The House on Tradd Street (16 page)

I
deliberately arrived at the Tradd Street house earlier than when I knew the others were expected. I had something to do that might be construed as sentimental, and that was one label I had avoided since about the time I was old enough to know what it meant.

I parked my car at the curb, then picked up the small bag on the seat next to me. At the gate I paused, as had become my habit, to see if I could hear the sound of a rope swing. Satisfied that the only noises from the garden were those that should be there, I pushed open the gate and made my way to the front door. After fumbling for my keys and turning the lock, the door swung open, and I was greeted by the high-pitched beep of the new alarm warning me that a door had been opened.

Turning to the number panel behind the door, I typed in the four-digit code, 1221—easily remembered because the digits corresponded to the letters ABBA—and the annoying sound went away. I still wasn’t quite convinced that Jack’s insistence on getting the alarm as soon as possible was warranted, but since this would be my first night alone in the house, it did give me a measure of reassurance. Of course, experience had also made me realize that all threats weren’t necessarily of the living, breathing kind.

I set down my briefcase and purse inside the door, then carried the small bag to the dining room. This room was separated from the opulent drawing room by large mahogany pocket doors that were stuck at a half-open position, warped from water and age. I turned sideways to fit through the opening, then moved to the massive breakfront that dominated the wall between the two floor-to-ceiling windows. The piece of furniture seemed to hold up the rose-patterned wallpaper that drooped from the ceiling like the sagging shoulders of an old man, the roses themselves freckled with mildew and yellowed glue.

Carefully, I put the bag down on the inlaid cherrywood dining table and pulled out the china plate that Mr. Vanderhorst had given to me on my first visit to the house, recalling what he’d said to me when I’d tried to give it back to him.
It will be back amongst the other plates sooner than you’d think.
Had he known then that he was about to die? I had pretty much figured out that he’d picked me as his victim to inherit his albatross as soon as I admitted I could see the woman outside. As for him knowing that his end was near, I’d had enough experience with the unexplainable to take for granted that he had. Of course, none of that made me any more forgiving toward the likable old man, who had saddled me with my worst nightmare.

I tripped on a floorboard, a gash that looked remarkably like the heel of a boot grabbing at my four-inch heel. I juggled the china plate for a minute until bringing it to safety against my chest. “I’m sorry for thinking bad thoughts about your house,” I said aloud just in case anybody was listening. I had no intention of falling through a hole in the floor and ending up where nobody could find me.

Gingerly, I tugged on the glass-and-wood door of the breakfront, tugging harder and harder until the dusty china and crystal inside began to chatter in protest. With one final tug, the door opened, and I sneezed at the puff of dust that blew into my face, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of roses. I ignored the sensation of my hair standing on end at the back of my neck as I scanned the shelves, looking for a place before carefully putting the dessert plate in a spot where it seemed to belong. I shut the door with a small snap and stood for a moment looking inside at all of the crystal and china, and remembered something else Mr. Vanderhorst had told me about his mother and the roses—something about how the china had been designed after the roses that had been named after her. The
Louisa
rose, I recalled. And then I remembered that I wasn’t the sentimental type and began wondering what it all might be worth. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Trenholm when she stopped by.

The doorbell rang, and I went to answer the front door, noticing how the scent of roses gradually dissipated. On the porch stood Mrs. Houlihan, wearing a large floral muumuu and carrying a casserole dish with two oven mitt-covered hands.

“I’m sorry I’m a little late, but I had to wait for the lasagna to come out of the oven.”

“Lasagna?” I asked as I opened the door wide so she could come inside.

“Yes, lasagna.” She eyed me from top to bottom. “You’re nothing but skin and bones, and besides continuing to clean this house for you, I insist that I also try and feed you.”

