The House on Tradd Street (6 page)

Sophie gave the woman one of her smiles. “I’m Dr. Wallen from the College of Charleston. And you would be . . . ?”

“Oh, dear me. Where are my manners? I’m Mrs. Houlihan, the housekeeper. And this”—she raised the front paw of the black-and-white dog in a small wave—“is General Lee.”

“The housekeeper?” I noticed again the thick layer of dust and impressive collections of cobwebs in the chandeliers. At the same time I noted the gleaming wood floors and the absence of cobwebs in any of the ceiling corners.

As if reading my mind, Mrs. Houlihan said, “Now don’t be jumping to conclusions. According to Mr. Nevin’s wishes, I kept the kitchen and bathrooms sparkling clean, as well as his bedroom and anything else I could clean where I wouldn’t have to touch or move anything. He was worried about damaging some of his antiques, you see. Everything was falling apart, and it wouldn’t take much to ruin something. So it was best to just let things be.”

I glanced over at Sophie, but she had already marched into the front drawing room.

“These are the original cypress floors and wall paneling. And look at these cornices! And the carvings in the mantel—totally period Adam. There’s some water damage, but it’s mostly intact.” Her footsteps sounded quickly across the floor, and I followed the sound, Mrs. Houlihan and General Lee close behind me. Sophie was standing by the writing desk that had been pulled out from the wall, her hand touching the burled wood of the drawered cabinet like I would handle a seller’s agreement. “This is English Hepplewhite, isn’t it?” She stood on her toes and peered at the top of the pediment. “A piece like this is worth thirty thousand easy.”

I eyed the piece of furniture with interest. Even I knew what an English Hepplewhite was. And I couldn’t help but think of the money I could make selling it.

The little dog whimpered in Mrs. Houlihan’s arms. “He needs his walk, poor dear. He’s just been grieving something terrible for his master. Barely picked at his food bowl this morning. And he hasn’t been out for a walk since Mr. Nevin passed. I’ll let him out into the backyard a few times a day but I can’t walk him. I just can’t take the heat.”

She held the dog out to me, and I stared at it in horror. I’d never willingly touched a dog in my life. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Take him for a walk. He’s yours now.”

Sophie had crossed the foyer and was staring into the music room. “More water damage in here. You might need a new roof, Mel.”

Mrs. Houlihan thrust the animal into my arms and the little beast barked again before licking my nose. “No, no, no. Nobody said anything about inheriting a dog, too.”

The housekeeper tucked her chin into her neck, effectively hiding it from view in the folds of flesh. “Well, there ain’t nobody else who can take him. My husband is allergic or I would. He’s a really sweet thing. You two will get along just fine.”

I stared at her with incomprehension while she pulled a leash out of her housecoat pocket and clipped it onto the dog’s collar. Not quite knowing what direction to move in, I watched as Sophie crossed the foyer under the keystone arch and climbed the main staircase, her hands brushing the curved mahogany banister. “This is an incredible house—such a perfect example of classic Charleston architecture. I just can’t believe this.” I followed her as she turned the corner of the stairs and continued upward to the upstairs hallway. I watched as she put her hand on the first doorknob she saw.

Mrs. Houlihan, who had been following behind me, let out a gasp. “No, don’t open that. . . .”

But Sophie had already pulled open the door, allowing the sound of a flock of rustling feathers to filter down to where I stood. Instead of closing the door and moving away from it like most normal people would have done, Sophie moved forward to the small set of wooden stairs behind the door and began climbing.

I turned to the housekeeper. “Where is she going?”

Mrs. Houlihan had already started the laborious struggle of moving her girth up the stairs. “That’s the attic, and we have a wee hole there where pigeons like to come in and roost. If the door’s left open, we’re bound to get—”

Before she could finish, a plump gray-and-white pigeon flew out of the open door and past us down the stairs, and began flying erratically around the foyer. I took the steps two at a time but reached the attic door at the same time Sophie ran out, slamming it behind her.

“You won’t believe the stuff in there! Luckily most of it is under tarps, because there’s a heck of a lot of pigeon poop over everything, but there’s all sorts of interesting things. There’s actually what looks like a full-sized stuffed buffalo, but also what appears to be more Hepplewhite and Sheraton pieces.”

The pigeon swooped over our heads, and we ducked while General Lee barked frantically. Sophie held out what looked like a walking stick. “Look what I found.”

I looked down at the smoothly carved cane, noticing the writing on the side. “What does it say?”

Mrs. Houlihan surprised us by clearing her throat. “It says: ‘In the morning I walk on four legs, in the evening two legs and at night three. What am I?’ ” She looked at us expectantly, and when neither Sophie nor I responded, she said. “The answer is ‘man.’ Clever, isn’t it? The Vanderhorsts have always been known for their fondness of riddles.” She smiled warmly at the cane. “Mr. Vanderhorst’s grandfather gave that to him on the occasion of his graduation from law school. He sure did like it. He used to keep it in one of the guest bedrooms until the ceiling there sprung a leak, so he moved it to the attic. Not that the attic was much better, of course.”

Sophie looked at me with what appeared to be awe in her eyes. “Wow. You own that. You own all of this. You are like the luckiest girl in the world.”

“Right. I now own a dog and apparently a buffalo and a house with Swiss cheese for a roof, and this translates to me being the luckiest girl in the world how . . . ?”

I felt the oddest compulsion to cry, so I turned my back and began walking down the stairs, a frantically yelping General Lee in my arms and an attack pigeon close on my heels.
Could this get any worse?

Sophie called out to me. “Who’s the trustee, by the way? You didn’t mention it.”

I stopped, and looked back in confusion. “I didn’t ask. I don’t know why, but I guess I was still in shock.”

