Page 75 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
As I sat in the pedicab, I had the brilliant thought of calling Sophie and sending her over to Veronica’s to make a few structural suggestions, along with dire warnings. She was a college professor and quite good at intimidation and wearing down those who disagreed with her regarding old-house restorations. Which was why I’d spent more money than I had ever thought possible on a new roof and foundation, along with hand-painted wallpaper and hand-sanded floors. All because I couldn’tsay no to Sophie, even though she dressed like a toddler who’d chosen her own clothes.
I plucked my phone from my purse just when it started to ring. There was no name next to the familiar telephone number because I was too optimistic in believing that I’d never have a need to add her name to my contact list. I slid my thumb across the screen, then held the phone to my ear. “Hello, Suzy. This is Melanie.”
“I can’t believe I’m actually speaking with you! You’re a hard person to pin down.”
“So sorry,” I said, mimicking the bored tones I’d heard my coworker Wendy Wax using with one of her ex-husbands. “’Tis the season to lose one’s mind, and all that.”
“That’s for sure.” Suzy giggled, sounding like the twelve-year-old girl she resembled. “I understand you have a full house right now with a film crew, a decorator, and a classroom full of preservation students in your backyard. Howdoyou do it all?”
“Is this an interview about my life? Because if it is, I can save us a lot of time up front and tell you now that I’m not interested.”
She giggled again, setting my teeth on edge. “Oh, I’m sure your day-to-day life is fascinating, Melanie, but I’m calling about something else. Are you familiar with the series I’m writing in thePost and Courierabout lost treasures in the Lowcountry? It’s a weekly serial in the Sunday edition.”
I was too embarrassed to admit that I only had time to pull the real estate section from the paper and that, despite promises to myself that I would read the rest and become a better-informed member of society, the rest of the paper would usually end up in the recycling bin unread. Jack usually read the whole thing cover to cover, but I’d noticed recently he’d been too immersed in puzzle solving and going over the research materials that Yvonne would send over on an almost daily schedule to find the time to read the paper.
“I think our neighbor’s dog has been taking our Sunday paper, because we haven’t received it for several weeks now. Her name is Cindy Lou Who, and she’s just the sweetest dog, but she does love a juicy newspaper.”
I prepared myself for another giggle, and when I didn’t hear one, I pulled my phone from my ear to make sure the call hadn’t been dropped.
“You know, Melanie, journalists and editors work very hard on the newspaper. We would all appreciate a little respect.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that Cindy Lou Who was chewing on it, Suzy. I was thinking she was probably taking it to read. She’s a very smart dog.” I wasn’t sure why I said that, only that my feet were hurting and the woman annoyed me.
“Glad to know you have a sense of humor, Melanie. Rebecca says you’re probably going to need it.”
I sat up. “What do you mean?”
I could imagine the reporter shrugging her narrow shoulders. “You’ll have to ask your cousin. Now, do you have a few moments to answer some questions?”
We were creeping down King Street, the traffic slower due to the heavy volume and the number of pedestrians doing their holiday shopping. “That would depend. About what?”
“Lost treasures. For my series.”
“Right. I’m not sure if I have anything to add, unless you’re referring to the cistern in the backyard. They’ve found lots of broken pottery, if that’s what you’re looking for. I’d suggest asking one of the grad students working on the excavation, named Meghan Black....”
“I’m looking for something lost since the Revolution, something valuable given by the French king to the patriots, presumably to pay American spies.”
I kept my voice even. “Well, we certainly haven’t found anything valuable—”
“Yet,” she broke in. “While doing research on buried pirate treasure along the coast, I came upon the story in the national archives of Barbados, if you can imagine, of a treasure given to the Marquis de Lafayette in 1781 by the king of France. You’re probably wondering why Barbados—”
“No, actually, I’m not. Look, Suzy, I don’t have any idea—”
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I was researching ‘the GentlemanPirate,’ Stede Bonnet, who was born in Barbados and hanged in Charleston—or Charles Towne, as it was known prior to the Revolution. That’s why I was looking in the national archives of Barbados, and there it was—an obscure article about missing treasures that included Blackbeard, Bonnet, and”—she gave a dramatic pause—“the Marquis de Lafayette!”
She paused again, apparently waiting for applause. When I didn’t respond, she continued. “Anyway, the article claimed that the marquis had been entrusted with delivering the French king’s gift to an unnamed American who’d been charged with the task of enlisting influential citizens in Charleston as spies for the patriot cause. Whatever it was must have been easy to transport and quite valuable, as most of the influential citizens in South Carolina at the time were wealthy landowners, and to be caught planning against the Crown would mean certain death in addition to the confiscation of all your property and leaving your family destitute.”
We passed a storefront window, a cute dress catching my attention, so I missed the first part of Suzy’s next sentence, my focus snapping back when I recognized the name Vanderhorst. “I’m sorry—what did you say? About a Vanderhorst?”
A heavy sigh reverberated in my ear. “I said that I also went through and read old records regarding the detainees at the Provost Dungeon during the British occupation in the early seventeen eighties. The records included depositions of accused American spies prior to their executions. One of the men who was about to be hanged thought to save himself by naming names and mentioned Lawrence Vanderhorst of Gallen Hall Plantation. You can only imagine how excited I was to hear that and to know that I had an in with the owner of a Vanderhorst property.”
I wanted to tell her she was delusional if she considered me an in but kept my thoughts to myself. They were too busy running back and forth over Lawrence’s name, the name of the third occupant of the mausoleum at Gallen Hall. Not that I had any intention of mentioning that to Suzy Dorf.
“For the record,” she said, “Lawrence was known as a staunchloyalist and had turned in American spies, so his reputation was pretty clean. He was never arrested, so the prisoner was either making something up to get a lighter sentence or he got the name wrong.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “I’m not really sure why you’re calling me about this. I’m not really into history.” We were approaching the intersection of Market and King, where I’d be getting out of the pedicab. I hoisted my purse strap onto my shoulder in preparation, eager to end the call.
“That’s not what Rebecca Longo told me.”
