Page 71 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
I raised my eyebrows.
“She wanted to know why we’re friends. I told her I have no idea.”
I gave her a half grin. “Me, neither.”
“You know, Melanie, you should probably speak with her. Find out what she knows about the French king’s gift. Because it’s only a matter of time before she finds out everything we’ve discovered so far and tells Rebecca. Then Marc will swoop in for the kill like a palmetto bug on a bread crumb.”
I sighed. The last thing I wanted to do was speak with the inquisitive and diminutive Suzy Dorf. But Sophie was right. As usual. “Fine. I’ll reach out to her tomorrow.” I indicated the piece of wood. “So, did you find out anything?”
“Yes and no.” She walked over to the jewelry chest, the drawers and lid all open. “I’m pretty sure I know where that small secret door is from.” Putting down the newspaper, she removed the top drawer of the chest and placed it on the floor before flipping on her iPhone flashlight and beaming it inside. “Look on the right-hand side here—there’s still a broken hinge clinging to the wood of a small cavity, and the size of it matches the holes in the piece Meghan found. When I held up the piece of wood, it was an exact fit.” She looked at me, and our gazes locked. “It appears it was ripped off its hinges. It’s not lockable, so there’d be no reason to rip it off to get to the contents of the narrow cavity.”
“Unless someone was in a big hurry.”
Sophie nodded.
“But the cavity is empty?”
“Yep.” She picked up the drawer and placed it back inside the jewelry chest. Facing me again, she said, “Do you remember where the chest came from? Is it possible it came from the Vanderhorst plantation?”
“It came from the attic—it’s full of Vanderhorst furniture. It’s like a time machine up there. I don’t think the family ever threw away anything.” I remembered the peacock Greco had shown me on the bed, and the story of how everything made on the plantation had been marked with the peacock icon. I indicated the claw-foot at the bottom of the bedpost. “Does the peacock carving match the one on the little door?”
“Yep. But that only means that they were both made at Gallen Hall, and most likely used as furnishings there before being moved here. This house isn’t as old as Gallen Hall, and the carpenters and craftsmen would have been making the furniture for that house first.” She gently kicked at something on the floor. “Any idea why there are so many dead bees in here?”
I stepped closer to get a better look, the sole of my shoe crunching something beneath it. I looked down and saw a cluster of dead bees, their wings and legs frozen in eternal flight. “They were here last night. Swarming around this bedpost but nowhere else. The windows were closed, and it’s been too cool for the bees to be out of their hives anyway.”
She tapped her chin. “I’m sure there was something hidden in that jewelry chest. I’m not certain how that little door ended up in the cistern, but it was probably considered garbage after it was broken off and discarded. That’s how most things end up in a cistern. Now, it’s anybody’s guess as to where whatever that chest was hiding might be now, but if this bedpost has the same carving, and they’re both made in the same period style and wood, meaning it’spossiblethey were created to be in the same room, and there were bees buzzing around this post last night, inside, in the dead of winter, I’d bet here would be a good place to start.”
Being careful not to step on any of the bees, she leaned over and knocked on the post in several places, her expression not changing. “Pretty solid.” Without a word, she slid out of her Birkenstocks andclimbed on top of the bed, moving aside a lilac drapery panel with her foot. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached toward the pineapple finial at the top of the post and lifted it off. “These finials are removable on all antique four-poster beds so the canopy can be attached in the winter for warmer bed hangings.” Smiling down at me, she stuck her fingers into the opening and swished them around. “Nothing,” she said, frowning. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. Were the bees only around this post?”
“Yes—definitely. The finial was as big as a basketball, there were so many bees.”
“Hmm.” She stuck her fingers inside the bedpost one more time before replacing the finial, then gingerly stepped around the mattress to check the other three. With a grunt of defeat, she lowered herself to the floor. “Sorry, Melanie. I don’t know what to tell you. I could have sworn that small door cover would lead us somewhere.”
“Me, too. Thanks, anyway, for trying.”
She began wrapping the piece of wood in the newspaper. “Let me know what the reporter says, okay? Or if you would like help replacing all the plastic fruit on the stairway garland.”
I was saved from responding by the appearance of my mother, looking beautiful and elegant and not nearly old enough to be my mother. “Sorry to barge in, but the door was open, so I just walked right in. You know, Mellie, it’s not a good idea to leave the door open.”
“I didn’t.” I met her gaze, then waited for her and Sophie to greet each other. “Are you ready to go? I just need to get the children up from their naps and put their sweaters on.”
She wasn’t listening, her eyes focused on the bed behind me. “There’s something...” She stopped, shook her head. “There’s something here we can’t see. I’m being drawn to this bedpost for some reason.” Looking down on the floor, she spotted the pile of bee carcasses. “Oh.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“They were swarming around the bedpost last night,” Sophie explained. “I’ve already looked inside the top of each post and knocked on the rest to see how solid they are, and found nothing.”
“And,” I added, “Eliza was here last night. Briefly.”
Our eyes met. “Did she say anything?”
I hesitated a moment. “‘Lies.’ She’s said that before.”
My mother stepped closer to the bed, then held her gloved finger to her lips before pressing her ear up against the wood of the bedpost. “I hear something. Someone. A woman.” She pressed her ear against the bedpost again and closed her eyes. “It’s too garbled. I can’t hear her clearly.” She began to peel off her gloves, finger by finger.
I moved forward to grab her arm, to stop her, but she’d already wrapped her hand around the post. Her body went rigid and her face contorted as if in pain, before her chin dipped to her chest and I couldn’t see her face anymore.
“Mother...”
