The Girl On Legare Street (31 page)

I pressed my hand to my chest, realizing that it was the sound of my heart beating that I was hearing echo in the quiet room.
Catherine.
Wilhelm’s Catherine had died in July of 1785. I remembered the date because it had been on my birthday—July fifteenth. I remembered what Wilhelm had said about her—how she died.
She drowned. I did not know she was on the ship. I did not know to save her.

I flipped the book over to read the title:
Pirates of the Land: Eighteenth-and Nineteenth-Century Wreckers along the Southeastern Coast of the United States.

I was distracted by a noise coming from Jack’s bedroom—a low throaty chuckle that didn’t sound like him at all. I took a step toward the bedroom and that’s when I noticed the woman’s high-heeled shoe, a pair of stockings, and a purse lined up like a bread-crumb trail that stopped directly in front of the bedroom door.

The pink patent leather high-end purse was familiar to me, and as I stared at it the door handle turned and the door opened to reveal Rebecca Edgerton clad in nothing else but one of Jack’s oxford cloth shirts.

She seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see her, but she recovered more quickly. While I stood there with my jaw hanging and trying to think of something to say, she retrieved her clothing from the floor and managed to look almost professional when she addressed me.

“What are you doing here?”

I wanted to ask her the same question, but since neither one of us really had the right to ask it, I didn’t. Nor did I answer her. Instead, I took a step forward, my anger at her subterfuge fueled by the fact that she’d just emerged from Jack’s bedroom wearing nothing but his shirt.

Jabbing a finger in her direction, I said, “How dare you ask me questions! You’re the one that needs to answer quite a few—like how long you’ve known you’re related to the Crandalls of Mimosa Hall—and the girl in the portrait. I just haven’t figured out why you’d want to hide that little gem from me, but I’m working on it. And I want to know why in the hell you picked my mother and me for this little game of yours.”

She frowned and looked confused and for a moment I almost believed that she didn’t know. But then I remembered how she’d been avoiding my phone calls and how she’d taken the journal and I narrowed my eyes. I wasn’t fooled, regardless of what was about to come out of her mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Melanie. I’ll admit that when I saw my last name on the Crandall family tree, I was intrigued, but I didn’t know of any connection before that. I was as surprised as you.”

“So surprised that you stole the folder with the family tree that Yvonne meant for me and ‘accidentally’ picked up the one Mrs. McGowan had prepared? Do you think I’m stupid, Rebecca? I know all of this is related somehow and I’ve got a strong feeling that you know how. But you’re holding out on telling me for whatever reason.” I drew a deep breath, my anger sucking all the wind out of my lungs. “But I will find out—without your help.”

I held up my hand. “Don’t bother saying anything. It’s all going to be lies and I don’t have the time to listen to it.” I pulled my purse strap over my shoulder, prepared to leave. “Just know that my mother is off-limits to your questions from here on out. Please don’t darken our doorstep again. You will not be welcome.”

I turned to leave, eager to get out of there before I saw Jack or started to cry—or both. I’d only felt this humiliated and betrayed once before—and Jack had been involved then, too. Then I’d believed he was interested in me when all along he was out to find the treasure hidden in my house. I felt the same way now, except this time I had only myself to blame for forgiving him once and letting him back into my life.

I’d made it to the door before I heard Jack call my name. “Mellie, wait.”

I jerked open the door and turned around to find Jack in jeans and an inside-out T-shirt, his hair wild. “Why? So you can humiliate me some more? How long have you and Rebecca been laughing behind my back? Is that why you didn’t return my phone calls? Because you and Rebecca had decided to work together and leave me out?” I felt the tears in the back of my throat, but I swallowed them back, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“It’s not like that at all. This”—he waved his hand behind him, but I wasn’t sure if he was indicating Rebecca or the mess in his condo—“was just something that happened.” He stepped forward and when I looked him in the eyes, I could almost believe him. Quietly, he said, “I promised you before that I would never lie to you again. And I haven’t.”

Our gazes locked. I did remember his promise. I even remembered that I had believed him. But when I looked at him, I couldn’t help but think of our kiss and I wondered if he recalled the way the rain tasted on our lips, how our bodies seemed to fit, and how empty the days were when we weren’t together. And I wondered if I was the first person he thought of calling whenever he had something to say, too. I’d been denying all of it in a stupid bid for self-preservation, and I realized that he might have been doing the same thing.

