Page 83 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
Greco cleared his throat. “Uh, Melanie. I was actually looking for you. Can you come upstairs to Nola’s room for a moment?”
As I followed him upstairs, I kept picturing more words carved into the plaster walls, or a human skull protruding from a cornice. Andwondering how much Greco would be okay with before he gave up and quit.
He held the door open for me and waited for me to enter before following me inside. He cleared his throat again. “So,” he said. “When I came upstairs a short while ago, I could have sworn I heard, well, the sound long skirts make when a woman is walking across the floor. I knocked on the door twice, and when I didn’t hear anything, I walked in and found the room empty.”
I kept my expression neutral, not sure if I should mention that odd noises in empty rooms were part of my daily life. I spun around to verify that, yes, the room was actually devoid of people, especially women in long skirts. I followed his gaze to a new pile of bee carcasses clustered around the leg of the bed, the claw-foot nearly covered with them.
I made a show of checking the windows to ensure they were closed, flicking the locks to verify that the windows were, indeed, locked and couldn’t accidentally slide open. “I guess we have a hive in the wall somewhere, so I’ll have to call a bee removal specialist. You don’t want to kill bees, you know—it’s bad for the environment.”
“It’s also bad luck,” Greco said, walking toward the bed. “But bees are dormant in the winter, which makes their presence in the room that much stranger.” He knelt by the foot of the bed and began running his fingers around the back of the claw-foot, gently flicking the bees out of the way.
“My grandfather was a beekeeper,” he explained. “That’s how I know a little bit about bees and bee behavior. He always told me that a smart person listened to the bees because they always had something important to say. And this”—he indicated the pile of carcasses—“was telling me something. A pile of dead bees in the middle of winter clustered around one single area spoke to me. So I figured I should investigate.”
He continued to move his fingers around the back of the claw-foot leg until I heard a small click. His eyes widened and I knew that he’d found what he’d been looking for. “I was just running my hands up and down over the wood until I felt something—and when I pushed it, asmall door popped open right at the spot where the leg is attached to the footboard, to protect it from being seen when the bedclothes are removed, and this fell out.”
He stood and carried something to me in his closed fist. When he reached me, he slowly unfurled his fingers and revealed a gold ring with a flat top, with something engraved on it. Without a word, Greco reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. I slid them on, then picked up the ring to see it better.
I ran a finger over the flat top. “It’s a peacock,” I said, and I could hear the excitement in my voice.
“Indeed it is. And I do believe it was used as a wax sealer—I’ve seen them before. That’s why it’s flat on top. You don’t have to take it off to dip in the wax.”
“It’s a peacock,” I said again, not sure how else I could articulate how much I thought this was a Good Thing. I had no idea why, but I was pretty sure Jack would.
“I know,” Greco said, his tone matching mine. “Remember how I mentioned the spy ring that had a peacock as its symbol? I think this ring must have belonged to a member, which is why it was hidden, to keep the owner’s identity a secret.” He reached over and gently flipped the ring over in my palm. “Look on the inside of the ring—there are two initials. I’m wondering if they’re the owner’s.”
Leaning closer and squinting even with the reading glasses, I was able to make out the initials S.V. I met Greco’s eyes. “I don’t think these are the owner’s initials—I think they’re the initials of the man who made it, Samuel Vanderhorst.”
Greco nodded excitedly. “I’ve heard of him! He’s quite famous for his metalworking and jewelry designs, isn’t he?”
“Yes. And he was a former slave at Gallen Hall Plantation, too, which is where this bed was mostly likely made.” I looked at Greco’s red coat as if noticing it for the first time. “Is your great-uncle—the one who was the American history professor at Carolina—is he still alive?”
“Absolutely. My mother says he’ll outlive us all. My father suspects his longevity is due to the fact that he spends so much time studyingdead people that it’s convinced him that he’s better off in the land of the living.” He tilted his head. “Why? Is there anything you’d like me to ask him? I’m going to see him tomorrow at a living history encampment at the Camden battlefield. He interprets Major General Horatio Gates.”
“Another redcoat?”
He looked offended. “Certainly not. Major General Gates led the American forces at the battle and was responsible for their resounding defeat. Ruined his military career, actually.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, although I’d never heard the name before. “If you’re willing, that would be wonderful. When Nola was using the textbook she’d borrowed, there was a mention that Lawrence Vanderhorst had been shot. Was that because he was a spy? But if the Vanderhorsts were known loyalists, would that make him a spy for the Crown or for the Americans?”
“That’s a very good question, and one I’m sure my great-uncle should be able to shed some light on. You might remember that was his expertise—spies during the American Revolution. Actually, if you’re all right with me taking a few photos of the ring on my phone, I’d love to send them to Uncle Oliver.”
“Absolutely.” I held up my palm, showing the front, side, and back of the ring so Greco could photograph it.
“One other thing,” I said as I slid the ring on my largest finger, where it was still loose, then folded my fingers over it so it wouldn’t slide off. “There was a British soldier quartered at Gallen Hall Plantation, an Alexander Monroe. He was found drowned in the Ashley River four days before Lawrence was shot.” I could almost hear Jack’s voice in my head.There is no such thing as coincidence.“I have no reason to suspect they might be connected, but could you ask your great-uncle, just in case, if he knows anything about either death?”
“No problem—I’m sure Uncle Oliver will be thrilled to help. He lives for that stuff.” He glanced back at the claw-foot and the bees; he was silent for a moment, as if contemplating his next words. “There’s something else I should probably mention.”
I waited in silence, just in case he was looking for a reason to change his mind.
Greco continued. “The weirdest thing about it all is... Well, I’m not sure how to explain this.” He stopped and a small flush crossed his handsome face. “Although for some reason, I think you could take this better than most.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew.
He gave me a knowing glance before continuing. “When I found the ring I did what most people would do, I suppose, and I slid it on my pinkie finger. I figured that’s where signet rings go, right? Anyway, it fit me perfectly, and just as I was thinking that exact thought, I felt someone—I’m pretty sure it was a woman....” He paused, rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I felt someone kiss my cheek. It was definitely a kiss; I could feel it and hear it, you know? Except, instead of being warm, like from someone’s lips, it was icy cold.”
“And there was no one else in the room?” I was imagining Mrs. Houlihan trying to hide behind the door, since she had been the only other person in the house at the time.
“No. At least no one I could see.” His gaze settled on me, and I was surprised it wasn’t one of expectation. Like he didn’t need any explanations from me, and I was fine with that.
