The House on Tradd Street Page 10

  “It’s on the message. Something about being late this morning because he was doing more research at the library and couldn’t get away.”

  “Research,” I snorted, heading toward my office.

  Nancy called after me, “He said something about adjusting the work schedule to make sure he was working the same amount of hours, and I told him you wouldn’t mind. Please tell me you didn’t draw up one of your anal-retentive spreadsheets and actually show it to him.”

  I stepped in to my office and turned to shut the door.

  “Melanie! Please tell me that you didn’t!”

  I closed the door in time to miss the golf ball that had been lobbed in my direction.

  I put everything down on my desk and began to thumb through the messages. I tried again to reach Jack and got his voice mail. There was a message from Sophie saying she’d be at the house around three o’clock to finish her evaluation—I made a note to adjust the spreadsheet—and a message from my father with only the number four written on it. I suppose that was the number of days he’d been sober so far. I crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. There was a message from Chad Arasi saying he would be late for our meeting and could we meet closer to the College of Charleston campus. Against my better judgment, I made a note to call him back and tell him to meet me at the house on Tradd Street at three o’clock when I knew Sophie would be there. They would thank me for it someday, I was sure. Maybe they would name their firstborn after me.

  The last message made me pause. It was from a man named Marc with no last name. I was pretty sure I didn’t know any Marcs. I ate my first doughnut in silence, tapping my nails against the top of my desk as I tried to recall where I might have met him. There was no phone number or message, just a check in the box that read “will call back.”

  I pressed the button for the front desk and waited for Nancy to pick up.

  “Yes, Melanie.”

  “I was just looking at this message from a guy named Marc. Did he give you a last name?”

  “No. And he didn’t want to leave a message or give me his phone number. Said he’d call you back when he got a chance.”

  “Thanks, Nancy.” I hung up the phone, then wadded up the message and threw it away, forgetting all about it before it hit the garbage can. Then I flipped on my computer and reached for another doughnut. I had barely taken the first bite when Nancy buzzed my office.

  “You’ve got a visitor.”

  There was something in her voice I didn’t quite like, like a contented kitten who’d had more than her fair share of the cream. “Who is it?”

  I definitely heard the smirk this time. “Jack Trenholm. He said you were expecting him.”

  I sighed. “I wasn’t, but go ahead and send him back, please.”

  “Will do.”

  I barely had enough time to stash the doughnut bag in a desk drawer before I heard a brief knock on my office door. Nancy opened it and let Jack enter. She wiggled her eyebrows at me from behind his shoulder and flashed her open palms at me to indicate the number ten before closing the door behind him.

  “Is she single?” Jack asked, indicating the closed door.

  “Married. Very. Two daughters. Any more illuminating comments this morning?”

  He held up a golf ball. “She asked me to sign this when I had a chance. I have to say that I’ve never been asked to autograph a golf ball before. A woman’s chest, yes, and even a menu, but a golf ball is a first. I told her I needed a Sharpie and would bring it back to her after I signed it. Remind me if I forget.”

  I snorted in response.

  Jack carried a rolled-up newspaper and was wearing the same outfit he’d been wearing the night before, his previously starched shirt crumpled and looking a little worse for wear.

  “Nice shirt,” I said, sounding even more self-righteous than I had meant to.

  “Nice hair,” he said, opening the paper to the people page, where my photo smiled out at both of us, and slid it across my desk toward me. “Thought you’d want an extra copy for your scrapbook.”

  I met his eyes. “How did you know that I kept a scrapbook?”

  He shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

  I snatched the paper from him and shoved it in the garbage. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the house?”

  “Didn’t Nancy give you my message?”

  “Yes, but I assumed that after your ‘research’ was done, you’d be at the house going through the attic. Remember—the sooner you get the information you need, the sooner we can part company.”

  He scratched his cheek, which was beginning to show a shadow. “Yes, well, about that. I’m really more of a night owl and do most of my best work after hours. Mornings, well, we’re just not compatible.”

  I leaned back in my chair, thinking about all the changes I’d need to make to the work schedule. “So why are you here?”

  “I promise that I’ll be at the house as soon as I grab a little sleep and a shower. But I wanted to let you know what I found out first. I was hoping that maybe what I had to tell you would soften you up a bit so you wouldn’t be mad at me for standing you up this morning.”

  I twirled a pencil between my fingers. “I doubt it, but go ahead.” I listened with one ear, my mind mostly occupied with my schedule for the rest of the day.

  He sat on the edge of my desk, something that nobody in the office dared to do, not even my boss. I gave him an irritated look, but he either ignored it or didn’t see it. “After I got home last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about Joseph Longo. He was a main figure in Charleston for so long, and he had three sons who at the time of Joseph’s death were involved in the family businesses.”

  He stopped speaking, looking at me oddly. “Do you have any more doughnuts left?”

  “Doughnuts?” I tried to look innocent.

  He wiped an imaginary crumb from the corner of his mouth. “You have glazed sugar icing on your cheek. I was hoping you’d have some left because I haven’t eaten and I’m starved.”

