The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street Page 2

  Even though Jayne had already jogged several blocks in the heat and humidity from her house on South Battery, she was barely sweating and her breath came slowly and evenly. We’d only recently discovered each other, our shared mother having been led to believe that her second daughter, born eight years after me, had died at birth. Jayne and I had grown close in the ensuing months, our bonding most likely accelerated by the fact that we shared the ability to communicate with the dead, a trait inherited from our mother.

  “Which way do you want to go this morning?” she said, jogging in place and looking way too perky.

  “Is back inside an option?”

  She laughed as if I’d been joking, then began to jog toward East Bay.

  I struggled to catch up, pulling alongside her as she ran down the middle of the street. Dodging traffic this time of day was easier than risking a turned ankle on the ancient uneven sidewalks. “Will Detective Riley be joining us this morning?” I panted.

  Her cheeks flushed, and I was sure it wasn’t from exertion. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in a week.”

  “Did you have a fight?”

  “You could say that.” Her emotions seemed to fuel her steps, and she sprinted ahead. Only when she realized she’d left me behind did she slow down so I could catch up.

  “What . . . happened?” I was finding it hard to breathe and talk at the same time, but I needed to know. I’d introduced Jayne to Detective Thomas Riley, and they’d been a couple ever since Jayne, our mother, and I had sent to the light several unsettled spirits who’d been inhabiting her house earlier in the year.

  “I told him I wanted to go public with my abilities to help people communicate with loved ones. He said it was a bad idea because there are a lot of crazies out there who’d be knocking on my door.”

  I looked at her askance. “Funny, he didn’t . . . seem to . . . have such qualms . . . when he asked me about some of his . . . unsolved cases.” I’d recently considered working with Detective Riley on a case involving a coed who’d gone missing from her College of Charleston dorm room in 1997.

  “That’s because you’re working incognito. I want to advertise. And Mother said she’d be happy to work alongside me. She thinks you should also go public and work with us.” She sprinted ahead again, but this time I was sure it was because she didn’t want me to respond. Not that I could have since my lungs were nearly bursting.

  I doggedly pursued her, turning left on East Bay and almost catching up as we neared Queen Street, dodging the fermenting restaurant garbage waiting for pickup on the sidewalk. My feet dragged, the humidity seeming to make my legs heavier, and my breath came in choking gasps. My stomach rumbled and I quickly did a mental recalculation of my route. In an effort at self-preservation, I took a left on Hasell, not even wondering how long it would take Jayne to notice I was missing. With my destination in mind, I jogged toward King Street and took a right, my steps much lighter now as I headed toward my just reward.

  Catching the green light on Calhoun, I nearly sprinted across the street toward Glazed Gourmet Donuts, almost expecting Jayne to show up just as I reached the door and yank me away. Instead I was merely greeted by the heavenly scent of freshly made doughnuts and the delicious smell of coffee gently embracing me and inviting me inside. I stood in the entryway for a moment, inhaling deeply, until I heard a cough from behind me.

  I turned to apologize for blocking the doorway but stopped with my mouth halfway open. Not because the tall, dark-haired man standing behind me was a contender for People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, or because he was smiling at me with more than just casual interest, his dark brown eyes lit with some inner amusement. Nor was it because he wore tight-fitting running clothes that accentuated his muscled chest and that he breathed slightly faster than the average pedestrian—although, like Jayne, he appeared to be barely perspiring. I stared at him because I’d seen him before. Not just that morning, not just in the doughnut shop, but around town several times in the past few weeks as I jogged down the streets of Charleston or ran errands or traveled to various house showings in the city.

  It hadn’t struck me as odd until right at that moment, when we were standing only inches apart. Charleston was a small city, and it was inevitable that I’d run into the same person occasionally. But not every day. I blinked once, wondering what else about him captivated my attention, and realized what it was just as the door opened behind the man and Jayne appeared, looking flustered and not a little bit annoyed.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” she said, walking past the man to stand in front of me and no doubt try to intimidate me. Which was hard to do considering we were the exact same height.

