Page 23 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
Anthony shook his head. “No. That’s the thing—they used the same blueprint both times. And it was practically brand-new. There were only three bodies interred at the time—all placed there in the same year: 1782.”
I stopped pacing. “Please tell me that you still have the shoebox.”
He picked up one of the oranges and began to examine it, and it took all my restraint to ask him not to touch any of the cloves. “Of course—I’m not like Marc. I could never destroy a historical document. That’s just... wrong.”
I decided that I liked Anthony Longo a lot. “Can I see the shoebox?”
He began tossing the orange from one hand to the other, and I clenched my teeth. “So this means you’re still in?”
I was pretty sure I didn’t have a choice. There was no doubt in my mind that what was going on in his mausoleum was somehow connected to my cistern and the specter haunting Nola’s bedroom. I unclenched my jaw. “Yes. I suppose I am.”
He smiled, then stood. “I’ll get out of your way, then. I’ll bring the box to your house whenever it’s convenient. Or I can drop it by your house now if Jayne’s there.”
I frowned. “Why don’t you just bring it by my office? You can leave it with Jolly. She’s completely trustworthy.”
He looked disappointed, but I owed it to my friendship with Thomas Riley not to encourage another suitor for Jayne.
“And, Anthony?”
He looked at me expectantly.
“Don’t tell anyone I’m helping you with this. It’s not something I want people to know.”
He gazed at me silently for a moment. “All right,” he said with a nod before hoisting himself up with his crutches, then walking toward the front door in the octagonal entranceway. Its scale wasn’t of the right period, in contrast with the rest of the house. I almost bit my tongue when I realized I’d started to think like Sophie.
“I wouldn’t eat that orange if I were you. It’s been dried,” I said, eyeing the fruit he still held in his hand.
“Oh, right,” he said, tossing it to me.
I somehow managed to catch the orange. “And one last thing.”
He looked at me expectantly.
“Be careful. I’d stay away from the mausoleum for now until I can figure out a plan.”
We said our good-byes and I watched him exit, closing the door behind him. When I turned around to resume my task, all the oranges from the box were now on the floor, neatly lined up to make a perfect X.
CHAPTER 9
As I locked up my clients’ house, juggling the box of oranges and satisfied with the precisely arranged cloves sticking into their skins, I heard my name being called. I turned around and spotted Veronica’s daughter and Nola’s friend, Lindsey Farrell, and her father, Michael, walking what appeared to be a snowball white husky puppy.
“Need some help?” Michael called as he rushed up the steps to take the box.
“Thanks,” I said. “My car’s right over here—if you can just stick the box in the back, I’d appreciate it.”
I used my remote to pop open the trunk, and while he was fitting the box inside, I turned to greet Lindsey. “It’s nice to see you—Nola didn’t mention that you got a new puppy.”
I bent down to scratch the ball of fluff behind the ears, his gorgeous blue eyes happily staring into mine while his little pink tongue lolled. Ever since getting my own dog, I’d become hyperaware of other dogs. I couldn’t walk down the street without smiling at them or asking to pet them, and I would be humiliated if Jack ever found out, because my official line was that I wasn’t a dog person. Even though I now ownedthree and one of them slept on my pillow. I wasn’t a person who wanted to advertise that she’d relaxed any of her personal rules.
“He was a birthday surprise from my mom.” Lindsey leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “My dad isn’t too happy, but I’ve always wanted a dog. His name is Ghost.”
I looked at her, startled. “Ghost?”
“Yeah. You know. Like fromGame of Thrones.”
I stared at her blankly.
“Like in the HBO series based on the books by George R. R. Martin,” she prompted.