I looked over his shoulder to Rebecca, who stood watching us with an unreadable expression on her face. I turned back to Jack. “One of you is lying. The very first time I met Rebecca she showed me a picture of my mother wearing an heirloom necklace and earrings. The same jewelry that was listed as belonging to Mary Crandall and lost with the sinking of the
Ida Belle
, the boat carrying them from Connecticut to South Carolina. Rebecca wanted to know where the jewelry came from, using the pretext of being a journalist and writing a story about my mother. Don’t you see? She’s been lying to me since the beginning. She wants something from me, and she’s using you to get it.”

Rebecca moved forward and put her hand on Jack’s arm, pulling him back. “Let her go, Jack. She needs to calm down so she can begin thinking rationally again. She’s too distraught to see reason at the moment and it’s no use talking with her.”

I kept my eyes focused on Jack. “Ask her why she was taking pictures of the stained-glass window at my mother’s house. We both know it’s a clue to something, and I have a feeling Rebecca’s figured it out. Or maybe she’s already told you and you’re holding out on me. Whatever. Just know that I don’t trust her and by association I don’t trust you, either.” I clenched my eyes, unable to look at him anymore. “And I cannot believe that you’d sleep with her.”

His eyes hardened. “I believe that would be an instance of the pot calling the kettle black, Mellie.”

I flushed, knowing he was referring to Marc Longo and our brief encounter before I’d learned the truth about Marc’s involvement in the search for the missing diamonds.

“But you’re wrong about Rebecca,” he said. “She came here to tell me about her discovery—how her family is related to the Crandalls. It’s purely coincidence that there’s a connection with your family.”

I smirked and gave in to the impulse to roll my eyes. “The one thing that I have learned from you, Jack, is that there’s no such thing as coincidence.” I walked out of the door but turned around one final time. “I never, ever want to see you again. And I really mean it this time.” Then I walked to the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby without looking back once.

I drove directly to my office, hoping to lose myself in my work as I’d always done when faced with personal problems. In my career life, I was strong, confident, and successful—all the characteristics I lacked in my personal life. At least in my office I could pretend that the two overlapped and I was as good at dealing with other people as I was with selling houses.

Nancy Flaherty greeted me with a bright smile when I entered the lobby, her mood having improved with the return of warm golfing weather. I noticed she wore leather golf gloves as she gripped the receiver of the office phone and she caught me staring at them.

“My kids gave me new gloves for Christmas and I’m trying to break them in. I keep dialing the wrong extensions, so I apologize in advance if you get the wrong caller.” She replaced the receiver then leaned forward, trying to get a good look at me. “You look awful, Melanie. Have you been crying?”

“No. Allergies.”

“In January?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are there any messages for me?”

“Yes. I’ve put them on your desk. Two are from Jack, two are from the Dembrowskis—the couple from Poughkeepsie double-checking the time for the showings tomorrow and also verifying that you’re on the same page with them about not wanting anything older than five years.”

I frowned. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Sophie called. She knew you’d be in the library so she didn’t want to call you in case you’d left your phone on. But she wants you to call her as soon as possible. Says she’s found something you’ll be interested in hearing.”

“Thanks, Nancy,” I said as I handed her my coat, feeling slightly better now that I was in familiar territory. “One last thing. If Jack calls, I’m not here. I’m never speaking to him again.”

“Still? Or is this a new time?”

I pretended I hadn’t heard her and headed toward the back of the building. As soon as I got to my office, I called Sophie. She answered on the third ring.

“Hey, how are you?”

I stared down at the phone. “I’m okay. Why are you asking?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, “Jack called. Said you might be calling.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“Not really. Just that you might not be inviting Rebecca to any birthday parties. Please tell me that he and Rebecca . . .”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay? Maybe later, after I’ve had a few days to add perspective, but not right now.”

“Do you want me to send her name in to the American Association for Nude Recreation as a possible future keynote speaker?”

Despite myself, I smiled. “Thanks, Soph. You’re a good friend. But that’s all right. I think I can handle this one. So,” I said, eager to change the subject. “What did you want to tell me?”

“I found Meredith.”

“What?” I pressed the phone closer to my ear to make sure I was hearing her right.

“I found Meredith. And I wasn’t even looking for her.”

I waited for her to explain, having learned through experience that if I didn’t ask any questions, she’d eventually get around to telling me what I wanted to hear.