  I looked at the man again. “Are you related to Marc Longo?” I asked, half hoping he’d say no. Marc was my cousin Rebecca’s husband, and Jack’s nemesis after having stolen Jack’s book idea. We were still trying to recover from the financial and professional setback it had caused Jack. Marc was also a boil on the behind of our collective well-being, as he was currently trying to get us to allow in our house on Tradd Street the filming of the movie based on the novel he’d stolen from Jack. Because he was that kind of insufferable jerk. The fact that I’d once dated him didn’t endear him to Jack, either.

  “I am,” he said, a shadow briefly settling behind his eyes. He held out a slim hand to me. “I’m Anthony Longo, Marc’s younger brother. And you’re Melanie Middleton.”

  “Melanie Trenholm now,” I corrected. I hesitated for a moment before placing my hand in his.

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. The only things my older brother and I share are our last name and our parents.”

  Turning to Jayne, he said, “And you two beautiful women must be related. Twins?”

  I almost smiled at the compliment but didn’t. Because I was certain he already knew exactly who we were to each other. Being in the same family wasn’t the only thing Anthony Longo shared with his brother.

  Jayne lifted her hand to shake. Her lips worked to form words, and before I could clamp my hand over her mouth, she said, “You have very dark hair. It’s brown.” She blinked rapidly before dropping her hand. “I mean . . . yes, you have hair. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” Her face flushed a dark red. Turning to me, she said, “I’m going to get us some coffee and doughnuts.”

  “Sorry,” I said, watching her departing back. “My sister, Jayne, hasn’t had a lot of experience with the opposite sex. She seems to get tongue-tied when dealing with attractive men.”

  He laughed, a deep, chest-rumbling sound. “I accept the compliment, then.”

  I took a step back, as much to put distance between us as to allow a couple to enter the shop. I was reserving judgment, wanting to hate him on sight, but there was something likable about him. He was charming, like Marc, but without the smarmy self-love that Marc exuded from every pore. I met Anthony’s forthright gaze. “Have you been following me?”

  His eyes widened, and I wondered if I’d taken him by surprise with my candor or if he was just pretending. Instead of answering, he said, “Why don’t we sit so we can chat?” He held out his hand toward an open table, and I led the way.

  We sat just as Jayne approached with a bag and two coffees. Marc immediately stood and took the coffees from her while Jayne clutched the doughnut bag close to her. “You don’t eat doughnuts?” she said to Marc, then quickly shook her head. “I mean, you don’t have doughnuts.”

  He grinned warmly and I wanted to kick him to tell him being attractive and charming wasn’t going to help matters.

  “I’ve got a delicious protein shake waiting for me at home, so I’m good, thanks.”

  “She won’t share,” Jayne forced out, clutching the bag even tighter. We were going to have to work harder on social interactions with men. I’d thought that her relationship with Thomas Riley was a good sign that she’d been cured of acute awkwardness, but I’d been wrong
. It apparently was on a man-to-man basis.

  Anthony’s smile faded slightly as he glanced at me, as if needing reassurance that Jayne wouldn’t bite.

  “She’s probably referring to me. I don’t share my doughnuts, and if anyone tries to take one, he will lose a finger.” I didn’t smile, trying to show him that I wasn’t joking.

  I took a sip from my coffee while eyeing the bag expectantly, but Jayne kept it clenched closely to her chest, no doubt planning to hold the doughnuts for ransom until I finished the run. “So,” I said, “why have you been stalking me?”

  Anthony quirked an eyebrow. “Stalking? Hardly. More like looking for an opportunity to approach you that wouldn’t be noticed by any of your friends, family, or coworkers. It’s very hard to do. You’re a moving target.”

