The House on Tradd Street (12 page)

I’d been watching him closely and hadn’t seen the quarter pass from his right hand. I pointed to it and said, “This one.”

Slowly, he opened up his palm and displayed nothing but smooth skin, his fingers long and tapered.
Sensitive fingers,
I thought and shivered. He opened his left fist and the quarter rolled out, spinning quickly until it fell heads up on the table.

Jack smiled. “See? Sleight of hand. There’s something else there. Something we’re not seeing yet. I guarantee it.”

I regarded him openly, wondering if his bravado came from years of always being right or from something else entirely. “How can you be so sure?” I asked, scrutinizing his face as he answered.

“Because a mother who calls her son ‘my best guy’ and who has dozens of portraits taken of the two of them together just does not disappear off the face of the earth without contacting him again. Trust me. There’s something else there. My gut instinct and my experience with this kind of thing tells me that there has to be something else. There’re a few more places around town where I plan to dig into the archives, and there’s sure to be a bunch of clues in your attic. I’d also like to see that growth chart, Mellie. You never know where a clue might show up.”

“I doubt it, but you’re welcome to look. I’ve put you on the work schedule to begin at seven o’clock tomorrow morning, so if you get there a bit early, you’ll have time to examine it. Or you could wait until your lunch break.”

He stared at me silently for a long moment. “Did you say lunch break?”

“Yes. I figured if you got started promptly at seven o’clock, you’d be ready for a lunch break at noon.” I fished in my purse for the spreadsheet printout I had made. “I’ll be there at seven tomorrow to meet with a roofing contractor for an estimate on replacing the roof, and then I can help you sort through the attic until I have to leave at eleven to meet with a new client. I have office hours until six o’clock, when I will return to the house and continue where you stopped at five until my bedtime at nine thirty.”

“You did a spreadsheet.”

My eyes met his, not comprehending his confusion. “Yes. It’s easier to divvy up the workload that way and make sure everybody gets his or her lunch break. Sophie said she can also join us after her last class for a couple of hours, so I’ve got her stripping the corkscrew spindles from three o’clock until five.”

“Lunch break.”

“Do you have a hearing problem? Or do you just need people to speak slowly?”

He coughed into his fist and it sounded almost like a laugh. “No. Hearing’s fine. It’s just, well, a spreadsheet?”

I laid the piece of paper down on the table and sat back in my chair. “Look, I thought you said you were willing to help with the restoration in return for complete access to the house. I’ve even signed a contract for a new alarm system at your urging. So if you’re having second thoughts, let me know now so I can make other arrangements.”

He held his hand up in front of him, and this time I was sure he was laughing. “No, no, no. Of course I’m ready, willing, and able to help. It’s just that you’re so . . .” He looked up at the ceiling as if looking for a word that wouldn’t offend me. “You’re just so, well, organized about it.”

Annoyed now, I placed both palms flat on the table on top of the work sheet, which had taken me all afternoon to draw up. I’d originally put in potty breaks but had second thoughts about that, thankfully, judging from Jack’s reaction to the whole thing. “Look, I don’t know how it operates in the book-writing world, but in the real world, a professional has to be organized about things to be successful. If I have a new client, I spend hours on the phone or face-to-face to find out exactly what he or she wants and needs. Then I spend several days making a dream list of perfect houses that meets every need. I schedule specific appointment times that are convenient to both the client and home owner to view each and every property.” I smacked my palm against the table. “And that’s why I’m a million-dollar seller and not some tentative wannabe Realtor.”

He leaned forward, and I noticed how his eyes matched his shirt. Quietly, he said, “And your specialty is historic homes, but from what I can tell, you prefer to live in a brand-new condo with white walls and hotel furniture. Does that have anything to do with your mother’s house?”

I slid my chair back and signaled to the waiter. “I think we’re done here.” I made a move to stand, but he held me back with a hand on my arm.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that it does make me wonder. And I have a feeling it has something to do with your mother because of the way you reacted yesterday when your dad said that she’d called. My guess would be that you haven’t called her back.”

I started to tell him in one way or another that it was none of his business when I felt the familiar tingling on the back of my neck. I shifted my gaze to the spot behind Jack’s shoulder and saw the distinctive shape of a young woman. She was looking at Jack, her eyes sad and pleading, before she turned her head sharply toward me. She had dark circles under her eyes and hallows beneath her cheekbones as if she were ill. But her eyes seemed lit from within, and I had the distinct impression that the light had something to do with Jack.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

The woman’s image faded like smoke from an extinguished candle, and I turned my gaze back to Jack. “Is somebody close to you . . . ill?”

He looked at me oddly. “No. Not that I know of. Why?”

“A young woman. Slim. Blond. Any of that ring a bell?”

“That description rings lots of bells, but nobody I know like that is ill.” His tone was light, but sounded forced.

A soft sigh drifted across my ear and then she was gone. “It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.” I stood. “Come on, let’s go. It’s past my bedtime.”

He pulled a few bills out of his wallet and left them on the table before following me out of the restaurant.

We drove the short distance to Tradd Street in silence, listening to Carolina beach music, which always reminded me of summer. Jack slid his car into a spot in front of the house, then went around to the back to take my suitcases out. I held open the gate for him and then opened the door leading to the piazza and stopped. The front door stood wide-open, and when I took a step forward, I felt something like glass crunch underneath my sandal.

My first thought was how expensive that damn Tiffany window would be to replace. And then I remembered that I had not only ensured that the door was closed but that I had dead-bolted it from the outside with my key.

I heard Jack put the suitcases down beside me. Whispering, he asked, “Do you have your cell phone in your purse?”

