The Strangers on Montagu Street Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KAREN WHITE

  The Girl on Legare Street

  “Karen White delivers the thrills of perilous romance and the chills of ghostly suspense, all presented with Southern wit and charm.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks

  “If you have ever been fascinated by things that go bump in the night, then this is a bonus book for you ... will have her faithful fans gasping.”

  —The Huffington Post

  “In The Girl on Legare Street, Karen embraces Charleston’s mystical lore, its history, its architecture, its ambience, and its ghosts.”

  —Lowcountry Weekly (SC)

  “Elements of history, romance, and humor. I couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.”

  —BellaOnline

  “Beautifully written with interesting, intelligent characters and a touch of the paranormal. The story is dark [and] ofttimes scary.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  The House on Tradd Street

  “Engaging . . . a fun and satisfying read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The House on Tradd Street has it all: mystery, romance, and the paranormal, including ghosts with quirky personalities.”

  —BookLoons

  “White delivers funny characters, a solid plot, and an interesting twist in this novel about the South and its antebellum history.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Has all the elements that have made Karen White’s books fan favorites: a Southern setting, a deeply emotional tale, and engaging characters.”

  —A Romance Review

  “If you enjoy ghost stories with some mystery thrown into the mix, you are going to love this . . . wonderful, mysterious, and ghostly tale.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Brilliant and engrossing . . . a rare gem . . . exquisitely told.”

  —The Book Connection

  “An extremely talented and colorful writer with tons of imagination.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  The Memory of Water

  “Beautifully written and as lyrical as the tides. The Memory of Water speaks directly to the heart and will linger in yours long after you’ve read the final page. I loved this book!”

  —Susan Crandall, author of Pitch Black

  “Karen White delivers a powerfully emotional blend of family secrets, Lowcountry lore, and love in The Memory of Water—who could ask for more?”

  —Barbara Bretton, author of Just Desserts

  Learning to Breathe

  “White creates a heartfelt story full of vibrant characters and emotion that leaves the reader satisfied yet hungry for more from this talented author.”

  —Booklist

  “One of those stories where you savor every single word... a perfect 10.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  Pieces of the Heart

  “Heartwarming and intense . . . a tale that resonates with the meaning of unconditional love.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “A terrific, insightful character study.”—Midwest Book Review

  The Color of Light

  “A story as rich as a coastal summer . . . dark secrets, heartache, a magnificent South Carolina setting, and a great love story.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith

  “As lush as the Lowcountry . . . unexpected and magical.”

  —Patti Callahan Henry, author of Between the Tides

  MORE PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KAREN WHITE

  “The fresh voice of Karen White intrigues and delights.”

  —Sandra Chastain, contributor to At Home in Mossy Creek

  “Warmly Southern and deeply moving.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith

  “Karen White writes with passion and poignancy.”

  —Deb Stover, award-winning author of Mulligan Magic

  “[A] sweet book . . . highly recommended.”

  —Booklist

  “Karen White is one author you won’t forget. . . . This is a masterpiece in the study of relationships. Brava!”

  —Reader to Reader Reviews

  “This is not only romance at its best—this is a fully realized view of life at its fullest.”

  —Readers & Writers, Ink

  “After the Rain is an elegantly enchanting Southern novel. . . . Fans will recognize the beauty of White’s evocative prose.”

  —WordWeaving.com

  “In the tradition of Catherine Anderson and Deborah Smith, Karen White’s After the Rain is an incredibly poignant contemporary bursting with Southern charm.”

  —Patricia Rouse, Rouse’s Romance Readers Groups

  “Don’t miss this book!”

  —Rendezvous

  New American Library Titles

  by Karen White

  The Tradd Street Series

  The House on Tradd Street

  The Girl on Legare Street

  The Color of Light

  Pieces of the Heart

  Learning to Breathe

  The Memory of Water

  The Lost Hours

  On Folly Beach

  Falling Home

  The Beach Trees

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2011

  Copyright © Karen White, 2011

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data:

  White, Karen (Karen S.)

  The strangers on Montagu Street/Karen White. p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54581-2

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my readers, whose enthusiasm for the first two books about Melanie and Jack inspired this one.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks again to the usual suspects: Wendy Wax, Susan Crandall, and my long-suffering family, who, although only vaguely aware that I do something with my spare time besides laundry, make all of this possible.

  Thanks, too, to the awesome talent at Penguin Group and New American Library: my editor, Cindy Hwang; the entire art department (who are responsible for my gorgeous covers); the resourceful sales and marketing teams; and my publicity team (thank you, Craig and Heidi!). And thanks to the truly remarkable publishing team without whom my books would still only be ideas knocking around in my brain: Leslie Gelbman, Kara Welsh, and Claire Zion. To my agent, Karen Solem, a huge thanks for sticking with me since the beginning.

  Any book set in Charleston requires plenty of visits for “research,” so I must acknowledge the warm and gracious citizens of the Holy City for always welcoming me with their trademark hospitality and fabulous cuisine. I look forward to my next “research” trip for the fourth book in the Tradd Street series.

  CHAPTER 1

  The phone rang out in the night-shrouded house, shrill and insistent, bringing me abruptly out of an odd dream that somehow involved me, Jack, a shovel, and something dark and undulating buried beneath the black earth. But when Jack opened his mouth to speak, I heard only the ringing of the telephone, jerking me upright in the bed and sending General Lee scampering to the floor with an irritated bark. I reached for the phone, remembering too late that the cord had been pulled from the wall, and held it to my ear before I recognized the pinpricks of warning on the nape of my neck.

  Melanie.