“Do you remember me telling you about the fund-raising they’re doing at St. Philip’s to restore some of the older markers?”

I had no idea what she was talking about, figuring it had been couched between the mind-numbing requests for more money or the hiring of another specialist. Or maybe she’d mentioned it right after she suggested we make the Legare Street house a museum to restored sound—as in no electricity, running water, or anything else that could be heard from the inside of the building that would make one think, God forbid, that they were living in the twenty-first century. “Uh-huh,” I said into the phone and waited for her to continue.

“Well, I’ve been going through all of their oldest records to at least determine what some of the dates on the stones would be, or even if the full inscription was recorded in the church’s records. And guess what I found.” She was so full of excitement that I pictured her holding her breath in puffed-out cheeks.

“Meredith?” I ventured.

“Oh, right. I already told you. Only it wasn’t actually Meredith, but a memorial marker.” The rustle of paper crackled through the phone. “Let’s see—right. Here it is. The memorial marker was installed in 1890 by Rose Prioleau in memory of her cousin Meredith Prioleau, who went missing and was presumed perished in the earthquake of 1886. An obituary was included, presumably for the church bulletin. It stated that Meredith was a distant cousin who was adopted by Rose’s father—her mother having already died—and raised as a sister to Rose after Meredith’s parents perished in a shipwreck.”

“Wow.” I sat back in my chair. “Did it make any mention as to what might be on the marker?”

“No.”

I tried to hide my disappointment. “Damn. Because knowing my family, I wouldn’t be surprised if some sort of puzzle piece was put on that marker.”

“You didn’t let me finish, Melanie. I said there was no mention in the records of what was on the marker. But you interrupted before I could tell you that the marker itself is still there and all I had to do was cross the street to read it.”

I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk. “What did it say?”

Again, I listened to the rustling of papers. “It reads: ‘Meredith Prioleau, born 1870 and died 1886.’ There are no other words, but there is an engraving of a heart-shaped locket that’s identical to the one your father gave you. Except . . .” I could imagine her frowning as she squinted at her notes.

“Except what?” I prompted.

“Except that this one has the initial
R
on it.”

I let the words sink in for a moment. “An
R
? Are you sure?”

“Yep. It’s as clear as day.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, watching as two lights appeared on my phone, indicating waiting calls. “Can you meet me for dinner tonight to discuss all of this? I really need somebody to talk to and I’m not speaking to Jack as long as I live.”

“Again?”

Ignoring her comment, I continued, “My schedule’s pretty packed but I think I can get away at five. We can go over all of the possibilities. . . .”

“Melanie, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got a date.”

I stopped in midbreath. “A what?”

“You know, a date. What normal people have when they’re not preoccupied with work and hunting ghosts.”

“But with whom? And what about Chad?”

“It’s, um, actually, with Chad.”

“You’re going on a date with Chad?”

“Um-hm. We decided to test the waters and go on a date. Dinner and a movie. He’s found a really cool theater in North Charleston that only screens foreign films and we’re going to try and catch a few.”

I shuddered silently at the thought of sitting in a darkened theater with a bunch of people who preferred art films and movies with subtitles. They probably all wore Birkenstocks, too.

“Wow, well, um, you two have fun. And let me know how it goes.”

She sounded almost giddy, which made me smile. Dr. Sophie Wallen was not a giddy person as a rule, regardless of how she dressed. And if Chad made her giddy, then I’d have to say that we were on the right track.

“I will,” she said. “How about dinner tomorrow night? We can talk then. Maybe figure out what the memorial marker means in relation to everything else.”

“Sure,” I said, knowing that I couldn’t wait that long. We said our good-byes before I slowly hung up the phone.

Ignoring the waiting calls, I sat staring into open space, going through my options of people who would make a good sounding board for all the wild theories I had sprouting in my brain. I even considered calling Marc Longo before good reason set in. I still wasn’t sure how much I trusted him, and I didn’t want to use him as a Jack substitute, especially when I was sure that Marc would fall short.

The last person’s name who filtered through my brain was my mother. I remembered how we’d stood together in the hidden room and spoken to Wilhelm, and how I’d felt stronger with her by my side. I wasn’t sure if she could help snap a few puzzle pieces into place, but she was a Prioleau after all, and puzzles were as much a part of the gene map as long legs and a penchant for sugar.

