance to the woman he’d loved and lost. “So what have you discovered so far?”

She smiled smugly. “When they brought up the
Hunley
submarine after one hundred and thirty-six years underwater, there were still skeletal remains as well as viable DNA. They used it to find the crew members’ descendants. It might be possible to determine, at the very least, if the person found on the boat is related to you.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow and I almost told her to stop doing that before I realized how irrational I’d sound. She continued. “The difference here is that the
Hunley
crew members were covered in silt, which worked toward their preservation. I think in addition to teeth and hair, they found brain matter, too. The body in the trunk wasn’t so well preserved, and with all those years in warm salt water, they’ll be lucky to find enough bones to piece together to figure out a definitive sex and age. It won’t give you a name, but the information could certainly narrow down the list. That’s where I come in.” She paused as if waiting to see if I was going to let her continue or stop her absurd assumption that she could help me. Even General Lee had stopped his licking and was looking at me intently to see what I would do.

Rebecca continued. “I can at least narrow the list by researching birth and death dates and their connection to the Prioleau family. I’ve done so much research on your family that I probably already have the information we need.” She smiled at Jack and I wanted to tell her to stop doing that, too. “I’ll share everything I find with Jack, who might be able to use it in his next book. You never know”—she looked back at me—“what Jack will decide to write about next. And if this mystery is juicy enough, I can imagine it will be a great follow-up to the Vanderhorst story he’s working on now.”

“Really?” I asked. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “And you two have already talked about this?”

“Not exactly,” Jack said.

“Yes,” Rebecca said at the same time.

Jack stood and began pouring coffee into our mugs, and I noticed how many sugars and how much cream he put into Rebecca’s mug without having to ask her. “What I meant to say is that Rebecca mentioned it to me and I’ll certainly keep it in mind.” He carried the three mugs over to the table and put them in front of us. “But I’d never write a word without your permission.”

I didn’t say anything, stalling for time by blowing on my hot coffee. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of working with an outsider, but adding another person to the mix might make the whole ordeal go faster. This would mean my mother could live in peace in her house without requiring my presence in her life for very long, I wouldn’t have to enter my house in fear that something was waiting for me, and it would keep Jack hanging around for a while longer. Not that I was interested in him romantically, of course. It was just that he knew a lot about furniture placement and could hang a painting straight.

I took a sip from my mug and savored it for a long moment. “We could certainly give it a trial run,” I conceded. “See how we work together.” I took another sip. “But one last thing . . .”

Rebecca watched me carefully.

“If you need to make any mention of my mother’s past penchant for telling fortunes at parties, say that it’s ‘intuition.’ That my mother’s what they call ‘an intuitive.’ ”

After a short pause she said, “Fine. I can do that.” She drained her mug, then waited for Jack to pull out her chair before she stood, cradling General Lee like a baby before gently putting him on the floor. Instead of running to me, he sat at her feet, and I thought he might even have sent me a defiant look.

I stood, too—without assistance—and pointedly looked at Jack, who seemed to be fixated on Rebecca.

“I’d better go now. Thanks for the coffee,” she said to me before turning to Jack. “And thanks for last night. I had fun. I’ll give you a call later.” She kissed him on the cheek, lingering a little longer than necessary, and I found myself studying the wood grain of the Shaker table.

After Jack helped her into her coat, she stood still for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Have you been up to the attic yet in your mother’s house?”

I shook my head. “It’s not her house yet. We’re working on it. Why?”

“I think you need to. I believe it’s still filled with Prioleau family things and there’s something up there you need to see. A portrait, maybe.”

“And you know this—how?”

Jack leaned on the table. “She has dreams. Sometimes they make sense, and sometimes they don’t.”

Rebecca nodded. “That’s right. And I saw—something, maybe a painting or photograph, in the attic that I felt in the dream would mean something to you.”

I studied her doubtfully. “We’ll be doing a few walk-throughs. I’ll make sure there’s access to the attic and go take a look.”

“Great,” she said before looking at Jack. “I’m afraid I’ll get lost in this big old house. Would you mind walking me out?”

“Not at all,” we said in unison, and I couldn’t help but smirk at him as we led Rebecca to the front door.