  I glanced around, glad we were in a public place and that Jayne was with me. Alarm bells were starting to go off inside my head, the same ones that rang out when Sophie or my handyman, Rich Kobylt, asked to talk to me. It was usually something bad—like wood-boring beetles in the dining room floor—and always something I didn’t want to hear, such as the cost of the repair.

  “So why did you want to see me?” I asked.

  “I’d like to make a deal with you.”

  “A deal?” Jayne repeated.

  Anthony leaned forward. “You may or may not be aware that I own Magnolia Ridge Plantation—or, as it’s known now, Gallen Hall. It was formerly owned by the Vanderhorst family—the same family who once owned your house on Tradd Street. It was purchased at auction by my grandfather back in the twenties, sold shortly afterward, and then bought by Marc a few years ago. My grandfather was the man found buried beneath your fountain, if you recall.”

  Like I could forget. I kept still, trying not to remember the menacing ghost of Joseph Longo, or how his body came to be buried in my garden along with that of former owner Louisa Vanderhorst. “Okay,” I said, not sure where this was heading but fairly certain I didn’t want to go there.

  “You may also recall that Marc and I started a winery venture together a few years ago, using the land around the plantation.”

  “Vaguely.” The alarm bells were getting louder now. Jack had recently read to me—somewhat gleefully—an article in the Post and Courier about a Longo family member accusing Marc of swindling and threatening legal action.

  “Yes, well, my dear brother knew the land wasn’t good for a vineyard—a fact he kept from me when he told me from the goodness of his heart he was going to allow me to buy out his share and give me a good deal.” His hands formed themselves into fists. “A good deal on worthless land.”

  “That wasn’t very nice,” Jayne said, her tone similar to the one she used when settling disputes between the twins. And Jack and me. She was a nanny, after all.

  “You could say that,” Anthony said, giving Jayne an appreciative grin.

  She blushed, then resumed her deliberate breathing.

  “So what does that have to do with me? He’s married to my cousin, but we’re not close.”

  “I know. Which is why I was thinking we needed to talk.” He leaned very close. “It seems we both have a bone to pick with my brother.”

  “We do? If you’re referring to Jack’s career, he just signed a new two-book deal and is hard at work on the new book. Marc gave us a setback, but that’s behind us.”

  “Is it? I thought Marc wanted to film his movie in your house.”

  “He does. And I believe Jack told him where he could file that idea.”

  Anthony smiled smugly. “I’m sure he did. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your husband, but I’ve heard Marc rant about him often enough to know they’re not friends.”

  Jayne coughed.

  “You could say that,” I said. “Which is really why we’re putting all of that in the past and moving forward.”

  “Yes, well, too bad Marc didn’t get that memo.”

  The alarm bells were now clanging so loudly I was sure everyone in the restaurant could hear. “What do you mean?”

  He leaned in a little closer. “Marc has lots of . . . connections. Has a lot of influence, even in the publishing world. Jack’s new contract might not be as ironclad as you’d like to think.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I hissed. “He’s signed it and received the advance. He’s working on the book now and his publisher has big plans for it.”

  Anthony shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t matter to Marc. He has . . . ways to get what he wants.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “Your house.”

  “My house? We’re not selling. Ever. We’ve gone through quite a lot for that house.” I thought of the ghost of Louisa Vanderhorst, who watched over us, the scent of roses alerting us of her presence. Of old Nevin Vanderhorst, who’d left the house to me in his will, knowing long before I did that the house and I were meant to be together for as long as I lived. Or, as Jack had said at our wedding in the back garden, perhaps even longer.

  Anthony smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “Tell me, Melanie. Would you be financially solvent if it weren’t for Jack’s income? I’m sure he’s getting royalties from his earlier books, but without a new book, sales of his older books peter out, don’t they?”

  I thought of how we’d had to borrow money from Nola, who had made a few lucrative sales of music she’d written, to keep the house. It was a loan, and we were still working on paying it back.

