The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street Read online

  “Because . . .” I searched for something that was as close to the truth as possible so I couldn’t be accused of avoidance later if this conversation ever came back to haunt me. “Because I was thinking this morning how happy I am to be living in this house with you and our family, and with my parents and your parents so close by. How I can’t wait to see our children grow up in this house. I was just wanting to know if we’re okay financially. I mean, I have a fairly good idea of what’s in the bank accounts and what we have in investments, but I just want to make sure I’m not missing something. I don’t know if I could take another scare like we had before, and I don’t want to ask Nola to bail us out again. It’s not fair to her.”

  Jack’s eyes became serious. “Since we agreed to be completely honest with each other, I’ll tell you that we’re doing okay. If we keep to the budget you and I worked out, and this book does as well as my publisher expects, we might even be able to get ahead. My mother insisting on paying for Nola’s tuition at Ashley Hall has been a huge help, and those two big sales you made last month were instrumental in putting us solidly in the black. You know you are more than welcome to go in my desk drawer where I keep all of our financial records. Honesty, remember?”

  I nodded, my gaze slipping down to his lips, both because I couldn’t meet his eyes and because his lips were so much more interesting than the conversation. “So we wouldn’t need the money Marc’s throwing in our faces for us to agree to film his movie here.”

  “Not right now. That could change, of course, but I’d rather have all the unpleasant ghosts you’ve gotten rid of come back to rattle their chains than agree to that.”

  My eyes shot back to meet his. “Don’t say that out loud. You never know who might be listening.”

  Cocking his head to the side just like JJ did when watching Sarah babble at shadowy corners, Jack said, “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Maybe.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. Just one more week, I thought to myself. Just one more week of domestic peace and contentment. One more week to get my life in order before I would attempt to discover what was lurking in my backyard. And who, or what, had taken up residence in Nola’s bedroom.

  “‘Maybe’?” Jack repeated.

  “I can’t tell you about your Christmas present. Or am I not allowed to keep it a secret?”

  He kissed me softly on the lips. “You can try. But I have ways of finding out all of your secrets.”

  “Do you, now?” I asked.

  His phone, left on the counter, beeped. He glanced at it expectantly before turning back to me, but not before I’d seen the shadow of disappointment cloud his eyes.

  “Who was it?” I asked, although what I really needed to know was who it wasn’t. Right before we’d discovered that Marc had stolen Jack’s book idea and had already signed a huge publishing deal, Jack’s agent and editor had stopped returning his phone calls. For the second time that day, alarm bells began clanging inside my head.

  He paused for a moment before answering. “It was my mother. I’ll call her back.”

  “Were you expecting someone el—” I began, my words swallowed by his kiss.

  “Let’s find out if this dress is waterproof.” His words were muffled against my neck as he dragged me into the shower, my senses perilously close to abandoning me completely, but still clinging to me enough to make me wonder what he was avoiding telling me.

  * * *

  • • •

  Women’s voices came from inside my mother’s Legare Street house as I pushed open the front door. The house had belonged to her family for generations, our ownership interrupted for a few years by a Texas junkyard millionaire following my parents’ divorce. My formerly estranged mother, retired opera diva Ginette Prioleau, and Sophie were still working hard to erase the “creative touches” inflicted on the house by the previous owner, but at least the house was now back in the family. My mother had remarried my father on the same day I’d married Jack, and my parents now appeared to be living in marital bliss in the home in which I was born and had lived for the first six years of my life.

  I followed the voices to the front parlor, where the glorious floor-to-ceiling stained glass window sparkled in the morning sunshine. A few years before, Jack and I had discovered the secret hidden in the glass that led us to unraveling an old family mystery, but now all I could see was the beauty of the window and the way it seemed to draw me into the parlor. Or maybe it was because of the sudden drop in temperature or the slight scent of Vanilla Musk.

  There were about fifteen women seated in the parlor on the sofas and chairs, the furniture recently having been rescued from the leopard and zebra prints it had been forced to wear by the former occupants and now re-covered in historically accurate (and contemporarily expensive) damask and silk upholstery in shades of cream and pale blue.

  I knew I’d find Veronica Farrell in the group even before I caught sight of her red hair. The presence of her dead sister’s perfume had already alerted me that she’d be there, although I was surprised to find her at the Ashley Hall Christmas Progressive Dinner fund-raiser meeting. Her daughter, Lindsey, was a close friend and classmate of Nola’s, but ever since I’d flat-out refused to help her communicate with her deceased sister, Adrienne—and then been more or less threatened by her husband, Michael, to let it be—I hadn’t seen her. Even at school functions, we always seemed to be on opposite sides of the room, although I could never be sure by whose design.

  “Mellie,” my mother said, her trim figure floating toward me in a sea of blue silk chiffon, looking much younger than her sixty-six years. She and Jack were the only two people allowed to call me Mellie. It had once grated on my nerves, which was why Jack had adopted it, but now I found it endearing. She kissed me on the cheek as my mother-in-law, the perpetually elegant owner of Trenholm Antiques, Amelia Trenholm, stood and greeted me with a warm smile.