I closed the door but didn’t lock it since I knew that Jack, Sophie and Chad would be there shortly. I followed the housekeeper past the music room with the closed and out-of-tune grand piano and back to the kitchen. “But, Mrs. Houlihan, it’s not from lack of eat—”

“I don’t want any argument from you. You need to eat good, healthy meals, and I intend to provide them for you. Especially because you’re going to need all the energy you’ve got to restore this old house.” She indicated the harvest gold-and-avocado green kitchen that hadn’t been updated since President Ford was in office.

“Oh, but I have no intention of actually doing the work myself. . . .”

Mrs. Houlihan snorted as she placed the lasagna on a chipped Formica countertop. “That’s what they all say. And then they catch the restoration bug, and they’re hooked like some of those kids you hear about nowadays on crack cocaine.”

“Trust me, Mrs. Houlihan. That won’t be me. I don’t even like old houses. Never have. I just want to fulfill my obligation and get the house put back together and then move on.”

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow that would have made Scarlett O’Hara proud before returning her attention to the lasagna, gently peeling back the foil cover and letting the smell of marinara-and-meat sauce tease my nose. “Well, we’ll have to see about that. In the meantime, I’m going to feed you, so please don’t argue with me, Miss Melanie.”

I felt a little guilty, but I
had
tried to refuse. It wasn’t my fault she was bossier than me. “All right. But only because you insist.”

“I do insist. And it’s the least I can do to thank you for letting me keep my job after poor Mr. Vanderhorst passed.”

She leaned forward and sniffed the wonderful aroma creeping out from around the foil cover. I was having warm and fond thoughts about the large woman and was about to offer her a raise when she said, “And since I made extra, I invited your father to join you for dinner. He said he could be here around five thirty.”

Following my initial shock, I opened my mouth to tell her that the chance of my father actually dragging himself from a bar to show up somewhere on time was about the same chance I had of actually falling in love with restoring this pile of termite-infested lumber. We were both saved by the doorbell. I felt annoyed as I went to answer it because whoever had rung the bell hadn’t walked in like I’d told them to do.

I opened the door to find Sophie standing in front of me holding the little black-and-white dog that I had inherited but had blessedly forgotten about. Sophie wore an oversized red-and-blue-paisley peasant blouse held on to her body by a swinging hemp rope. She had gone all the way out on the limb of bad taste and paired it with black stirrup pants, identical to the ones that I had once worn in the eighties but had been given to Goodwill long before the fashion trend had ended. On her feet were her ubiquitous Birkenstocks and, wrapped around her hair like a headband, was a red-and-white kerchief that remarkably matched her eyes.

She sneezed loudly, startling the small dog and making him leap from her arms and come stand next to me. He looked up at me with soulful eyes that I felt sure were designed to take people off guard. I gave him a suspicious look before turning my attention back to Sophie. “What’s wrong? Do you have a cold?”

She shook her head and sneezed again, causing the little dog to press up against my leg. “I think I might be allergic to dogs.” Because her nose seemed to be congested, most of her vowels were slurred, and her consonants were dropped entirely so it took me a moment to realize what she was saying.

I looked down at the little dog in horror. There was no way I was going to be forced to become a dog owner on top of everything else. “Maybe you just need to give it a little more time to know for sure.”

“Trust me,” she said, sounding more like “Tuss me.” “I know what an allergic reaction is, and having red eyes that would make Stephen King proud would count.”

“Maybe you’ve just developed a new allergy to your carpet or something,” I suggested hopefully.

“Nice try, Melanie, but it’s time to face the fact that General Lee is yours,” she said as she stepped into the foyer. “He’s a sweet little guy, once you get to know him. No trouble at all—unless you happen to be allergic.” She sneezed again to punctuate her words.

I eyed the little dog. “I guess I could always take him to a shelter and hope he gets adopted.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, and I thought I saw the dog’s brown eyes widen in horror and indignation. He even took a step away from me.

“I was just kidding,” I said to him more than Sophie, shutting the door and turning the handle to test the key in the dead bolt to make sure that it was unlocked. “And why did you ring the doorbell? I told you I would leave the door unlocked.”

“It was locked. You must have forgotten.”

