The House on Tradd Street (21 page)

I heard the footsteps again, sounding as if they might be coming from the downstairs drawing room, and stopped, the thought running through my head that this intruder might actually be real.
But I remembered setting the alarm.
I leaned over the banister and peered through the darkened foyer to where I could see the front door and the system’s panel next to it. The green READY button glowed in the dark, indicating that the system was off.

I straightened quickly, feeling as if my heart had migrated up to my head, where I could hear it thrumming wildly.

“Hello?” I said again. “I have a weapon and I’m not afraid to use it. Show yourself now and nobody will get hurt.” It didn’t cross my mind to consider if the intruder would actually call my bluff and appear. I must have rationalized that I could hold him off with my figurine-loaded bathrobe until I could call the police.

A dark figure darted out from the drawing room and across the foyer in front of me, causing me to reel back in surprise and drop the figurine at the same time I heard the front door slam. I leapt down the final four steps, the smashed china crunching under my slippers, and raced to the front door. I reached for the doorknob, my fingers barely brushing the brass knob before something hard and unyielding blocked my progress, the force of my impeded forward motion knocking me backward onto the floor.

The air left my lungs with a surprised whoosh, and I lay on the floor, trying to catch my breath, while frantically searching around the dim foyer for whatever it was that had knocked me off my feet. It was then that I noticed the rancid smell, so potent and fetid that I began to retch as I struggled to sit up. My heels searched for purchase on the slick marble floor but I couldn’t move. It was if I were being held down by two very strong, yet completely invisible hands.

I am stronger than you, I am stronger than you,
I repeated in my head, searching for the strength it was supposed to bring. I kicked and twisted, the taste of bile and terror choking me. “Let me go!” I screamed, feeling as helpless and alone as I had that morning when I was six years old and woke up to find my mother gone. The anger the memory evoked made me struggle anew, the salty taste of tears harsh on the back of my throat. “Let me go!” I half screamed and half sobbed, arching my back in my impotent fury.

And then the invisible arms that had been holding me simply let go, allowing me to lurch forward as I pressed against something that wasn’t there anymore. I shivered, feeling the iciness of the room for the first time, and watching my breath blowing out puffs of fear and relief as I sat on the floor. The fetid smell dissipated, erased by the pungent aroma of roses.

From where I sat, I could see the alarm panel, the green READY light still glowing brightly. I knew I had set the alarm, remembered doing so with intricate detail. So why was it disarmed? I hadn’t heard a warning beep signaling that somebody had entered the house, so it would have had to be disarmed from the inside. A shudder coursed through my body as I remembered the dark form that had run in front of me and then out the door. The intruder had been flesh and blood, someone who could have hurt me or worse, but had chosen not to. And then I remembered the hands holding me down, as if making sure I couldn’t run after the intruder. Like they were both after the same thing.

Still trembling I stood, holding on to the wall for support until I could trust my legs. Then I dead-bolted the door and reset the alarm before carefully making my way to the drawing room, where I picked up the phone. I flipped on a table lamp and looked around to see if anything was missing, my eyes telling me in a glance that nothing was out of place: the Canton porcelain bowls on the mantel, the silver tea service, the oil paintings on the walls of long-dead Vanderhorsts were all where they were supposed to be.

I took a step forward, and my foot caught on something, pitching me forward. Looking down, I realized that the rug had been flipped up on the corner as if somebody had been trying to find something hidden underneath.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something flit across the room, landing with a soft thud on the rug in front of me. It was a frame, the one containing the photograph of Louisa and her young son, and it lay at my feet where it fell, the faces staring up at me. I picked it up and nearly dropped it again when the doorbell rang.

Clutching the phone, I crept to the front door, ready to dial 911. I peered through the sidelights, recognizing a familiar form.

The doorbell rang again. “It’s me, Mellie—Jack. If you’re going to call me in the middle of the night, I expect you to be ready to open the door when I get here.”

I was so relieved to see him that I didn’t waste any time asking him what in the hell he was talking about. I threw back the dead bolt and disarmed the alarm before pulling open the door and launching myself at him.

“Wow, Mellie—it’s good to see you, too. But could you wait until I got my clothes off first?”

I dug my face into the crook of his neck, enjoying the scent, and pounded him on the back with one of my fists.

“You’re shaking.” His voice was full of concern as he lifted me and carried me over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him. “What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I held my hysterical laughter in check, afraid that if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop. An odd sense of déjà vu fell over me, recalling another scene like this but not with Jack. It had something to do with my mother, but I quickly shoved the memory to the recesses of my brain, where the rest of the past I didn’t want to revisit lived.

Jack pushed the hair out of my face, cupping my jaw in his hands. “I was worried. Your number kept flashing on my caller ID, but you wouldn’t stay on the line long enough to talk to me. It was a little unnerving. But I was awake anyway, so I figured I’d come by to see if you were okay.”

I looked into his face, wondering if he might be joking. “I never called you. Not once. From here or my cell phone.”

I watched the look of confusion pass over his features at the same time the old clock began to chime midnight and the smell of fresh roses permeated the air around us. I lifted my hands to touch his and that was when we both noticed the dark earth clinging to my skin.

J
ack and I sat at the end of the long communal counter at Gaulart & Maliclet on Broad, locally known as Fast & French, drinking coffee and having breakfast. I was on my third chocolate-filled croissant when Sophie walked in wearing a hideous combination of Pippi Longstocking striped tights paired with an Indian sari. Her aged and bulging messenger bag was slung across her midriff, cementing the homeless refugee look. It never ceased to amaze me that somebody that smart could be so completely clueless about fashion.