I nodded.

“I want you to move over to the side of the piazza, where somebody running out of the house can’t see you, and then I want you to call the police. I’m going in to see if the sonuvabitch is still inside.”

“No!” I grabbed at his arm. “It could be dangerous.”

He gave me that grin that even in the dark and standing on broken glass, I had to admit was very effective. “Your concern flatters me, Mellie. But I guess this means you haven’t Googled me yet or else you’d know that you don’t need to worry on my behalf. I can handle it.”

He slipped inside before I could tell him not to call me Mellie and that Googling him hadn’t even crossed my mind. Which was a lie because I’d tried, but my computer had frozen, and I hadn’t had a chance to try again because I’d had to run off to meet a client. But still.

I moved into the dark shadows on the far side of the piazza and flipped open my phone. I leaned back against the house, smelling the Charleston night full of Confederate jasmine and gardenias, and slowly became aware of the sound of the steady rhythm of a rope swing against the trunk of the old oak. I closed my eyes, trying to block out all sights and sounds, and calmly spoke into the phone.

I
blinked my eyes against the glare of the sun off the Cooper River as I crossed the bridge to downtown Charleston. We hadn’t finished with the police until after two a.m., and by the time I’d finally fallen asleep, it had been almost time to wake up again. Nothing had been taken from the house, thankfully—or not, I hadn’t quite decided—which had baffled not only the police but Jack and me as well. And the broken glass hadn’t been the Tiffany window but a broken beer bottle that had been thrown against the closed door. But the strangest part of all was the fact that the door was wide-open with no signs of forced entry, but also with no signs that anyone had actually entered the house. It was almost as if the would-be vandal and/or burglar had been scared away by whoever or whatever had opened the door. I refused to speculate on what that might have been, despite the many sidelong glances I was getting from Jack.

My eyes were gritty and red, and I felt sorry for the clients I had to meet with that day but would try to help matters by asking Ruth for an extra jolt of espresso. That would at least get me through until my eleven o’clock meeting with Chad Arasi, who was so laid-back he probably wouldn’t notice if I dozed in midsentence. I still hadn’t figured out a way for him to meet Sophie, and I wasn’t sure if Sophie deserved to meet him. “Sexual tension I wear around like a chastity belt,” indeed! I had a good feeling that Jack Trenholm would use that against me again and again, ad nauseum. So why did that thought make me smile?

I parked my car in the usual spot and headed for Ruth’s. The bell over the door chimed as I walked in. “Just a little change to the usual, Ruth.”

She leaned her fleshy elbows on the top of the glass case. “Well, amen to that, Miss Melanie. Can I fix you some eggs and sausage? I got ’em fresh for you just this morning.”

I smiled. “Thanks, but I need my sugar fix. How about just adding an extra glazed doughnut and giving me a double shot of espresso in my latte? Maybe I’ll try your eggs and sausage another time.”

Ruth shook her head and clucked her tongue. “One day your bad habits are gonna sneak up on you and bite you in the behind, and you’ll wake up lookin’ like me.”

I eyed her ample bosom, which could do double duty as a shelf, and laughed. “That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, you know. At least I’d have a reason for wearing a bra.”

She threw back her head and laughed, her white teeth bright in her dark face. “That’s for sure, honey. That’s for sure.”

I reached inside my briefcase and pulled out a thick manila envelope. “I brought your coupons.”

She took the envelope from me and peeked inside. “You’re too nice to keep doing this for me, Miss Melanie, but I sure appreciate it.” She stuck a meaty finger inside and poked around the coupons. “And you always have them so nice and sorted and clipped together.”

I pointed to a stack she held in her hand. “And I used Post-its this time to indicate those coupons with expiration dates in the next week so you’ll know to use them first.”

Ruth stared at me for a long moment with grateful eyes, but I had the strong impression that she was trying very hard not to laugh. “You’re too much, Miss Melanie. Too much. I’m truly grateful.”

I shrugged, embarrassed by her gratitude. I knew that she lived with sixteen assorted nieces, nephews, and children of her own, and I’d learned long ago that accepting my Sunday coupons was the closest she’d ever come to accepting charity. “There’s a “buy one, get one free” for Cheerios I thought you could use with the two babies who are just learning to eat solid foods.”

She nodded, then placed the coupons back in the envelope and tucked it under the counter. “Your extra doughnut’s on the house.” She picked up the tongs and added a doughnut to the bag that had already been waiting on the counter before she turned to the coffee machine. “That sure was a pretty picture of you in Sunday’s paper, Miss Melanie. I didn’t know you own one of those big houses down there south of Broad.”

“What? I was in the newspaper?”

“Sure was. You didn’t see it?”

I was too embarrassed to tell her that I only took out the real estate listings and tossed the rest. “No, I must have missed it. What section was it in?”

“I got it right here in the back. Let me go get it.”

I waited as she waddled to the back of the store and came back with the Sunday paper. She slapped it on top of the pastry case and opened it to the people section. On the first page, in a short column on the right-hand side, was my stock photo found on my employer’s Web site. Unfortunately, the picture had been taken after a trip to a new hair stylist who had convinced me to go with a short perm. It was a mix between Little Orphan Annie and an eighties rock star, and had been a blessedly brief experience as my hair hadn’t tolerated the perm for very long. Getting the photo replaced had been one of those things lingering somewhere in the middle of my to-do list. I made a mental note to move it to a priority position.

My gaze drifted to the short column beneath the photo that contained a brief commentary on my “precipitous windfall” by inheriting the Vanderhorst home from my deceased client. I wondered if anybody else caught the snide undertones that hinted at me being less than ethical in the deal.