We had made it as far as the front porch when I realized I had another question for her. “That picture, or whatever it is—the one in the attic. What made you think I’d be interested in seeing it?”

She narrowed her eyes a little as she regarded me, turning her head to the right as I remembered seeing Emily do, and I wondered who had copied whom. “Because the subject of the portrait looks exactly like you.”

Something cold brushed the back of my neck, and I twisted to look at Jack. But he was staring at Rebecca as if he, too, had seen a ghost.

“Good-bye, again,” she said, and she appeared to be lingering as if waiting for Jack to go with her. I picked up General Lee to prevent him from defecting, too.

“Good-bye,” I said, reaching for the door and swinging it shut before she could say anything else.

I stood in the light of the stained-glass window in the house on Legare Street with my eyes closed, seeing behind my lids only the beautiful window and remembering the way the room had looked when my grandmother lived here. I stayed there for a long time in the silence, knowing that when I opened my eyes again I’d be assaulted with faux animal prints, psychedelic colors, and furniture made from plastic.

I had been amazed at how quickly the owners had accepted my mother’s offer. We asked to be able to go through the attic before closing to determine if there were any family heirlooms we wanted to keep with the house. When the owner had said it was all old junk and we were welcome to all of it, I knew that we would probably find a treasure trove of antique furniture and priceless art, which was why I was standing now in the house by myself, waiting for my mother and too afraid to venture past the front rooms. I’d thought about waiting on the sidewalk outside, but the temperature had dipped back into the twenties and I disliked being cold even more than I disliked nasty ghosts.

The sound of a footfall came from the foyer and my eyes flickered open. It was a heavy step, like that made from a boot, and I stilled—waiting. I was soon rewarded with the sound of a second booted foot hitting the stairs, and I turned and walked quickly to the foyer to face the sweeping staircase. I knew who it was before I saw him—the specter of my childhood, my imaginary friend and great protector. My father had told me he was a figment of my imagination, and I think at some point I had come to believe him. But in the small corner of my mind where childish hopes cling like cotton candy, I knew he was real.

“Hello,” I said into the dust motes that danced like iridescent fairies in the triangle of light from the window over the door. I sensed him rather than saw him, aware of the outline of a tall man leaning against the mahogany banister. I peered at him through the corner of my eye, never directly at him. As a child I’d learned that if I looked directly at him he’d go away, leaving only the trace scent of gunpowder and the lingering thought that maybe my father was right after all.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, and I felt him smile. Metal clinked against metal, and I pictured his long musket brushing against the large brass buttons of his dark green military jacket. I had the impression of a tricorn hat, large red cuffs on his jacket, and black leather gaiters with shiny buttons marching up the sides. He was back, my protector. Or maybe he’d never left. And I found myself wondering if he ever tired of carrying his musket for over two hundred years.

He began walking down the stairs toward me, his hand outstretched, and I tilted my head slightly, trying to get a better glimpse of him. I paused and felt the oddest sensation of heat warming my cheeks. Although he hadn’t changed in the intervening years, I obviously had. Whereas he had once been the invisible playmate of a seven-year-old child, I now saw him as a young and very handsome soldier. I’m sure he must always have been handsome, but seeing him now through the eyes of a thirty-nine-year-old woman, I registered his height, the blond hair that curled out from under his hat, the eyes that seemed almost black but were lit with what I could have sworn was a sparkle of amusement. There was a sadness there, too, a sadness I didn’t remember noticing as a child but seemed now to be as much a part of him as the uniform he wore.

He reached the bottom step and I felt his hand brush my arm, but I wasn’t afraid. I’d never been afraid when he was there. Still feeling the heat in my cheeks, I raised my hand but hesitated when I heard the sound of one car door slamming shut followed by another. In surprise, I turned my head and looked directly at him, realizing my mistake as soon as I saw him fade like the smoke from an extinguished candle.

The sound of quick footsteps coming up the walkway preceded the front door being thrown open. My mother stood there with her gloved hand on the door handle, her cheeks pink and her eyes a vivid green. They settled on me and she frowned.