“You two look like hell. Like you haven’t slept,” she said as she slid into the booth next to me. Then she froze, her gaze shifting from me to Jack and then back again. “Oh,” she said, with a surprised grin.

I shoved her in the arm. “We didn’t get any sleep last night, but it’s not because of what you’re thinking. It’s because the police were at the house again until four a.m. We had another break-in.”

Jack drained his cup and banged it down on the table. “Yeah. Pretty brazen guy. Broke in while Mellie was in the house, presumably asleep.”

Sophie’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, my gosh. Please tell me that he didn’t break the glass in the door or the sidelights.”

“Thanks for your concern,” I said. “I’m fine.”

Jack leaned forward to speak but paused as the waitress refilled our coffee cups and took Sophie’s order. “The weird thing is that Mellie remembers setting the alarm before she went to bed. But when she first heard the intruder and went downstairs to investigate, the system had been disarmed. From the inside.”

Sophie furrowed her eyebrows. “That’s weird. Are you sure you set the alarm?”

I nodded. “Positive.”

“So how was the system disarmed from the inside if you were the only one there?” she asked and I could tell from her tone that she already had a pretty good idea.

I shot her a warning glance—something that wasn’t lost on Jack.

“It must be a problem with the system,” I said. “I’m having the alarm company come out to look at it today.”

Jack looked at Sophie, pointedly ignoring me. “That wasn’t the only inexplicable thing that happened last night, either. Somehow Mellie stuck her hands into dirt and has no idea how that happened.”

Sophie regarded me closely, but I focused on draining the rest of my cold coffee from the bottom of my mug. “I picked up something to use as a weapon, and it must have had some dirt on it.”

There was complete silence as the waitress brought Sophie’s green tea and cereal with yogurt to the counter. Sophie waited until she was gone before speaking again. “Right,” she said, splaying her fingers onto the tabletop as if to indicate she was changing the conversation. “Was anything taken?”

“Not that I could tell. I did a pretty thorough inventory this morning and didn’t find anything missing.” I decided not to tell her about the shattered Staffordshire shepherd boy. She’d probably make me scrape the shards out of the trash and try to glue them back together.

Jack said, “I’m assuming that the intruder would have known about Mr. Vanderhorst’s passing and thought the house was vacant, considering the condition it’s in. As it is, the only thing we could tell that was disturbed was the rug in the drawing room. Two of the corners had been flipped up, like they were looking for something hidden beneath the floor.”

Sophie sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Well, if there’s anything there, it’ll be easy to find. I thought we would start on that room anyway, and the first order of business is to remove all the furnishings and the rug so we can get to work on the ceiling and plasterwork. If there’s anything hidden under the floor, we’ll find it.” She dug into her messenger bag and pulled out a folder. “Oh, and before I forget, I’ve got the papers for the Board of Architectural Review. I’m submitting it, but as owner, you’ll need to sign them. I’m going to send one of my students to come take pictures of the exterior areas we want to work on—the roof, the columns out front, the piazzas, and the windows. The BAR’s going to need five copies of those.”

“The windows?” I asked. “What’s wrong with them besides being old and drafty? I thought it was a requirement for all historic houses to have old and drafty windows.”

Sophie refused to take the bait. “At some point, somebody replaced the original windows with four-over-four window sashes. Replacing them with nine-over-nine windows would make them more authentic to the period the house was built. Would make the house less drafty, too.”

“That’s going to be a lot of money, Soph. I think we should talk with my dad first, to make sure there’s enough.”

Jack and Sophie glanced at each other as Sophie replied. “Actually, I have.” She held up her hand before I could ask her why she’d be talking to my dad without me. “You gave me care blanche on this project remember? In exchange for my expertise, you put me in charge and are allowing my students to use the restoration as an extended classroom.”

I slid my empty plate away in agitation. “Yes, but—”

Jack interrupted. “And you told me that you didn’t want to have to deal with your father at all. So Soph and I went to see him together.” They exchanged a quick glance again.

“Was he sober?”

Jack’s lips thinned. “Completely. It’s been over a week now, you know, and he’s been attending his meetings. He’s been spending his time creating a spreadsheet for the restoration budget. Tracks expenses on each area with estimated costs furnished by Soph here. It’s pretty sophisticated.” He smiled, softening his tone. “I guess that’s where you get your anal retentive . . . um . . . I mean, organizational bug from.”

My eyes met his. “Or maybe . . .” I stopped, not sure what I was going to say.

Sophie leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “Melanie had a pretty shitty childhood, Jack. She’s so anal because being organized was the only way she could take some control over her life.”

I looked up at the ceiling, trying to hide my embarrassment. “Thanks, Dr. Freud. I guess you and Nancy Flaherty got your psychiatry degrees from the same school.”

Sophie leaned back with a smile. “Yep. The school of Melanie Middleton. You’re the perfect case study.” She finished her tea and placed her cup back on the counter. “So, what are you going to do now? Move back into your condo?”

“I wish. But I can’t. The conditions of the will stipulate that I have to live in the house for a year before I sell it. The lawyers are keeping track, and it’s been exactly two nights. Just 363 more to go.”

“But alone, Melanie. That makes me a little worried.”

Jack thrummed his fingers on the table. “Don’t worry, Soph. I’ve already told her that I’m moving into the guest room. She shouldn’t be in that big house by herself.”