Page 21 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
The first thing I noticed was the scent of horse and leather, along with the lingering odor of gunpowder. I wrinkled my nose, wondering why it seemed so familiar when it shouldn’t, and recalled that I had smelled it recently. The second thing I noticed was that all the remaining furniture and bedding had been stacked on the rug, a teetering stepladder that reached the top of the posts of the antique bed. What looked like dried mud had been smeared on the walls and at first glance appeared to be random strokes and shapes. But when I looked closer I could see the individual letters formed a single word, splashed on the wall with fury and anger, the mud thick with hate.Betrayed.
“Well,” Greco said, stepping purposefully into the room, hands on hips, and then turning around to inspect the carnage. “It looks like we have a lot of work to do here.”
Jack, Nola, and I shared surprised looks before turning our gazes back to the designer. “You’re hired,” I said, and then, without thought, I hugged him.
CHAPTER 8
I sat in a plastic folding chair in an empty listing, passing the time with a box of dried oranges, jabbing cloves into them in the pattern Sophie had dictated for the pomander balls she wanted strewn in every wreath and centerpiece in every house for the progressive dinner. It was taking me longer than expected because getting the cloves evenly spaced was more challenging than I’d thought it should be, even using the pocket-sized ruler I thankfully had in my purse. It was also possible that I was dragging out the chore because of the extra pleasure I got in envisioning each orange as a voodoo doll of my former best friend.
I was in no hurry to finish, since Sophie had so kindly stuffed the backseat of my car with boxwood cuttings that needed “conditioning” before we could use them in our Colonial-wreath-making workshop. “Conditioning” meant a lot of cutting, scraping, recutting, and soaking—four steps too many, in my opinion. I was hoping I’d have time to stop by a craft shop and buy plastic ones. A lot less trouble and they’d last forever. Hopefully, Sophie wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
This house was on State Street and belonged to a client whose listingI’d accepted only because I’d already sold them another home on Gibbes. I usually didn’t do open houses because even when I was supposed to be alone in the house, I never really was, and I found it awkward trying to explain my sudden outbursts of singing to unsuspecting home browsers.
But this house was a relatively new (circa 2002) estate home—or, as Sophie referred to it, an aberration of architectural and historic sensibilities—built to loosely resemble the house that had originally been on the lot before being abandoned and then condemned by the city. I remembered how Sophie had dressed in black and wept whenever she passed the empty lot, then became openly hostile when she saw the opulent home being built in its place. It was a Charleston double house on steroids, according to Sophie, whose chief complaint was that the house was new. The owners, my clients, were a nice middle-aged couple from Boston who’d been happy in the house for several years until they heard that the most desirable location to own a home in Charleston was South of Broad. I didn’t agree, but a double commission wasn’t something I could ignore. Especially not now.
I heard the front gate close and I stood to look through the window, expecting another Realtor and her clients for a second showing. I waited until I heard footsteps on the porch, then opened the door before they had a chance to hear the doorbell chime “Dixie.” The owners had thought it cute and that it might make their neighbors warm up to them. It hadn’t.
“Anthony!” I said in surprise, taking in the crutches he was using because of a sprained ankle, the bruises on his face, and his arm in a sling—all apparently from the car accident.
“Sorry,” he said. “I probably should have let you know I was coming. I called your office, and that nice Miss Jolly told me you were here.”
Our receptionist was usually a better gatekeeper, but I was sure Anthony had used his considerable charm. I stood back and held the door open for him, watching as he looked around as if hoping to see someone.
“Is your sister here?”
“No—she’s watching my children. She’s our nanny.”
He looked chagrined. “Of course. I was just... Never mind. I came to apologize for the other day, and hopefully make another appointment for us to visit the mausoleum.”
I shuddered at the memory of my father and the dark voice that had erupted from his mouth like bile. “I’m not sure....”
“Someone messed with my car, Melanie. I know I won’t be able to prove it, but my steering wheel was like something possessed. I couldn’t control it—it was like it had its own mind. Like someone was controlling it remotely.”
“What has this got to do with me going to the mausoleum?”
“It’s Marc—don’t you see? He’s somehow found out what I’m up to, and he’s desperate for us not to find whatever might be hidden there.”
I wished I could see, because then I wouldn’t have to consider the other very real possibility of what had happened to Anthony’s car. “No, I don’t. Marc is a jerk, but he’s your brother. I doubt very much that he would try to physically harm you.”
Despite the chill outside and in the empty house, beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. I led him to the lone chair and he sat down heavily.
“Sorry,” he said. “This whole thing has me... spooked.”
Me, too,I almost said. “Can I get you some water?”
He shook his head. “But thanks. I’ll really feel better if you say you’ll still help me.”
I crossed my arms. “I think you need to tell me more than just ‘meet me at the mausoleum.’ I need you to tell me the whole story, okay?”
Anthony placed his crutches on the floor, then leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. “When Marc bought the plantation, it was because he thought that’s where the Confederate diamonds were hidden.”
“I knew that, but not why. What made him think that?” I asked, settling my gaze on one of the oranges and noticing that the spacing on the cloves was off.
“Same reason everyone did at the time, I guess—all those rumorsabout the Vanderhorst Confederate ancestor who supposedly hid the diamonds. But when Marc was doing research for his book on our ancestor Joseph Longo, he discovered Joseph’s business diary at the Charleston Museum in the archives. Since he knew Jack was working on the same subject for a book, he tore out the pages....” He stopped, a look of chagrin settling on his features. “And destroyed them, but there was enough there to make Marc believe the diamonds were somewhere on the plantation—or had been at some point before they were moved to your house.”
Unable to stop myself, I picked up the orange with the errant cloves and pulled out my ruler. Anthony stopped speaking, and when I looked at him, I realized he was staring at me. “These are decorations for the progressive dinner. Haven’t you ever seen cloves stuck into oranges to make pomander balls?”
He nodded slowly. “Sure. Just never with such... precision.”