  Reluctantly, I pulled out the bottom drawer and handed him the bag with the extra doughnut and handed it to him. “You owe me,” I said as I wiped my hand over my mouth.

  He took a bite and smiled. “And I look forward to paying you back.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Go on. Some of us have work to do.”

  “Anyway, I figured that a guy with three sons would probably have descendants still living here. And maybe somewhere in their houses they’d have letters or something, or family stories handed down over the generations, that might fill in some of the missing pieces. Like where Joseph might have gone after he supposedly left town with Louisa. Maybe he had a house in France or an apartment in New York—who knows? But chances are, if there’s anything handed down over the years, I would think that the current generation would have access to it.”

  I sat up. “Good point. So what did you find out?”

  He took a large bite from the doughnut and smiled broadly as he chewed. “Well, there’re quite a few Longos still living here in Charleston, although a little under the radar. You don’t see them on the society pages of Charleston magazine or attending the St. Cecilia Ball. But they have several businesses except now they seem be actual legitimate businesses. Well diversified, too. The eldest grandson, Marc Longo, is the most visible. He’s got a bunch of real estate holdings as well as a brick foundry and a new start-up high-tech firm that has something to do with satellites. And get this. He bought the old Vanderhorst plantation, Magnolia Ridge, last year. Rumor has it that they’re planning on starting a vineyard there to make their own wine.”

  “A winery? In South Carolina?”

  “Believe it or not, they’re not the first. For certain types of grapes, it’s a viable industry. Still in its cradle, so it will be interesting to see what happens with it.”

  I realized that Jack was staring at my crossed leg as it bounced up and down. With a concentrated effort I made it stop, tapping my fingernails against my
desk instead. “Do you think they’re approachable? Assuming they know anything about their past, they’ll know that there was bad blood between the Vanderhorsts and Longos, and once they know that we’re trying to clear Louisa’s name, they might be reluctant to help out the enemy, so to speak.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Very true.” He wiped his face with a napkin Ruth had stuck inside the bag, and stood. “Which is why we’re going to visit somebody who knows everybody in Charleston—below the radar or not—and can tell us which one among them might be the most approachable.”

  I looked at my watch, realizing that I didn’t have to meet with anybody now until three o’clock. “I do have a little bit of time.” I stood and took my purse off the back of my chair. “I hope this isn’t one of your ex-girlfriends or something.”

  Jack held the door open for me. “Hardly. It’s my mother.”

  “Oh,” I said, looking up at him. “We’re going to go meet your mother?”

  He looked down at me and grinned. “You look fine.”

  I met his gaze, annoyed. “It’s not that. You’ve mentioned your parents before, so it’s not like I didn’t know. It’s just that, well, you don’t seem to be the type to have a mother.”

  He laughed. “Not the type? I’ll have to tell her that. You’ll like her. Everybody does.”

  “Probably because they feel sorry for her, since you’re an only child.”

  “Ha! So you did Google me. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

  Luckily, we’d reached the reception area, so I didn’t need to lie about how, during a weak moment earlier that morning before the roofing guy arrived, I’d used my laptop to do just that. Instead, I practiced a look of righteous indignation as we faced the receptionist.

  Nancy beamed at us. “Hey, Melanie. Are you and Mr. Trenholm out for the rest of the day?”

  “I’m hoping,” said Jack.

  “Of course not,” I said simultaneously.

  Jack smiled brightly at Nancy. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again. And I’ll remember to bring back your signed golf ball. And please call me Jack.”

  Nancy flushed. “Thank you, Jack. My ladies’ nine-holers golf group will be so jealous. Not that I’ll use it when we play next, but I’ll bring it to show off.”

  Jack took her hand in both of his. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Nancy.”

  “And you, too, Jack.”

  On the point of nausea at this fan fest, I pushed open the front door. “I’ll have my cell on if you need to reach me. I’m meeting Mr. Arasi at three o’clock at the Tradd Street house. I’ll come back here after that to make some phone calls.”

  “Got it! Oh, and by the way, I saved that article for you from the paper for your scrapbook. You know, I really like the way you’re wearing your hair now much better.”

  “Gee, thanks, Nancy. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I want a perm.”

  Nancy waved us out and Jack held open the door for me. “Yours or mine?” he asked.

  His Porsche was sitting in front of my white Cadillac. “If I said mine, you wouldn’t take it quietly, would you?”

  “Probably not,” he said as he made his way to the passenger side of the Porsche and opened the door for me.

  As I approached the door, I stopped, my mouth wide-open with surprise.

  “Are you trying to catch flies, or do you have something to tell me?”

  I hit the palm of my hand against my forehead. “Marc Longo. You said he’s the eldest of Joseph Longo’s grandsons. Well, a guy named Marc called me at the office but didn’t leave a message or a phone number—just his first name. I threw the message away and forgot all about it. I don’t know any Marcs, and I’m just thinking it’s kind of weird that we’d be talking about Marc Longo. Maybe it’s the same guy. He might need a Realtor.”

  Jack raised his eyebrow. “That’s a possibility.”