I pressed the button on my phone for the front desk. “Nancy, could you please take messages for my waiting phone calls and cancel and reschedule my appointments for the rest of the day?”

Instead of seeming annoyed, her voice sounded almost hopeful. “Oh, do you have a date?”

I frowned at the phone. “No, Nancy, I don’t have a date. Why do you ask?”

“I can’t imagine any other scenario that would make you cancel your appointments.”

“I’ve got things to do at home, that’s all. And I don’t think the world will grind to a halt in my absence.”

“My, my. I think somebody’s grown up. It’s about time you realized that, Melanie. I’m thinking you should take up golf. You know, find something relaxing to do when you’re not working.”

“I don’t think I’ve gone that far, Nancy, but thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” I hung up the phone, then headed to the reception area to grab my coat.

Nancy stood, revealing the red argyle pants I’d seen before. “Don’t forget. You have a closing at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Let me know if you need to reschedule that, too.” She smiled and waved her gloved fingers while I smiled halfheartedly. For the first time since I could remember, the thought of closing a deal elicited no physical response: no heart-thumping, blood-pumping release. I refused to think about the reasons why, but I was pretty sure that in the back of my mind somewhere I was thinking of Jack Trenholm and blaming him for messing with the order of things and rearranging my life from the way it should be.

I was surprised to find my father’s truck gone and no painting vans parked outside the house. Mercifully, the fuchsia hues of the entranceway as well as the Nero-esque ceiling mural in my bedroom had been banished under historically accurate (at least in color, if not in process) paint. But we’d found it increasingly difficult to get painters to come back, regardless of how much money we offered to pay them. The revolving door of painting professionals kept telling us stories of paint cans overturning, brushes being thrown, and cold hands pushing them from behind.

I opened the front door, smelling the scent of fresh paint, and feeling again a throbbing sensation in my bones, like the heartbeat of the old house. I closed the door behind me, listening to the hollow thud echoing off the bare floors. I stayed where I was, unsure of what to do next. My mind reeled with loose pieces of information, like confetti in a parade, and I found myself seeking the one person I’d never thought I would.

“Mother?” I called out.

“In the kitchen,” came the answer, and I quickly walked to the doorway where the hideous swinging doors had thankfully been taken away. My mother sat at the table with her back to me, staring out the window. She wore her gloves, and the journal lay on the table.

“I need someone to talk to,” I said quickly, as if I’d forget all the words if I didn’t.

“I know.”

She turned in the chair and looked up at me, and I saw that her eyes were sunken in her face, her skin nearly translucent over the fine bones of her face.

I approached her with alarm. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “She’s very strong, Mellie. I feel her reaching for me.”

I sat down across from her, pulling the journal away. “Stop. You’re making yourself ill.”

Speaking as if I hadn’t said anything, she said, “She’s very near. I think she knows that you’re too strong, so she’s going after me now. I’ll be fine. I’ve fought her before. I just need to—rest.” She closed her eyes and her body swayed in her seat.

“I’m taking you up to your bedroom so you can lie down. Where’s Daddy?”

With her eyes still closed, she answered me. “He went to Summerville. To get clippings for the garden . . .” Her voice trailed away, and for a moment I thought that she’d fallen asleep sitting up. Then she opened her eyes and smiled at me. “I haven’t been alone. Wilhelm’s been here. He won’t show himself, though. He’s ashamed. Of what he did to Catherine.”

She frowned as she looked at me. “What about you, Mellie? You look so sad.”

Just her compassion was enough to make me want to cry. I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it now.” I didn’t ask that she not answer the phone or door if Jack called or came by because I was pretty sure that he’d do neither.

I stood, then moved to her side. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.You need to rest.”

She didn’t argue and allowed me to help her stand. Pointing at the journal, she said, “Bring that up, too.”

I hesitated only a moment before sticking it under my arm, then helped my mother up the stairs. I was surprised at how heavily she leaned on me, how frail she appeared, and I felt a tremor of apprehension. The whole house seemed to breathe with it, blanketing the air with stale fear.

As she sat on the side of her bed, I knelt to take off her shoes, then helped her slide under the covers. I moved to take off her gloves, but she shook her head. Tucking the covers around her, I said, “I spoke to Sophie today. She found a memorial marker for Meredith, installed by Rose Prioleau in 1890. It listed her birth year as 1870 and the year 1886 was listed as her year of death.”