Page 47 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
I read it again to myself, thinking how strange it sounded that no one was arrested despite the evidence pointing to someone who’d been in the house at the time of the murder. I looked up to where Greco was painting another swatch of color on the wall, and then over at Nola, who was looking down at her laptop and absently rubbing her neck. I becameaware of a scratching sound in the room, like a small animal trapped inside the walls, trying to get out.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?” Nola looked up at me.
“That sound. That scratching sound.”
Greco shook his head, but it was too late to pinpoint where it had come from, as it had already stopped. I placed the book back on the bed in front of Nola. “Could you please bookmark that page? I want to make a copy of it when you’re done so I can show your dad. I have no idea if it means anything, but it couldn’t...”
I forgot what I was saying. On the wall behind Nola, above the headboard, the wordLieshad been scratched into the paint.
Nola looked at the word, then back at me, her eyes wide. Slowly we both turned to Greco.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “it’s a good thing we’re planning on painting the entire room.”
CHAPTER 17
I stood at the threshold of Jack’s office, listening as Nola plucked out a desultory tune on the piano. It wasn’t the ideal spot for the instrument, but both Jack and Nola insisted being together in a shared space was good for their shared artistic vibe. It made my heart happy to watch them work in the same environment, knowing it was one of the reasons for their close father-daughter bond. Considering they’d been separated for most of Nola’s life, their bond was no small feat. Nola and I were close, too, and I tried not to take offense that she never dared roll her eyes at her father, saving all that for me. Nor did she deprive him of his favorite foods. Nola insisted this was her way of showing me affection, but I wasn’t convinced.
Jack huddled over his desk, poring over documents related to Gallen Hall and the three people buried in the mausoleum. He still hadn’t heard back from his architect friend, Steve, and we were holding out hope that the architectural renderings would contain the one thing we needed.
As I entered the room Jack and Nola sighed in unison, pushing up the hair off their foreheads with the heels of their left hands as they stared down at their individual work spaces.
“You about ready to go?” I asked Jack.
It took him a moment to answer, as if he were unwilling to pull himself away. He moved his chair back before looking up at me. “Sure. Let me grab my jacket.” He looked back at the papers on his desk, then slid his gaze over to Nola. She’d had a doctor’s appointment at noon and then managed to convince me afterward that she could just go home instead of back to school because all she had left were PE and music.
“Need to take a creative break?” he asked.
“Even if it’s not creative, I need a break. I keep coming up with absolutely nothing new here. I’ve been adulting all day, and I’m done.”
“Adulting?” I asked, pretty sure that if I looked that one up inWebster’s, I wouldn’t find it.
Both Jack and Nola looked at me with matching frowns.
“You know—being an adult,” Nola said, speaking slowly as if explaining something to the twins.
“I don’t think that’s a real word,” I said.
“It is.” Jack stood and took his jacket off the antique coat rack behind the door. “If you watched any reality TV or subscribed to certain channels on YouTube, you’d know that.”
“YouTube?” I asked, thinking I’d heard of it before—probably during carpool with Nola and her friends, which was generally a huge font of knowledge.
“I’ll tell her in the car on our way to Gallen Hall,” Jack reassured Nola. “If only so she won’t embarrass you in front of your friends.”
“Whatever.” Nola dropped her hands from the keyboard and let her shoulders fall. “I need some creative inspiration. Are you sure I can’t go with you?”
“Absolutely not,” Jack said. “I’m sure you’ve got homework.”
“It’s Friday.”
“Right,” Jack said distractedly, as he patted his jacket and jeans pockets. “Has anyone seen my...” He stopped, then reached forward to grab his phone from his desk, pausing just a moment before picking up a piece of paper and walking over to Nola.
“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “You were so good figuring out Hasell Pinckney’s snow globe puzzle, maybe you’ll have better luckwith this than I have. Feel free to search the Internet or any other source you can think of, although I’m pretty sure I’ve seen them all.” He pointed to the books on the floor by his desk. “And there’s a whole pile of books about ciphers going back to the Egyptians. Have at it.”
Nola took the paper and stared at it, then read aloud, “‘Cognac, feathers of goldfinch, kitchen maid, Burgundy wine.’” She looked up, her brow furrowed. “What’s this supposed to mean?”
Jack gave her a grim smile. “We’re hoping you can tell us. You said you needed a creative break, so you’re welcome.”
