Page 30 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“It probably should,” Rich muttered as he lifted a large backpack off of his back and began pulling out camera equipment and setting it on the foyer floor.
Feeling completely defeated and not a little irritated, I crossed myarms. “I thought we’d take the picture by the Christmas tree next to the stairs. It’s the tallest and the prettiest, in my opinion. It’s also the only one of the six I’m supposed to have that’s completely decorated for the progressive dinner. Of course, my opinion doesn’t seem to matter around here, so if you’d prefer to take it in the middle of the cistern, have at it.”
“No,” Rich said a little forcefully. “I mean, I think the Christmas tree next to the banister with all that garland will look perfect. Don’t you think, Mr. Trenholm?”
I turned around to see Jack on the landing, a child in each arm as he descended. He stopped next to me and kissed me gently on my temple. “If that’s what my lovely wife wants, then that’s what we should do.”
Feeling slightly mollified, I said, “Just make sure no one leans against the banister. It’s a pain to glue that fruit onto the garland.”
Nola’s eyes widened. “Glue?” She said it with the same inflection some people use to say the wordmurder. “Does Dr. Wallen-Arasi know?”
I was saved from responding by the sound of my phone’s “Mamma Mia” ringtone coming from the parlor. “I’ll get it,” Nola said, racing across the foyer. By the time she returned, it had stopped ringing, but she was looking at it as her fingers tapped wildly on the screen.
Without looking up, she said, “It was Dr. Wallen-Arasi. She sent you a text asking you to look at the photos you sent her from Lindsey’s house.”
I frowned. “How did you know my password?”
She looked up at me to roll her eyes. “Seriously? You use the same password for everything: 1-2-2-1. Although even if I didn’t know that already, I could have guessed it since you’re such an ABBA freak.” She stopped walking and looked down at my phone, her eyebrows raised. “Wow. That’s seriously messed up.”
I took the phone from her and looked at the photo on the screen. It was the one I’d taken of the mirror over the fireplace at the Farrells’ house on Queen Street. Behind me, in the room where at the time I was completely alone, was a filmy cloud that vaguely resembled a humanfigure. I squinted, trying to discern any facial features or anything at all that would definitely identify what we were looking at.
“Is that a finger?” Nola asked, pointing to something that appeared to be a human hand floating behind the cloudy form.
I nodded. “I think it is. It’s pointing up the stairs.” I remembered the attic, and being led to the box against the wall. And the necklace being dropped at my feet.
“Can I tell Lindsey?” she asked quietly.
“No. I mean, not yet. Let me show this to her mother and she can decide.”
Nola faced me. “It’s her dead aunt, isn’t it? Does this mean you’re going to help them find out who killed her?”
I looked pointedly at Rich, who was pretending very hard to be focusing on setting up his camera equipment, while listening to every word. “Let’s discuss this later,” I said, handing her my phone before running after JJ, who now careened toward the banister, his focus on a prominent pomegranate.
“Melanie?”
Distracted from my pursuit, I turned at the odd note in Nola’s voice.
“What’s this?” She walked toward me with my phone held up to me, the screen filled with tiles of photos I’d taken not only of Veronica’s house, but also of Nola’s room to document the before and after of the redo.
She made one of the photos bigger and put it closer to my face as Jack came to stand next to me. I’d simply taken the photographs without looking at them, figuring I didn’t need to see them until after the project was completed. I squinted, already knowing what she was seeing, and felt my stomach clench.
“Looks like a guy in really old-fashioned clothes standing by the antique jewelry chest,” Jack said. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but he doesn’t appear to have any eyes in his eye sockets.”
I felt Nola, Jack, and Rich staring at me.
“Did you know about this?” Nola asked in a strangled voice.
My answer was drowned out by the sound of JJ squealing as he pulled the pomegranate from the garland, yanking the rope of magnolia leaves off of the banister and sending plastic fruit and greenery cascading to the foyer floor. They rolled in an oddly uniform pattern, all coming to a stop in a perfect circle around me, as the sound of a sibilant “S” curling like a rope around my neck rang in my ears.
CHAPTER 12
I shoved the small shopping bag from the Finicky Filly farther under one of the folding tables set up in the stables of the Aiken-Rhett House museum on Elizabeth Street so Sophie wouldn’t see and know why I was late to our scheduled session to organize the wreath workshop supplies before the big event. Sophie wanted to make sure we had enough materials before the actual workshop, and it was my goal to ensure she saw only the boxes of the real stuff and not the faux fruit and garland I’d supplied.
After the previous day’s Christmas photo session debacle, I’d been in dire need of retail therapy, and the lovely people at my favorite clothing-and-accessories store had been more than happy to oblige. Despite wanting to buy half the store, I’d had to keep reminding myself that I was on a strict budget and that unlike in my single days, I now had other people to consider before whipping out my credit card. In the end, I’d chosen a skirt on sale as a present for my mother, a cute pair of inexpensive earrings for Jayne, and an incredibly cheap pair of shoes for me that were marked down so far that they were practically free. I felt a lot better when I left the store.
I began sorting through the boxes of Christmas-wreath-makingmaterials, noting with aggravation that many of the oranges donated by other volunteers had randomly spaced cloves and that none of the pomegranates was of uniform size or shape.
“How did the Christmas photo turn out?” Sophie asked as she appeared next to me. I tried not to stare at her ensemble, which looked as if her toddler, Skye, had chosen it. And made it. If she hadn’t, then I imagined Sophie must have raided a defunct circus-costume stash to come up with the color-blocked balloon pants with elastic at the ankles (to better display her Birkenstocks) and clashing floral cardigan with oversized buttons of varying colors. Neon green toe socks poked out of her sandals. I’d tried for years to tell her that a pair of Keds or really any other kind of shoe besides sandals would keep her feet warm. I’d finally given up.
