The Guests on South Battery (12 page)

“W
as there anything in the mail?” Jack asked, one hand on the steering wheel, the other thrown casually around the back of my seat. The Fireproof Building on Chalmers, where the South Carolina Historical Archives were kept, wasn't that far and Jack had suggested we walk, but my feet were close to bleeding because I'd worn my favorite pre-pregnancy heels all morning. Despite the numb tingling on one side of each foot and the blisters on the other, I'd promised my beautiful shoes that I'd wear them for the rest of the day before I added them to the shrine at the back of my closet.

Jack smelled of shampoo and soap and
Jack
, and I couldn't make myself ask him to remove his arm until he apologized. For what, I wasn't sure. All I knew was that I felt unsettled, and that it had started when I walked into the nursery and saw him and Jayne and our children together. I'd felt somehow superfluous, my old insecurities resurfacing like a rash that hadn't completely faded. Because, deep down, I still believed that capturing Jack's attention had been a fluke, and that one day he'd wake up and really see me as the pathetic, awkward, and insecure teenager I'd once been and was afraid I still was.

“Mellie?”

I realized I'd been staring at his jawline while allowing my thoughts to ramble down a road I didn't want to travel. “Um, I'm sorry, what did you say?”

“Was there anything in the mail?”

Crap
. “A couple of things, I think. There's another bill from Rich Kobylt. I didn't look at the amount because I didn't want to start thinking ugly thoughts about hiding a body in cement. I mean, it's not like it hasn't been done before.”

“They'd know where to look,” Jack said seriously.

“True. And who knows what else they'd dig up while they're looking, and then we're falling down another rabbit hole. So I'll let you deal with the bill.”

He seemed to be waiting for me to say something else.

“What?” I asked. “You think I should handle the bill?”

“No. You said there were a couple of things in the mail. What was the second thing?”

I considered throwing myself out of the car while it was still moving. He wasn't going that fast, and I was close enough that I could walk home even if it made me permanently lame.

“Oh,” I said, flicking my wrist to show him how unimportant it was. “It was an invitation.”

Jack was a true-crime writer, used to digging for details and asking questions. I had no idea why I'd thought he wouldn't notice my evasiveness.

“An invitation?”

I nodded.

He sighed. “An invitation to what?”

I stared longingly at the side of the road, my hand hovering over the door latch. “A party. At Cannon Green.”

“A party? Well, that's something. What kind of party? Baby's first birthday? Retirement? Engagement? Celebrating Sophie's new enterprise of handmade grass skirts from Africa?”

“A book-launch party,” I said quickly, coughing into my hands in the dim hope that he wouldn't hear and would let it drop.

“A book-launch party?” he repeated, each consonant perfect. “For whom?”

When I didn't answer immediately he glanced at me, a look of incredulity mixed with uncertainty clouding his features. “It couldn't be . . .”

“It's for Marc. For
Lust, Greed, and Murder in the Holy City
. I think it's a big deal—the invitation was sent by his publisher. Maybe that's why we're on the guest list—it's a mistake because they don't know your history with Marc.”

“Oh, they know it. And I'm pretty sure Marc made sure we were on that list.”

“So we're not going, right?” I asked hopefully. Spending money on an evening gown for a party for Marc Longo was right up there on my priority list alongside doing psychic readings at the Ashley Hall alumnae weekend (as suggested by Nola).

Jack didn't even hesitate. “Of course we're going.”

“But why put ourselves through the misery of seeing Marc gloat, and watching people who should know better fawn over him? He
stole
that book from you. And then he tried to steal our house from both of us. Why on earth should we go to a party to celebrate him? Don't forget that Rebecca will be there, too. She'll be wearing some atrocious pink gown, and just the sight of her in it and her smug, self-satisfied expression will probably make me throw up.”

Jack grinned, his dimple deepening. “And that alone will be worth it. Just make sure you aim it at her.”

I elbowed him. “But seriously, why would you want to put us both through that?”

