Page 46 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
Rebecca gave a quick shake of her head. “No. It was about Nola.”
My stomach and heart squeezed. “Nola?”
“Yes. At least I’m pretty sure it was her. It was a young woman about her age, and she’s the only person I know who fits that description, so I assumed it was her. There was...” She reached her hand up to her neck in a defensive gesture. “There was... there was a rope around her neck.”
My breath came in shallow gasps as my hand slowly drifted up to my own neck, as if to make sure there was nothing there.
Rebecca patted me on my arm. “I know—it’s hard to hear. But I also know you’ll figure it out in time to protect her. I’ll let you know if I have any more dreams.” She flashed me a bright smile. “Right now, I’m going to get those gorgeous ornaments from my car and help Veronica set up my tree. It’s going to be the most beautiful tree in the house, if not all the houses!”
I watched her leave, then stood where I was in the vestibule for a long moment, staring at the closed door. I’d heard Nola come in from school about an hour before and had the sudden need to see her, to make sure she was all right.
I took the stairs two at a time, surprised to find her door open and voices coming from inside. I peered into the room to find Nola on the bed with a large and very thick book on her lap and her laptop in front of her, the three dogs perched at the foot watching her. Greco stood by the wall between the windows, impeccably dressed as usual in suit pants, shirt, and tie, his jacket draped neatly over a chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he appeared to be examining ten paint swatches on the wall.
He looked at me and smiled, then went back to frowning at the wall. “Who knew there were so many shades of gray?”
“I thought there were only supposed to be fifty,” Nola said with a smirk.
“You’re not supposed to know about that book,” I said.
“There was a book? I only know about the movie.”
“Actually there were several—of both. Maybe we should look at the convent school in Ireland your dad keeps talking about.”
“But then you’d miss me too much.” She gave me a grin, then returned to her laptop.
I stood next to Greco, trying to ignore the jewelry cabinet with its open lid and all the doors and drawers wide open. “I thought gray was just black and white mixed together.”
“Sometimes,” he said, tilting his head. “But in different light, some can appear to be more blue, or green, or beige. Miss Nola would prefer a strict black-and-white gray. And it is my job to make sure that’s what gets put on her wall.”
I looked over at Nola, who was reading something on her laptop. “Why are you in here, Nola? Don’t you have a nice ergonomic desk and chair set up for you in the guest room?”
Without glancing up, she said, “Yes, but Greco is in here, and he’s the expert on the American Revolution, which is what we’re studying now. He’s a Revolutionary War reenactor. Did he tell you that?”
“He did,” I said. “But he’s not here to help with your homework.”
“I’m rather enjoying it,” Greco said. “I like talking about my favorite subject with such an interested and intelligent student.”
I grinned with pride, as if he were complimenting me. But I couldn’t take any of the credit where Nola was concerned. “Well, she does love history—which is a good thing since her father pretty much lives and breathes it.”
“He should try reenacting.”
Just the thought of Jack wearing a uniform did funny things to my stomach. “I’ll mention it to him.”
Greco picked up a sample quart of paint and screwed on the lid. “This one is definitely out. It’s much too beige—and Miss Nola is just not a beige person.”
As he spoke, Nola shifted her legs on the bed, making the three dogs adjust their reclining positions, resulting in the thick textbook beginning a nosedive off the side. I caught it midslide, slapping it against the bed on the page where Nola had it opened.
Nola pressed her hands against her heart. “Good save, Melanie. I hope it’s not damaged. It belongs to Greco and it’s really old.”
“No worries,” the designer said. “I’ve practically memorized it. It actually belongs to my great-uncle, a professor of history at Carolina back in the day. Quite well respected in his field. His expertise was focused on spies throughout American history, particularly during the Revolution.”
I looked down at the splayed page and stopped, noticing the large picture at the top of the page. “That’s Gallen Hall. Nola, did you know that it was owned by the same Vanderhorsts that owned this house?”
“Yes, Captain Obvious. You and Dad have only been talking about that nonstop for days.”
Greco was saying something about blending two of the paint samples to make the perfect true gray, but I was listening with only half an ear as I read from the textbook. “This is interesting,” I said, my heart beating a little faster as I saw the small picture beneath the one of the mansion. “Another reference book I saw also mentions that Lawrence Vanderhorst might have been a spy and was discovered shot in the chest, and that his killer was never found. But this is new.” I stopped for a moment to find the part in the text again, and squinting so I could see it, I read out loud.
“‘When Lawrence Vanderhorst’s body was discovered on the morning of October twenty-eighth, the only thing clear about his death was that it had been caused by a single bullet to the chest. Several people from the house rushed outside at the noise but could only find footprints in the dew leading to and from the house, one set apparently being the victim’s. All servants and family members were interviewed, but no clear evidence suggested that any of them were involved. His murder has never been solved.’”