  The two women had been friends since childhood, both attending Ashley Hall, so it made sense that they’d be on the committee. What didn’t make sense was the way they had each taken hold of one of my arms as if they were afraid I might escape. I smelled cinnamon and coffee, and I wondered if they were trying to keep me from bolting toward the refreshments set up on a Chippendale mahogany sideboard.

  All gazes were fixed on me as my mother began to speak. “Ladies, may I please have your attention? Now that my daughter is here, I thought we’d go ahead and get started with a major announcement.”

  I gently tried to pull away, but the two women held me tight. I wondered if escaping would be worth the scene and the comments I’d hear for years.

  My mother continued. “Melanie’s dear friend Dr. Sophie Wallen-Arasi, a professor of historic preservation at the college, couldn’t be with us today, but she has graciously volunteered both herself and her expertise, along with my daughter Melanie, to be in charge of the wreath-making workshop this year.”

  She paused for the surprised gasps from the audience, mine being the loudest.

  Mother continued. “She has also agreed to spearhead the decorations for the host homes for the dinner, promising to ensure that all materials and methods for both the wreaths and the decorations will be authentic and period-specific to the Revolutionary War era, which is our theme for the progressive dinner this year. As you all know, the workshop was a major fund-raiser last year, and with these two talented ladies at the helm, we expect to double our proceeds.”

  I turned to my mother to express my true feelings regarding historic wreath making but my words were drowned out by the round of applause. I’d never suspected that such slender and well-coiffed women could make that kind of noise.

  The arrival of another latecomer turned everyone’s heads. My cousin Rebecca Longo wore her signature pink—pink dress, pink shoes, and pink eyeglasses frames. I was pretty sure she didn’t have a prescription inside the frames but wa
s using them merely as a fashion statement. In her arms, and dressed in a coordinating pink dress, was her dog, Pucci. Pucci and General Lee had had a short-lived yet torrid affair that had resulted in a litter of puppies, two of which—Porgy and Bess—now belonged to Nola. They technically belonged to Jack and me, since they were a wedding gift, but when Nola was home they devoted their lives to following her around as if she’d bathed in beef broth and they never let her out of their sight. They even went into a mini mourning period each day when Nola left for school.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Rebecca announced. “I had to cook three filets mignons before I found a temperature Pucci would eat. I’m exhausted and it’s barely ten o’clock!” With a heavy sigh she gracefully took a seat on one of the new sofas, smiling brightly at the women around her.

  “Any alumnae could sign up for the committee,” Amelia said quietly, anticipating my question.

  I sent a weak smile in Rebecca’s direction and she beamed back at me. I found some satisfaction in the pallor of her skin, caused by the sun shooting orange light through the stained glass and transforming Rebecca’s blond hair to rust.

  My mother turned to me. “Why don’t you get seated so we can start going over the subcommittees and deciding who will head the entire fund-raiser?”

  “I nominate Sophie,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Sadly, she never attended Ashley Hall,” my mother said, pushing me toward a settee.

  I was already in front of it before I realized the other occupant was Veronica Farrell, and it was too late to change directions and find another seat without appearing rude. I liked Veronica and wouldn’t have minded sitting next to her. It was the spectral form of her sister standing behind her that made me want to sit anywhere except that corner of the room.

  Amelia began walking around the room handing out sign-up forms. “Please write your name on the top of the page if you’re interested in being in charge of the fund-raiser. Then, at the bottom, please put your name beneath your three top choices of committees that you would like to participate in, and add an asterisk if you’d like to be the committee head. We already have two fabulous committee heads for wreath decorating, but I’m sure they would appreciate your help. And we expect everyone to sign up for at least two—even if you’re the chair of one.” Amelia smiled at me, her eyes focused on the middle of my forehead, as if she was afraid to meet my eyes and acknowledge that she’d been a part of my railroading. I was sure it was all my mother’s machinations, but I held Amelia guilty by association.

  Veronica leaned over to me. “I’m going to sign up to be the decorating committee chair, so if you sign up for that committee, I’ll make sure you have the easier tasks. I know how busy you are.” She smiled and I smiled back, hoping she wasn’t being nice to me because she wasn’t done asking for my help.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  A strong whiff of Vanilla Musk wafted over us. Veronica’s head jerked up, so I knew she smelled it, too. I quickly looked down at the paper in my lap, pretending to study it.

  “She’s here, isn’t she?” Veronica whispered. “Whenever I smell her perfume, I know she’s near.”

  “Who’s here?” I asked, trying to sound uninterested.

  Veronica simply stared at me, a look of reproach in her eyes. After a moment, she said, “You probably already know this, but your sister, Jayne, has been talking with Detective Riley to help with the reopened investigation into Adrienne’s murder. As a mother and a sister, I’m sure you understand why I’m doing this. I can’t accept not knowing what happened—not if there are other avenues out there to solving this crime.” She smiled softly. “I just wanted to tell you that because I didn’t want any awkwardness between us. Our daughters are good friends, and we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I’d like us to be friends, too.”

  “I’d like that, too,” I said, sensing the presence moving away, and resisted a huge sigh of relief. “So,” I said, eager to change the subject, “I guess I’ll sign up for the decorating committee, then. Although wouldn’t you think being in charge of the wreath-decorating workshop is punishment enough?”