  I sat in the passenger seat and waited for Jack to close my door and come around the car to the driver’s side. “If it is the same guy, do you think it’s just a coincidence?”

  Jack looked at me with an expression similar to the one in the picture on the back of his book jacket, and it became clear to me why he’d been such a hit on the morning talk show circuit—something else I’d found out when I’d Googled him.

  “Trust me, Mellie. In my line of work, where old secrets go to great lengths to stay hidden, there’s no such thing as coincidences.” He started the car and pulled out onto the street.

  I started to tell him again that my name wasn’t Mellie, that the only person who had ever used that name had forever ruined it for me, but I stopped. I was looking at his profile, where a pulse had begun in his jaw. His brows were furrowed in concentration and I thought that perhaps he was inadvertently allowing me to see the real Jack Trenholm—the Jack Trenholm he hid from the eyes of admiring fans and talk show hosts.

  The Jack I saw smoldered with something dark and burning—something that drove him forward fast enough that he didn’t have the time to sit and dwell. And I sensed, without a doubt, that whatever it was had something to do with the specter of a woman whose unsettled presence lingered with him. I sensed her now: the sadness, the loss. I felt something else, too; this woman, whoever she was, had a secret. A secret that she wanted Jack to know. And, unfortunately, she had chosen me to figure out what it was.

  I turned my head away to stare out the window and at the old streets of the Holy City and wished, not for the first time, that dead people would just leave me alone.

  CHAPTER 8

  I kept my gaze focused outside, not even commenting when Jack made a detour north of Market to make a quick bank run. He parked in front of the bank, an edifice that had become synonymous with “toadstool building,” on the corner of Gadsden and Calhoun. It was easily a contender for the city’s ugliest building and widely disdained by not only the city’s preservationists but also by any passerby with good taste.

  “Why did you go so far out of your way? Aren’t there ATMs closer to your parents’ store?” I asked as Jack got back into the car.

  He flashed his trademark grin. “Because I happen to know the head teller in this branch, and she always takes the time to make sure I’m a happy customer.”

  I pressed my lips firmly together so he could tell I wasn’t amused. “Couldn’t this have waited?”

  “Sorry. But I owed my mom some money, and I knew she’d be expecting it the next time she saw me.”

  Surprised, I asked, “You borrowed money from your mother?”

  “Lost a bet,” he said as he started the car and pulled out onto Calhoun Street.

  I smirked. “You made a bet with your mother and lost? What was it about?”

  With a sidelong glance, he said, “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t tell me? Why on earth not? It’s not like you’re a bastion of secrecy. Everything anybody wants to know about you is there for everybody to see on the Internet.”

  He set his jaw. “Yeah, well, there’re some things even Google can’t reveal.”

  Annoyed that he wouldn’t divulge his secret to me, I crossed my arms. “Like how you can’t stand to lose—even if it’s to your own mother.”

  “That, too,” he said, grinning. “Among other things.”

  I looked away, not wanting him to see how his sudden need to be private and secretive somehow excited me. Maybe it was because he already seemed to know so much about me. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

  We rode in silence for a few blocks until we reached King Street, and he found a curbside parking space not far from Trenholm’s Antiques. I was nervous about meeting Jack’s mother, although not for the reasons he assumed. I stood and straightened my white linen pencil skirt and walked with Jack toward the imposing wood and stained-glass doors that lead inside the venerable antiques store.

  The smell affected me in the same way as that of old houses—a reminder of decay and rot, huge repair bills and dead people. It also brought back old me
mories that I had no wish to ever revisit.

  Highly polished dark wood furniture crowded the showroom floor without being overwhelming. Small occasional tables held delicate accessories and complemented the dark red walls and bright gilt chandeliers that shimmered from the ceiling. Oil paintings of various men, women, and children stared down their noses at us from walls capped with decorative moldings, as if trying to show Charleston homeowners how the beautiful furniture and wall hangings would look in their own opulent houses. I had never walked down King Street without peering into these shop windows, wanting to go in and touch the old wood almost as much as I wanted to turn away and forget why I hated old houses and furniture in the first place.

  A petite blond woman, with her hair pulled back in a French twist and wearing a St. John suit and Chanel shoes, approached us from the rear of the store. I recognized her immediately as Jack’s mother from the dark blue of her eyes and the elegant shape of her eyebrows. I wondered if he’d learned the inquisitive lift of one eyebrow from her or if it was just some inherited Trenholm trait.

  “Jack, darling. It’s about time you decided to drop by and visit with your poor old mother.” She took both of his hands and stood on tiptoes to raise her cheek to be kissed. She had smooth, flawless skin and one of those faces that seemed to get more beautiful with age, as if only good experiences had ever happened to her so as not to mar her complexion with lines and folds. Which didn’t make any sense if she was indeed Jack’s mother. “Did you bring my money?”

  He kissed her and then enveloped her with a bear hug that she seemed completely comfortable with and that made me smile. “You get younger ever time I see you, Mother. One day you’ll have to show me where you found your fountain of youth. And, yes, I have your money. We’ll settle up before I leave.”