“Why is that man here? You said he’d be working in the garden and that I wouldn’t have any contact with him. And why . . .” She stopped speaking as her eyes widened and her gaze focused on the spot behind me where the soldier had been.

I turned around and stiffened with surprise. My soldier stood there—in solid form—so clear I could see the beard stubble on his chin and his thick eyelashes. He too seemed surprised, his gaze widening as it settled on me and then moved to my mother. There was recognition in his eyes and in my mother’s as he slowly put a leg forward, swept his hat from his head, and gave her a courtly bow before completely disappearing.

My questions stilled on my lips as my father filled the doorway behind my mother, his brows knitted together in annoyance. “And good morning to you, too, Ginnette.We can at least be civil to each other, can’t we? Or are you too much of a diva now to be cordial to the father of your only child?”

“Mellie.” My mother tried to shut the door behind her but my father stepped forward, blocking it from closing. “Would you please explain to your father that he’s supposed to be working outside in the garden and that I have nothing to say to him?”

Still stunned by the solid presence of the soldier and my mind racing with the possibilities of why he would choose this moment to appear, it took me a few moments to process what my parents were saying.

Not willing to wait for my reply, Ginnette faced my father. “I think we said everything that needed to be said thirty-three years ago, and I have no desire to revisit one of the most difficult times in my life. So”—she crossed her arms over her chest and tapped a foot, diva-like—“why don’t you go dig a hole in the garden or something so Mellie and I can do what we came here to do?”

To my surprise, my dad smiled one of the smiles I remembered from my girlhood—before our lives had unraveled—a smile that engaged his eyes along with his mouth and had always been reserved for my mother alone. After she left, it had gone too, and I’d imagined it packed away with the boxes in the attic with the rest of the detritus of their marriage that he no longer cared to revisit.

“I think you’re more beautiful now than you’ve ever been, Ginny.”

Caught off guard, my mother struggled to retain her anger. Finally she said, “Nobody calls me that anymore. I prefer Ginnette.”

He just stood there, smiling. “But I still think of you as the Ginny Prioleau who swept me off my feet and stole my heart. I’m too old now to think of you as anything other than my beautiful Ginny.”

I tried not to smile, horrified as I was to relive a similar conversation I’d had with Jack when I’d tried to convince him that he wasn’t welcome to call me by the nickname my mother had given me. I was pretty sure that my mother would have as much luck convincing my father as I’d had with Jack.

Her chin quivered and then her cheeks pinkened even more.
Could she be blushing?
“Don’t flatter me, James. I’m only two months younger than you so we both know how old that makes me.”

Despite her words, she kept peering up at my father through thick eyelashes, and I fought the urge to gag. “Okay, you two. I think I’ve heard enough.” I moved between them and faced my father, my eyes widening to show him my disapproval of his consorting with the enemy. “Dad, why don’t you go outside and look around and jot down some ideas and a few ballpark estimates of the cost involved in implementing your proposed changes.” I grabbed hold of his elbow and led him to the door. “I’ll call you later to discuss.”

I opened the door and he stepped out. “Thanks, Dad. Later.” He opened his mouth to say something, but I didn’t hear what it was because I’d already closed the door.

My mother had regained her composure by the time I turned around. She’d taken off her coat and thrown it on one of the beanbag chairs but still wore her gloves. Leading the way to the stairs, I said, “Let’s go up to the attic. Follow me.” She didn’t ask why we were going the long way around since taking the back stairs would be quicker. She didn’t need to.

We climbed the stairs to the third floor, then walked around the upstairs hall that encircled the stairwell until we made it to the door to the attic stairs. I’d been up here once with my grandmother and remembered it as a place where the unwanted items of a family with pack rat tendencies discarded items long past their usefulness. Sort of like a pasture for old horses but not as scenic.

Grandmother had gone in for less than a minute to grab a floor fan for my bedroom and then marched me out before I’d had the chance to remove one dust cover but not before I’d heard the cacophony of voices that always seemed to accompany old things. She’d picked up the fan and then ushered me out before any of the voices recognized me and called me by name.

I stood for a moment with my hand on the doorknob, focusing on the task at hand and turning my thoughts inward to block out anything I didn’t want to see or hear. I didn’t have to look behind me to know that my mother was doing the same thing. Slowly, I turned the handle and headed up the attic stairs, my mother behind me, her gloved hand sliding up the banister.