“Because if we don't show up, it will send the message that we're deeply hurt. By being there, we show them that we don't care. That we can rise above their pettiness and appear at a celebratory party for Marc and his book because we're happy for him and his success. Because we're better than that. We're mature adults who can put bitterness behind us and move on without hard feelings.”

“Is that how you really feel?”

“Heck no. I'm mad as hell and I think Marc is a completely dishonest jerk and if this were another century, I would have called him out at dawn for a duel. Sadly, I can't do that. So instead we'll go to his party with smiles on our faces and eat as much caviar as we can. Put some in napkins to bring home if we have to. And make them think that we're up to something.”

He studied the road in front of him, and I had the feeling that he was avoiding looking at me for a reason—and not just to avoid the tourist standing in the middle of Broad Street taking a photo of St. Michael's.

“Is this about using our house for the movie? Because we are
not
going to agree to that, right?”

As if even parking spaces in Charleston weren't immune to Jack's charms, one opened up on Meeting Street just as we approached the Fireproof Building. He easily slid the minivan into the spot before turning to me with a smile. “We're here.”

“Jack . . .”

But he'd already leaped out of his seat and was opening the passenger door for me. He glanced at his watch. “We're a little late—hurry up. I hate to keep Yvonne waiting.”

Grabbing my hand, he led me up the familiar staircase and into the building, then up to the familiar reading room, where Jack and I had spent many hours researching various Charleston historic factoids.

Yvonne was sitting at one of the long wooden tables with several books set out in front of her, little scraps of paper marking spots inside each one. She looked up and smiled before standing, the rhinestones in her cat's-eye glasses sparkling.

She stood on tiptoes to kiss Jack on each cheek, then turned to me. “You look lovely as always, Melanie. Are you keeping Jack in line?”

“Of course,” I said at the same time Jack answered, “Not even close.”

She winked and then kissed my cheek. “Same ol' Jack,” she said with a wistful note in her voice, and I thought, not for the first time, that if she were thirty years younger and he were still single, she would have set her cap for him.

“I like your new glasses,” Jack said, eyeing Yvonne. “They frame your face beautifully.”

Her cheeks flushed a flattering pink. “Careful, Jack. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“And don't I know it?” he said, squeezing her shoulders and making her flush even more.

Clearing her throat, she turned our attention to the books on the table. “They've moved so many of the archives to the new College of Charleston Library, but happily most of what you were looking for I found here. You might still want to go look there and at the archives at the Charleston Museum for more on the Pinckney family. It's a very old Charleston family—two signers of the Constitution and a governor. My mother was a Pinckney, you know. Different branch from Button and her brother, Sumter, but our family trees touch somewhere. Their mother, Rosalind, was a cousin—many times removed, of course—but we would spend summers together at our family plantation on Edisto. We were of an age, you see.”

Jack and I sat down in the hard wooden chairs. “It looks like you've been busy,” Jack said. “I know I can always rely on you to find the information I need.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “One would think that by this time I'd have been mentioned in the dedication of one of your books.” She stared pointedly at Jack.

I stared at my husband. “I can't believe that you've never done that despite all the help Yvonne has given us. Really, Jack.”

“Actually,” he said, and I noticed a tic in his jaw, “I was planning on dedicating the book I was working on when I met Mellie to Yvonne. And then the book wasn't published.”

“Don't you worry about that, Jack. Despite being a dyed-in-the-wool Episcopalian, I do believe in karma. Mark my words, Marc Longo will get what's coming to him eventually. Hopefully we'll all be lucky enough to witness it in full living color.” She grinned, her perfect dentures gleaming.

She turned to the books spread out in front of us. “So, let's take a
look at what I found. I was not fortunate enough to find the original blueprints for the Pinckney house on South Battery. However, I think I found something even better.” She spun an old leather-bound volume around to face us. “The blueprints for the house that stood there before it was built.”