I looked back at the door as if it could reassure me. “That’s odd. I distinctly remember unlocking it. And I didn’t have to unlock it to let you in, either.”

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang again. General Lee let out a bark to let me know there was someone at the door, just in case I had missed hearing the doorbell. Annoyed, I grabbed the handle to throw open the door and berate the newcomer about ringing the doorbell when I’d left the door unlocked, and found myself jerked back by the locked door.

“What the . . . ?” I asked as I unlocked the door and threw it open to find Jack and Chad chatting like old friends.

Chad’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he carried what looked like a yoga mat under his arm. He saw me looking at it and grinned. “Didn’t want to leave this on my bike so it could get stolen.”

“Good idea,” I said as I scanned the curb in front of the house, looking for a Harley or at least something with a motor. Instead, I found what looked suspiciously like a Schwinn, complete with a basket on the front and no hand brakes.

“Nice bike, man,” said Jack, catching on to the Left Coast lingo. I shook my head and stepped back, then let the two men enter.

Chad looked up at the ceiling and dropped his mat. “Wow, Melanie, this house is yours? This is like awesome.”

I made a mental note to suggest a few speech classes during his winter break.

Chad continued to spin around to take in everything. “This is totally great. It’s like taking an architecture class just standing here, you know? A few years back I helped a friend of mine back in San Francisco restore his old house in the Marina District for room and board. Hard work, man, but I’ve never had so much fun in my life.”

“So you know a lot about restoration work?” Even I heard the excitement in my voice.

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I know a lot, but I do know how to strip paint and plaster a wall. And I’m awesome with an electric floor sander.”

I was already adding his name to my mental spreadsheet when I felt Jack poke me in the middle of my back. I grunted and shot him a look.

I turned back to Chad. “Chad, there’s somebody I want you to meet.”

But when I faced Sophie, she was vigorously shaking her head. I would have liked to think that it was because she was embarrassed about her outfit but knew it was something else entirely. Even I had to admit that with her flaming eyes and running nose, she definitely wasn’t looking her best, although with Chad I was pretty sure that none of that would matter.

Chad was already moving toward her. “I thought that was you. Weren’t you in my yoga class this morning?”

Sophie sniffed, then nodded, looking miserable. “Yes. That was me.”

“Did you enjoy the class? I haven’t been teaching that long, so it’s like, you know, hard to tell if people are having a good time yet or not.”

She nodded again but continued to look miserable, definitely not the reaction I’d imagined. I didn’t hear wedding bells at all. Instead I imagined the discordant crash of two hands falling on a keyboard. “It was the best class I’ve ever been to.”

“Glad to hear it.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cleaned and pressed white linen handkerchief. Jack and I exchanged looks as Chad handed it to Sophie. Reluctantly, she took it and then dabbed her eyes before blowing her nose in it like a goose signaling its friends in the back of the “v” formation.

Chad squatted down and began scratching a grateful General Lee behind the ears. “Dog allergies, huh? I used to have them as a kid, but since I’ve been eating organically, I’ve found that I don’t really react as much to stuff that used to make me sneeze.”

Because he’d used a sentence with the word “organic” in it, I thought that Sophie would immediately fall on her knees and propose marriage. Instead she managed to look even more miserable.

I stepped forward. “Sophie, I’d like you to meet a client of mine, Chad Arasi. He’s new to town and will be teaching art history at the college. Chad, I’d like you to meet my good friend Dr. Sophie Warren. She’s a professor of historical preservation at the college. Isn’t that great? You’re colleagues!” I sounded so much like a cheerleader during the last seconds of the final quarter that I didn’t even grunt this time when Jack poked me again in the middle of my back.

Chad stuck out his hand to shake but dropped it when Sophie held hers up and waved the wadded up handkerchief. “Awesome. You’re the first colleague I’ve met. Maybe you can show me around, give me some tips and stuff.”

“Yeah. That would be great,” she muttered with the same sort of enthusiasm one would give to taking out the garbage. In the rain.