Page 15 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“Apparently not,” Jack said.
“Of course,” I said simultaneously.
Jack met my gaze, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
Rebecca cleared her throat. “I had two dreams: one where a man without eyes and wearing old-fashioned clothes was after you and Melanie, and the other was of an unidentifiable person—I think it was a man—trying to bury you alive.”
“I see,” he said slowly. “Well, then, thanks for letting me know thatI should avoid strange men and open graves. Just wish I’d heard it from my wife.”
To my relief, Sophie appeared from behind Rebecca carrying a large box stuffed to the brim with piney-smelling greenery. Her face was covered but I knew it was her from the bright blue braids of hair that crisscrossed her scalp like she’d been attacked by a runaway sewing machine.
Blowing a pine bough away from her mouth, she said, “There are a bunch more boxes in the back of Veronica’s SUV if someone could help bring it all in.”
“I’ll get it,” Jack said. He took the box from Sophie, setting it down in the vestibule before turning his most charming smile on me. “We’ll talk about this later.”
I started to say something that might sound like an apology, but I was distracted by the small bag that Rebecca clutched in her pink-gloved hand. “What’s in there?” I asked.
“Contraband.” Sophie stepped in front of us, her hands on her hips. “I’ve already explained several times that all the decorations in the progressive dinner homes have to be authentic—as in what people would find in houses during the Revolutionary War period.”
Rebecca looked outraged. “That’s only because the colonists didn’t have bedazzling guns back in the day!” She held aloft what looked like a small laser gun with a dangling electric cord. “But if they did, I’m sure all of their pineapples and mobcaps would have been bedazzled.”
Sophie took a step toward Rebecca. “If you don’t put that thing away, it won’t be fruit and caps getting bedazzled!”
“Stop,” I shouted, grabbing the gun from Rebecca’s hand. “I’m sure we can speak rationally about this later. Right now, let’s get everything inside to see what we have and decide where it’s going to go, all right?”
An icy wind blew through the door, even colder than the chilly November day, and I looked up to see Veronica and Jack entering the vestibule, followed by Veronica’s husband, Michael. I smelled Vanilla Musk perfume before I saw the blob of light hovering behind them, announcing a familiar presence.
I greeted the newcomers, hoping Michael would leave as soon as he’d deposited the bags he’d brought into the house. Ever since our uncomfortable confrontation in which he’d told me in no uncertain terms that I was to have nothing to do with helping his wife in her quest to find out what had happened to her sister more than twenty years before, I hadn’t spoken two words to him. I hoped he was as eager to avoid me as I was to avoid him.
I turned toward Veronica and smiled. “Glad to see you’re wearing black and white, as I have a feeling we might need to play referee with Rebecca and Sophie.” I picked up several bags containing dried oranges and cloves and brought them to the dining room table to be artfully displayed by someone besides myself, hoping by the time I’d returned, Michael would be gone.
“Hello, Melanie.” Michael’s voice was close to my ear, making me drop one of the bags on the smooth dark wood of the table, spilling oranges, which began to roll. I was on the opposite side of the table and couldn’t reach them before they fell off the edge, my view blocked by the ginormous centerpiece of flowers and greens from the garden that Mrs. Houlihan changed almost daily. I stood frozen, waiting for the sound of the oranges splatting on the floor.
When all I heard was the sound of General Lee licking himself under the table, I walked slowly to the other side and was brought up short by the sight of six plump oranges lined up in a neat row like soldiers, perched precariously at the table’s edge.
“How did you do that?” Michael asked, his voice a little higher than usual.
I searched the room for Adrienne, Veronica’s spectral sister, wondering why she was hiding from me. But I knew she was there. I could smell her perfume as if it had just been sprayed in the air in front of me.
I met his gaze. “Magic,” I said.
He didn’t smile. “I don’t believe in magic.”
“I don’t think you need to believe in magic to see it.”
He picked up one of the oranges to examine it, perhaps hoping to find a squared bottom. Without looking at me, he said, “I’m gladVeronica has found something to occupy herself with other than the pointless search for her sister’s murderer. I hope you remember what I said before—about how important it is to me that you don’t get involved with Veronica’s little... obsession. It will go away a lot faster if it’s not validated.”
I tried to keep my temper in check. “I don’t find the desire to solve her sister’s murder an ‘obsession.’ I think it’s a reasonable quest. As for me helping her, she hasn’t asked.”
He was still holding the orange as his gaze shot back to meet mine. “And if she does? I know she wants you to channel—or whatever it is you say you do to speak with dead people—Adrienne. Would you say yes?”
“I’ve never claimed to communicate with the dead.” This, at least, was true. Denial was my best friend when it came to my special “gift.” “But I’d like to think I could help Veronica in other ways to deal with her grief, and if she asks, I’d say yes.”
Very carefully and deliberately, he put the orange down in the middle of the table. He held his hands out, palms up, his face a mask of desperation. “I don’t know what to do, Melanie. Veronica talks about nothing else, like she believes finding out who killed Adrienne will make her come back. I really fear for Veronica’s mental health.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Please, Melanie. Don’t get involved. You won’t be helping her, and you might actually be hurting her. Veronica needs to move on with her life, and this is just holding her back.” He stopped speaking for a moment, but I could tell he had more to say; he just wasn’t sure how much or if he should continue at all.
Finally, he said, “It’s affecting Lindsey in a negative way. She can barely sleep at night and her grades at school are slipping.” He pursed his lips. “It’s ruining our marriage.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry, Michael. I really am. But all I can do is promise not to encourage her. I can’t do any more than that.”