  I listened for the words that weren’t really words, more like sounds punctuated with static that only I could hear. “Grandmother?”

  Melanie, I heard again, the sound soft and melodic. I felt no fear, although I suppose a phone call from the dead would alarm most people. But I was used to it.

  “Grandmother?” I asked again, hearing only the staccato pop of static. I closed my eyes as my mother had taught me, and focused on the sound, trying to make words form in my mind.

  Don’t be afraid.

  I resisted rolling my eyes and tried hard to push aside my impatience, wondering once again why ghosts couldn’t just come right out and say what they wanted. My life was like one long B movie, with me as the lone member of the audience shouting at the screen, “Just tell her already!”

  Refocusing again, I closed my eyes tighter and listened while trying to ignore General Lee’s pawing at my leg in an attempt to get my attention.

  Don’t be afraid. And listen to your heart for a change.

  My eyes popped open as I suddenly realized that Jack had been telling me the same thing in my dream. The dial tone sounded in my ear and I quickly hung up the phone. General Lee whined and pressed his paw against my nightgown. I looked down at the small black-and-white fur ball, reluctantly inherited along with the housekeeper, Mrs. Houlihan, and the historic house on Tradd Street where I now lived. The same house that was apparently crumbling beneath my feet and sucking money from my bank account at an alarming rate.

  I bent to pick up the neglected dog, but he escaped my grasp and instead ran to the dressing table and began pawing at one of the drawer handles, making the brass clang against the dark polished mahogany.

  “What?” I asked, following him and wondering why I actually expected an answer. General Lee was only slightly less communicative than the ghosts I’d been speaking with since I was very small and hadn’t yet learned to keep such “skills” to myself.

  With only the light from an outside streetlamp to guide me, I crossed the room to the dresser and was about to repeat my question when I spotted what looked like a wallet lying on the middle of the dresser top nestled between my La Mer night cream and the folded spreadsheet I used each day to allocate my—and sometimes other people’s—time.

  I flipped on a small crystal lamp, then blinked until my eyes became accustomed to the light. Because I was convinced that wearing my glasses would officially make me old, they were hidden in my nightstand drawer, so I had to squint to see. I stared hard at the object I was positive hadn’t been there when I went to bed. It was definitely a wallet, and a familiar one at that. I picked it up and flipped it open, not at all surprised that I recognized the face on the South Carolina driver’s license. Jack Trenholm, six-foot-two, one eighty-five, black hair, blue eyes. After glancing in the bills section and noticing he had two twenties and a ten tucked inside, I snapped it shut with disgust. Nobody had a decent driver’s license photo; my own closely resembled one of those fuzzy photos taken of Bigfoot. But Jack’s, of course, was almost as good as the publicity photo that appeared on the back cover of his books. As a bestselling author of true-crime historical mystery novels, he had no right to look like a GQ model. It was irritating and not a little unnerving.

  I frowned down at General Lee. “How did this get here?” The more appropriate question should have been, “Why?” but I’d long since learned unusual things happened around me a lot, and always for a reason—but never for a reason that was easily explained. Besides, I was talking to a dog, and the subtleties of my question would surely be lost on him.

  I rubbed my hand against the soft leather while I thought. I hadn’t seen Jack for about two weeks—not since the disastrous afternoon when a heretofore unknown teenage girl had shown up on my front porch and called him “Daddy.” I’d happily stepped back to allow Jack, his parents, and Jack’s girlfriend (my very distant cousin Rebecca Edgerton) to take care of that little problem. I had plenty of issues of my own to deal with—the least of which being the diagnosis of a cracked foundation on my very old historic albatross of a house. And my inability to ignore my unreasonable attraction to Jack Trenholm.

  I looked at the clock on my bedside table, and while I was wondering whether five fifteen was too early to call Jack, the doorbell rang. General Lee and I looked at each other and I thought I saw him frown, but that could have been my poor eyesight. I quickly slid my feet into my slippers, slipped a robe over my nightgown, and put the wallet in the robe’s pocket. After scooping up the dog, I descended the staircase to the main hall, sincerely hoping that my visitor was the living, breathing kind.

  The front door lights had been left on, illuminating the piazza of my Charleston single house and making it easy to recognize the familiar outline of my visitor through the glass sidelights on either side of the door. After punching in the code to disarm the alarm—A-B-B-A, for my favorite musical group—I unlocked the dead bolts and opened the door.

  “Jack,” I said calmly, my voice c
ompletely belying the jumpy, skippy thing my heart seemed to be doing. “I hope you have a really good reason for waking me up and darkening my doorstep at this hour.”

  He smiled the smile that had cut down swaths of women in his wake since he’d been a toddler. “Now, Mellie—I saw a light in your window, so I know you were awake. What were you doing? Organizing your closet alphabetically by designer?”

  While I tried to think of a response that didn’t include the embarrassing fact that I’d already done that, I saw his gaze traveling from the toes of my slippers up to the high neck of my nightgown that peeked out of the top of my oversize and very thick robe. Despite its being late spring, I was dressed for winter, since I was notoriously cold-natured.

  I frowned at him, taking in his khaki pants, loafers without socks, and white button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I also noticed the messy hair, the unshaven jaw, and circles under his eyes that, unfortunately, did nothing to lessen his appeal.

  Before I could say anything, he said, “I don’t remember seeing that in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Is it new?”

  “What do you want, Jack? I have far more important things to do than hang around my front door chatting with you.”

  His smile slipped just enough for me to notice. He looked behind him to glance at a darkened spot on the piazza before turning back to me. His smile now resembled a grimace, and I felt the first tremors of unease. “I need to ask a favor.”