Pale gray light filtered through the oval window on the front of the house, gently illuminating the specters of shrouded furniture and piles of miscellanea. I grabbed what looked like a dismembered chair leg and swatted at the collection of spiderwebs that had gathered in the corners before succumbing to age by sagging into the walkways somebody had once designed by pushing back furniture.

I lifted the flashlight I’d stashed in my purse and flipped it on to peer into the dark recesses of the attic space. “The current owners aren’t interested in taking anything that’s up here, so if you want it just say the word. Otherwise, they’re going to hire somebody to dispose of it.”

She nodded, her hands held tightly together in front of her. When I was small, I’d asked her why she always wore gloves and she’d told me it was because she was always cold. It wasn’t until I was much older when I’d touched a hat in a vintage-clothing shop and seen somebody else’s life flash before my eyes that I began to understand. Whereas it only happened on occasion with me, I assumed it must have been often enough to compel my mother to always cover her hands. My father’d had no patience for it, and I remembered him hiding her gloves more than once.

We both turned slowly, taking in what the flashlight could illuminate. There was a large assortment of garage sale-type junk, but there was also an equal amount of furniture and other smaller items like brass fireplace andirons and a stack of paintings against the far wall under the window. I paused by a cradle—completely intact, with a moth-eaten baby blanket still inside. If one were sentimental about one’s family history and past, such a thing would probably be valuable intrinsically if not financially. I looked away and walked past it, glad I wasn’t one of those misguided people who put the memories of people long gone at the top of their priority lists. These same people spent an inordinate amount of money on old houses for the sheer desire of spending even more money restoring them. I’m not sure how much of this I still believed in but it didn’t matter; I had inherited my house and therefore was excluded from my own scorn.

I watched my mother’s face soften as she examined the tangible memories of her family’s history, and I looked away, doubting the sincerity of her sentimentality. I’d been her daughter, after all, but apparently not valuable enough to keep.

“I’d like to keep all of this. Tell the owners to leave it all intact and I’ll sort through it later.”

I nodded and turned away, not able to look at her.

“What’s that over there?” My mother pointed to a large rectangular frame leaning against the wall next to a wooden hat rack where an old fedora, minus its brim, perched precariously on one of the prongs.

I swung the flashlight to where she pointed but could see only the back of a gilt frame. Walking toward it, I remembered what Rebecca had said to me about there being some sort of portrait in the attic that I needed to see. I paused—feeling suddenly chilled—and I thought I heard somebody whisper my name. “Did you say something?”

My mother’s eyes met mine and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Focus,” she said as we both moved toward the frame.

“Hold this,” I said and handed her the flashlight. I reached down and put a hand on either side of the frame, then lifted it before turning it around to lean it back against the wall. “Shine the flashlight on it.”

The circle of light danced over the dark oil paint like a spirit orb. I squinted and stepped closer to get a better look, feeling compelled to see something I didn’t really want to.

“Dear God.” My mother’s voice sounded tight and constricted and not really hers at all.

“What is it?” I was still standing too close to see past the glare of the flashlight. I moved back, stepping into a pile of telephone books and knocking them over but I barely noticed. I was too busy staring at the portrait in front of me.

It was a painting of two young girls, about nine and ten years old. They wore clothing of the late nineteenth century, with high necks and straight skirts, and black leather ankle boots. Both had their long brown hair pulled back with satiny bows, and matching bangs that highlighted wide hazel eyes. One was slightly taller than the other, making me think they were sisters very close in age. It was only after scrutinizing their faces closely that I was able to make out subtle differences in their features—the height of their brows, the angle of cheekbones, the shape of their chins.

But it was mostly the light in their eyes, the auras of their personalities that had been captured by the artist that differed the most. The taller girl had a slight smile on her lips that hinted at the held-back laughter of a secret joke. Her eyes were guileless, looking directly out of the painting as if she had nothing to hide.

The other girl was smiling, too, but not with amusement. It was more like the smile of a person who has done something wrong and gotten away with it. Her eyes glittered with a long-held secret—a secret I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.