  Her laugh came out as a snort, bringing back memories of working together on a history project in college. I remembered I’d liked that about her, the fact that she could have such an ungracious laugh, but one that other people couldn’t help but smile at because it showed real joy and happiness. I remembered, too, envying her that laugh, because at that point in my life I hadn’t had a lot of reasons to laugh.

  I tried to focus on the rest of the meeting, wondering how soon I would be free to mastermind a devious plot to get back at Sophie for volunteering me for the workshop. My mind wandered as I considered putting laminate over the wood floors in my dining room. Or giving her a litter of puppies.

  My mother’s voice interrupted my reverie. “Anyone else want to volunteer to host one of the dinner courses?” She looked pointedly at me, but I pretended I hadn’t heard the question. She knew how a lot of activity in the house could sometimes cause the spirits to become restless. And there were two spirits I wasn’t eager to awaken.

  Veronica raised her hand. “My house is a Victorian on Queen Street. I’d be happy to open it up for one of the courses.”

  Amelia made a note on her clipboard, smiling her approval at Veronica. “Thank you. That gives us five houses. We just need one more house to host the main course. Perhaps one of the grander and restored homes. It would sell more tickets, and the more tickets we sell, the more money for Ashley Hall.”

  There were murmurs of assent, and I could feel more than one set of eyes on me. I concentrated on recrossing my legs and straightening my skirt, trying not to be obvious as I scanned the side tables for where the coffee cake might be hidden, having already checked on the sideboard and seen only coffee cups and the tall coffee server. Veronica’s half-eaten piece sat on the coffee table in front of us, and it took all of my willpower to resist reaching over with my fingers and popping it in my mouth.

  Rebecca stood. “Marc and I would like to donate twenty thousand dollars to the fund-raiser.” She smiled broadly as she turned to accept the applause, her gaze finally settling on me. I began to feel sick. “With just one condition.”

  She waited for a prolonged and very uncomfortable moment while my stomach roiled.

  Without moving her gaze from mine, she said, “We will donate the money provided that the Trenholms will agree to host one of the courses. Not to put the burden all on Melanie, I promise to help her with the decorating.”

  There was another surprisingly loud round of applause amid murmurings about Rebecca’s generosity and how such an offer would be impossible to refuse. I didn’t know what I found more horrifying—the idea of pink garlands festooning my beautiful Adams mantels and a pink-frosted Christmas tree in the front parlor window for all the neighbors to see, or the idea of all the agitated spirits shaken awake.

  “I . . .” I began, then stopped, realizing how futile protesting would be.

  “Thank you, Melanie,” my mother said, leading another round of applause, which sounded more and more like nails being hammered into a coffin.

  She turned back to the room. “I believe that concludes our meeting, ladies. Please make sure I have all the committee forms, and please be checking your e-mail for the name of our new fund-raising chairperson and which committees you’ve been assigned to. Thank you all for coming.”

  As the other women began to gather their things and say good-bye while thanking Rebecca as if she’d just found a cure for cancer, I stayed where I was, torn between strangling my cousin and faking my death and moving to another country. Because where there was Rebecca being generous and kind, there were ulterior motives.

  “You okay?” Veronica asked softly.

  I sent her a grateful glance. “I will be. Just as soon as I find a way to make my cousin disappear.”

  She grinned wr
yly. “Yeah, I could probably help you with that. What’s with all that pink?” She picked up her plate, and I watched as she crumpled the remainder of her cake into a napkin. Veronica continued. “I’m getting bad vibes about her decorating skills. Want me to volunteer to help?”

  I nodded enthusiastically. “Please. Maybe I can hold her down while you put normal Christmas decorations that don’t resemble cotton candy around the house.”

  She snorted, then abruptly stopped as Rebecca approached, her expression managing to appear chagrined. “Will you excuse us for a moment, Veronica? I need to speak with my cousin.”

  With a little smile, Veronica left, offering a reassuring pat on my shoulder.

  Rebecca slid onto the sofa in the spot vacated by Veronica. “I’m sorry, Melanie. I really am. But you’ve got that big, beautiful house just aching to be shown off. It’s a historic icon—just ask Sophie. People will be buying tickets just to see inside.”

  I pulled back. “You’re trying to get film people inside the house, aren’t you? You just can’t take no for an answer, can you?”

  She looked deflated, unprepared for me to expect the worst from her. But she’d never shown me reason not to.

  “I’m sorry, Melanie. I really am. But Marc’s on my case about getting the movie filmed inside your house. He’s obsessed! I figured if we could get some of the film people in the house to take pictures, they can re-create it in a set. And then we’ll all be happy.”

  “Really, Rebecca? You think that would make Marc happy?”

  Her shoulders sank. “I had to try. You know what he’s like.”

  I frowned. “I met your brother-in-law. Anthony. He told me something very interesting.”

  She looked at me warily. “Yes?”

  “He said that Marc wants our house.” I leaned forward, resisting the impulse to press my index finger into her chest. “Please make sure he knows, in no uncertain terms, that I’d rather burn my house down to the ground than see him take possession of it.”