Mrs. Houlihan, panting from the exertion of climbing the stairs, said, “I almost forgot. My first phone message for you, and I almost forgot to tell you. My apologies, as this will never happen again, of course. But, well, a gentleman called about an hour ago. He said he was looking for you, seeing as how he was just informed that he was the trustee to the estate and he needed to speak with you. He’d tried calling your home number first but nobody answered.”

“Did he give his name?”

She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket. “Yes. A Colonel James Middleton. He didn’t leave a number, although I did ask. He said you would know it.”

My eyes met Sophie’s widened ones. Yes, things really could get worse. Much worse.

Mrs. Houlihan tilted her head. “Middleton. Are you related to the colonel?”

I forced my throat to work. “Yes. He’s my father. It would appear that Mr. Vanderhorst had a sense of humor.”

“Oh, that he did. But he also had a strong belief in family. That’s probably why he made your father trustee. He was always saying how blood was thicker than water.”

She was saying more but I couldn’t listen. I needed to get away from the house—and the swooping pigeon—as soon as possible. I put the dog down at the base of the stairs and let it pull me where it wanted to go until I found myself out on the sidewalk next to the gate looking into the garden.

The woman was there again, pushing the boy on the swing. They both looked over at me, and the boy lifted his hand to wave. I was relieved to note that the other, more sinister presence I had detected the previous day was absent, and hoped that he had only been a figment of my overactive imagination. General Lee barked an excited greeting as if he recognized somebody, and I looked down at him in surprise. “You see them, too?”

I turned my gaze back to the scene, but the woman, the boy, and the swing were gone now, and the crickets had resumed their chorus. I stared at the overgrown garden for a long minute, somehow seeing bright-colored flowers and vibrant greens where I knew only brown dirt and straggly weeds now grew. It was as if I were seeing what the house had once been. And what it could be again.

Tugging on the dog’s leash, I headed down the street, afraid to look back. I didn’t want to see the house in all its columned glory, its alabaster paint shining in the Charleston sun, the shadows of the columns like arms reaching out to grab hold of me and hang on.

I started to jog, heedless of my heels or the heat, racing General Lee around the corner until I could no longer see the house on Tradd Street.

I
arrived at my office at seven o’clock on Monday morning, hoping I’d find the office empty, since I still needed more time to think. I had come no closer to a decision than I had the day I’d sat in the office of Drayton, Drayton and Drayton, and my little world had started spinning in the wrong direction. I was still stumbling, looking for sure footing and feeling instead as if I were walking up the down escalator.

Sophie was proving to be no help at all. She hadn’t said anything as I’d said goodbye to her on Tradd Street except for one last parting shot as she’d jumped into her Volkswagen Beetle. “ ‘God bless you, Melanie. All of my final hopes rest with you,’ ” she’d quoted from Nevin Vanderhorst’s letter before slamming her door and speeding away, the bright yellow flowers in the dashboard vase swaying with indignation.

I put down my bag of doughnuts and my latte from Ruth’s Bakery, sat down at my desk, and turned on my computer. I had just started opening the bag when Nancy Flaherty walked in, holding a golf putter in one hand and a small stack of pink message slips in the other.

I looked up in surprise. “Why are you here so early?”

“Well, Mr. Henderson let me leave early Saturday because I had a golf tournament at the club, so I told him I’d make up the time by coming in early this morning.” She smiled. “Don’t worry—I’ll leave you alone. I just wanted to give you these messages. Three of them are from Jack Trenholm.” She smiled even broader now.

“Who?”

“Jack Trenholm—the writer. He writes those cold-case true history’s mysteries books. They’re always on the bestseller lists. And he’s an absolute hottie, if he’s anything like the picture on the back of his books.”

I had no idea whom she was talking about. The only reading I ever had time for was my daily
Post and Courier
and new real estate listings. A little niggling memory intruded into my thoughts. I leaned forward. “When I was little, my mother’s best friend was a Mrs. Trenholm, but I imagine that’s a common enough name. And I don’t remember her having a son. Even so, why would he be calling me?”

“Well, he’s probably a few years younger than you, so maybe he was under your radar when you were little. Or he’s not connected to your mother’s friend at all.” Nancy leaned her putter against my desk and began flipping through the messages. “Let’s see. He called three times yesterday—on Sunday. Seems like he’s
very
interested in speaking with you. I wasn’t here. Otherwise I would have grilled the man and would have known not only why he was calling but what kind of underwear he preferred, too.”

I reached out for the messages. “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll call him this morning.”

“Maybe he saw your picture in one of your ads and wants to ask you for a date.”

“Right. And maybe golf will one day replace baseball as the national pastime.”

She shook her head. “Oh, ye of little faith. You’re only thirty-nine, and you’ve got a knockout figure”—she eyed the bag of doughnuts on my desk—“although God only knows how. If you would just maybe make yourself a little more approachable, you’d have the guys falling all over you.”

I began riffling through the remaining pink slips. “I’ll keep that in mind, Nancy. Now, please don’t let me interrupt your work.” I smiled blandly at her.

She ignored the hint. “You’re great handling men on a business level, but you’re a hopeless case when it comes to dealing with them socially. It’s probably the way you were raised, but for some reason you seem to revert to an awkward teenage girl whenever you’re around eligible men.”

Annoyed now, I glared at her. “Really? And when did you have time to go to psychology school in between golf games?”

As if I hadn’t said anything, she continued. “I think you just need to put yourself out there, get a little practice. You might find that you’ll actually enjoy a little social life outside of work.”

I picked up the phone and started dialing a number, hoping she’d get the hint. I raised my eyebrow at her when she didn’t move.