Yvonne folded her arms primly in front of her as we examined the old sketch of a modest dwelling that had once occupied the lot where Jayne Smith's house now stood on South Battery. “As you can see, the property was once fronted with swamp that led out to the Ashley River. Starting in 1909, city leaders had the swamp filled in and the level of the land raised and created Murray Boulevard.”

I kept silent, wondering what any of this had to do with anything.

“Let me guess,” Jack said. “The man who built it was a sea captain.”

Yvonne gave him an appreciative look. “You've been cheating on me and doing your own research.”

“Guilty as charged. I thought I'd do some poking around just in case I might find something that could lead to my next book, and I came across the deed to the original plot of land, owned by Captain Stephen Andrews.”

Yvonne looked at him expectantly.

“Gentleman Pirate,” he added.

“Although it was never proven; nor was he hanged at what is now White Point Gardens with Blackbeard and Stede Bonnett, as he easily could have been. Despite guards watching his house, he managed to escape to Barbados, where he lived out his long life. And had many children with younger and younger wives, into his nineties.” She set her mouth in grim disapproval.

I was getting impatient listening to the boring history of someone who'd died a long time ago and didn't even own the house I thought we were investigating. “And the point of all this would be . . .”

Both Yvonne and Jack sent me a blank look, similar to the ones Sophie gave me when I was suggesting a cheaper, more sensible alternative involving replacing anything old in my house.

“Well,” Yvonne said patiently, “with Charleston Harbor leading right out to the Atlantic, having a house this near the water made illegal activities such as pirating and smuggling—and perhaps escaping to another country—a lot less complicated than if your house were farther inland.”

I sat up. “Like a tunnel or something?”

“Exactly,” Jack said. “And even when a house is leveled for whatever reason, and a new one is built over it, any tunnels and staircases leading to them might not have been destroyed.”

“But what does that
mean
?” I persisted.

“Nothing yet,” Jack said. “It's just a piece in a puzzle. It may mean absolutely nothing, but we won't know until we put all the pieces on the table.”

He had the old spark in his eyes and it made me happy to see it, and grateful that he was the writer in the family and I was just the Realtor who saw dead people. Because I found it very difficult to get excited about houses that no longer existed, and even those that still did. Unless I was selling them.

Yvonne slid a manila folder toward us and opened it to reveal several photocopied papers. She picked up the top sheet and put it in front of us. “I did find this write-up from 1930 when the house was renovated by none other than Susan Pringle Frost, the mother of the preservation movement here in Charleston. It was featured in
Architecture
magazine and includes a floor plan you might find helpful.”

Jack tapped his fingers on the tabletop while he studied the drawing. I pretended to look at it, too, but without my reading glasses—securely tucked into my nightstand—all I could see were fuzzy black lines.

“And this here?” he asked, pointing to a square drawing of more fuzzy black lines.

“That's the first floor, otherwise known as a basement and only used for storage of nonperishable items, since it was prone to flooding,” Yvonne pointed out.

“Or for temporary storage of pirated items until they could be
distributed elsewhere,” Jack added. “And if there was access to these storage areas during Prohibition, I'm sure they could have been used for contraband alcohol.”

“Without a doubt,” Yvonne said with her genteel smile as if we were talking about our favorite type of tea. “But from the documentation here, all access points from the house were sealed during the restoration, and the area filled in to reinforce the home's foundation.”

Jack sat back, a look of disappointment on his face. “Well, there goes one story idea. I was hoping to go treasure-hunting—with Jayne's permission, of course—in the bowels of the house. But it appears they don't exist anymore.”

Yvonne slid the folder closer to him. “When one door closes, another one opens. Take this home—you never know what else you might find.”

Glad to have the mind-numbing talk about the house over with, I turned to Yvonne. “I know we can dig up more information on the Pinckneys in the archives, but I was wondering what you knew about them, being family. My mother was a school friend of Button's, but they lost touch after she left Charleston in the early eighties and she just knows vague details. We're really trying to figure out why Jayne Smith, who never met Button, has inherited her entire estate. There has to be a reason other than Miss Pinckney was a philanthropist who liked helping animals and orphans.”