The House on Tradd Street (13 page)

“This is horrible,” I said, guessing that it had probably been Mr. Henderson who had called the newspaper to brag about my “coup” as he would have termed it. I realized for the first time that he probably expected me to sell the house through the agency at the end of the year, which would generate not only dollars but a lot of prestige.

Ruth pointed to the picture with a plastic-gloved hand. “It’s not so bad, Miss Melanie. Besides, it’s so small, I don’t think anybody would have paid it any mind. I only saw it because I recognized your skinny face in that photo.”

The bell rang over the door, and a businessman clutching a leather briefcase walked into the store. I was sure I’d never met him before, but he smiled at me as if we were old friends.

“I’ll have one of your sunrise-special bagels with egg and bacon, please,” he said to Ruth as he slapped a twenty down on the glass.

I waved to Ruth and began to back out of the door, clutching my bag and my drink. The man turned to me. “Nice picture in the paper.”

I paused. “Do I know you?”

“No. But everybody sees the pictures on the front page of the people section.” He pointed at my hair. “Like the way you’re wearing your hair nowadays.”

“Um, thanks,” I said as I exited the store, completely mortified.

I walked to my office, wondering if it was my imagination that made me think that people were looking at me differently. Nancy Flaherty met me at the front desk. She wore a hands-free phone set on her head as she stood in front of the reception desk, attempting to hit a golf ball through an upended cup. She looked up and smiled as I entered.

“Good morning, Melanie. You’re very popular this morning. I guess on account of that article in the paper yesterday. That was Tom’s idea, by the way. Anyway, I’ve taken five phone calls for you already, and it’s not even nine o’clock yet.”

I held up the hand with the paper sack, and let her stick the five pink slips between my fingers.

“One of them is from that delicious Jack Trenholm. You have to have him meet you at the office sometime so I can get a good look at him.”

“Jack called?” I was already annoyed with him, and it wasn’t even noon. I’d been at the house at seven o’clock that morning until about eight thirty, meeting with the roofing guy, and Jack hadn’t bothered to show up. I’d tried reaching him on his cell and home phones, but both had quickly gone to voice mail. I wanted to think it was because I’d neglected to give him a copy of the spreadsheet and he’d forgotten when he was supposed to be there, but I’d expressly said he needed to be at the house at seven o’clock to get to work on the attic papers. “What did he want?”

“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.”