  I started to say no, but Jayne kicked me under the table. “It’s none of your business,” she said, speaking slowly as if to make sure the right words came out.

  “Right,” I agreed. “It’s none of your business.” I stood, and Jayne stood, too.

  Anthony slid his chair back and stood as well, blocking our way to the door. “What if I said I could help you outmaneuver Marc and make a lot of money at the same time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Marc found something that’s convinced him that there is something valuable hidden in the mausoleum at the Gallen Hall cemetery. He can’t get access, though.”

  “Why?” I asked, although with the mention of the mausoleum, I was afraid I knew why.

  His voice very quiet, he said, “I know that you can speak to the dead.”

  Jayne inhaled quickly, but I kept my eyes on Anthony. “I don’t know where you heard that. . . .”

  “Rebecca, of course. I know she has premonitions in her dreams—she’s even told me of a few she had about me. But she said your powers are much stronger, that you can actually talk to the dead.”

  “Well, she’s mistaken.” I slid my chair up to the table so I could inch my way around Anthony to access the door and saw Jayne do the same thing. “I’ve got to go. Sorry I can’t help you.”

  We’d made it only a few feet before he said, “I heard about that cistern in your back garden—how several grad students assigned to the excavation refuse to return to the site. I was curious, so I did some digging. Do you know where the bricks came from?”

  A chill pricked at the base of my neck as I recalled the apparition of the man in the photograph standing by the edge of the gaping hole and holding what appeared to be a piece of jewelry. And the menacing aura that had pervaded my house and yard ever since the cistern was discovered. “No,” I said, my voice wavering only a little. “And I don’t care.”

  We’d made it to the door when Anthony called out to us, “They’re from an older mausoleum in the Gallen Hall cemetery. I thought you’d want to know. Just in case.”

  I turned to face him. “Just in case what?”

  “Just in case you find something . . . unexpected in your cistern.”

  Jayne pushed the door open, then propelled me into the warm morning air with a gentle shove to my back. I turned around to see whether Anthony would follow us out and found myself staring at the glass door of the shop.
Except instead of seeing my own reflection, I saw the clear specter of a gentleman in what appeared to be an old-fashioned cravat and jacket staring back at me with black, empty sockets.

  CHAPTER 2

  I had just finished drying my hair in the bathroom when Jack walked in, his pajama pants riding low on his slim hips, his defined abs under smooth skin making me almost drop the blow-dryer. His dark hair stuck up in a tousled fashion that I’m sure models had to work at, his beard stubble making him the perfect dictionary picture for the definition of devastating.

  He turned on the shower and slid off his pants, his gaze in the mirror’s reflection never leaving mine as he walked up behind me. Lifting my hair, he pressed a warm kiss to the back of my neck. “Could this gorgeous creature really be my wife?”

  It took me a moment to find my voice. “You like my dress?” It wasn’t what I’d planned on saying, but Jayne had apparently rubbed off on me.

  “Mmm,” he said, burying his nose in my hair as his hands skimmed over the red fabric that clung to my hips. “I like what’s in it the best.”

  I gasped as his teeth found my earlobe. “You better not be practicing dialogue for your book.”

  He continued nibbling at the delicate skin of my ear. “I do like to re-create dialogue as authentically as possible.” He used his hands to press me back against his chest, his interest in things other than dialogue apparent.

  Although most of my brain cells were rapidly jumping ship, some of them clung to the memory of my earlier conversation with Anthony Longo. “So, the book’s going well?”

  His tongue did interesting flicking motions that he knew I loved against the area behind my ear. “Uh-huh.”

  “No more writer’s block?”

  “Nuh-uh,” Jack said, blowing warm air on the damp skin, which nearly undid me. But, like a dog with a bone, I couldn’t let go of Anthony’s words.

  “So, no problems with your new agent or publisher?”

  He lifted his head, turning me around to face him. “Why are you asking?”