Page 4 of The Attic on Queen Street
“Yeah. I thought Mellie gave it to me.”
My eyes met Jayne’s in mutual understanding, both of us recalling the footprints in the snow. We looked at Nola. “I’ve never seen it before, and I certainly wouldn’t have put it in your room.” If I had seen it before, I would have burned it or thrown it into the Cooper River. I was a big believer in ignoring the obvious and pretending bad things didn’t exist. Until they undeniably did.
“Maybe Ginny could hold it and see if it speaks to her?” Nola suggested.
“No!” Jayne and I shouted simultaneously.
Ginette Prioleau, our mother, had been blessed—or cursed, depending on which one of her daughters you asked—with the ability to channel spirits by holding objects. It was one of the reasons why she woregloves all year long. But her strength would have been zapped from her for weeks, sending her to bed. I imagined Jayne was thinking the same thing: that not involving our mother would be for the best not only for her physical health but for our peace of mind.
I reluctantly took the doll in its little coffin from Nola, gingerly clasping it with my thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead palmetto bug. “It’s old, so chances are, Sophie will know what it is. Or at least know why it was put in your room. Maybe Meghan found it in the cistern and brought it upstairs when you weren’t here and you’re just noticing it now.” Meghan Black was one of Sophie’s graduate students who’d been helping to excavate the cistern.
“Probs,” Nola said, nodding along with Jayne and me as if we were all in agreement that what I’d just said wasn’t something with which to fertilize the garden.
I quickly placed the box and its unnerving contents in the small chest in the entranceway, hearing the buttons shift like crawling insects as I closed the drawer. “Thanks for the doughnuts and coffee, Jayne. I’ll see you when you bring the twins back.”
“Just promise me that you’ll eat at least one doughnut.”
“I promise that I’ll try. And even have a spoonful of Froot Loops. I need my fruit.”
“You do know there’s no actual fruit in that whole box, right?” Nola asked.
I shrugged, then listened to the chiming of the old grandfather clock from the parlor. “I’d better hurry—I’ve got only two and a half hours to get ready.”
I ignored Nola’s eye roll as I hurried past her. But as I headed up the stairs, I paused, seeing in my mind’s eye the hideous face of the coffin doll and Suzy Dorf’s article, one line seeming to flash in my brain with neon lights:an unnamed source has told me that there are more secrets hidden there. Who could that be? And how could they know what secrets might still be waiting to be unearthed? I clenched the handrail, then gritted my teeth with determination as I continued to climb the stairs. I didn’tcare. The Ark of the Covenant could have been hiding in my back garden and I simply wouldn’t have cared.
I’d promised to help my friend Veronica find out who had killed her sister, Adrienne, more than twenty years ago. But then I was done. Besides the emotional well-being of our children during our separation, there was only one thing I cared about. Getting Jack back. The restless dead and their footsteps in the snow would have to find someone else to haunt.
CHAPTER 2
Lindsey’s parents, Veronica and Michael, picked us up in their SUV. It wasn’t a longwalk to the College of Charleston campus—a positive or negative, depending on who was asked—but the streets were still slushy.
Alston sat in the rear third row with Lindsey, so Nola and I slid into the middle row. After greeting everyone, I asked, “Where are Cecily and Cal?”
“Daddy’s sick, so my mom’s staying home with him.” Alston grinned. “We figured with you and your spreadsheet, they won’t miss anything.”
I barely heard her, as I was too busy trying to think of a casual way to ask about Jack, something that made me seem interested without sounding pathetic. I focused on buckling my seat belt while Veronica turned around from the front seat. As if reading my mind, she said, “Jack’s meeting us there.” She smiled reassuringly and patted my knee before facing forward again.
“It’s good to see you, Melanie,” Michael said, glancing at me from the driver’s seat. “I wasn’t aware this was a dress-up event, or I would have worn my Sunday best, too.”
I looked down as if to remind myself what I’d put on fifteen minutes before. “Oh, this?” I said, referring to the slim-fitting red cashmere dresswith a low scoop neckline and matching jacket. “It’s just an old thing I pulled from the back of my closet. Nothing fancy.”
Nola snorted, no doubt recalling the piles of discarded outfits strewn around my bedroom with sleeves akimbo like plague victims.
“How are you?” I asked, trying to redirect the conversation. I was also trying to be pleasant. I was friends with his wife, Veronica, but I’d never felt the warm and fuzzies with Michael. Probably due to the fact that he was adamantly opposed to his wife’s so-called obsession with her sister’s murder. He claimed it had reached an unhealthy level, and he was now leading the process of putting their old Victorian house on Queen Street up for sale so they could all move on. The house had been Veronica and Adrienne’s childhood home, and it remained full of memories and relics of the two sisters. And the spirit of one of them who wasn’t ready to head into the light.
Michael pulled out onto Tradd Street. “Doing well. Just tired of all the workmen your friend Sophie keeps sending to fix things in the house that I wasn’t even aware were broken. If she weren’t a respected professional and your friend, I’d say she was purposely trying to delay us putting the house on the market.”
I saw Veronica’s shoulders stiffen, because we both knew that was exactly what Sophie was trying to do—delay the sale until I’d figured out why Adrienne was still there and what she needed to tell us about what had happened to her.
“Sophie’s very methodical. I mean, look at me. I’ve been renovating my house on Tradd Street since I inherited it. Doing it right takes time.” I almost bit my tongue, having many times during the restoration process admitted that the house would make a spectacular bonfire.
“That’s not helping, Melanie,” he said, offering a conciliatory grin in the rearview mirror.
I smiled back, but I knew it lacked sincerity.
We found parking after circling for a solid ten minutes, and I found myself wishing Jack were with us if only because he had the magic touch with downtown Charleston parking. He had only to drive down a street and a parking spot would magically appear exactly where he needed it.
Just the thought of Jack made me teary-eyed and I turned my face toward the window so nobody would see. It was ridiculous, really. I was a mother of three and a successful professional woman. I’d even faced some very scary ghosts and lived to tell about it. I had no reason to believe that I couldn’t get through Jack’s departure with grace, dignity, and the courage to believe that our separation was temporary. And with the sure knowledge that I could figure out how to get him back. Yet I still woke up each day with the urge to stay in bed, curl into a ball, and cry until Jack took pity on me and returned to me.
