The Strangers on Montagu Street (20 page)

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Authors: Karen White

Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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I flung it open and paused in the threshold, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light, my relief at finding Nola alone quickly replaced by the unease that she’d seen something I wasn’t prepared to explain to her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, walking toward her where she was pressing herself against the refrigerator as if trying to make herself blend in with the stainless steel.
She shuddered, then pointed to a spot behind me. Bracing myself, I turned, expecting to see Bonnie or one of the harmless spirits that still walked the rooms of the house on Tradd Street, seemingly content to exist in their shadow world. Instead, my gaze immediately settled on her source of terror: A large palmetto bug—known to the rest of the world as a flying cockroach—rested on the lip of the granite counter by the farmhouse sink, its reddish brown shell reflecting the overhead light, its long antennae twitching. I would have preferred a ghost, or a snake, a mouse, or even a charging bull. As much as I loved the city of my birth, the ubiquitous insect was almost enough for me to relinquish all claims to the Holy City.
My mother stood frozen in the doorway, and I thought for a moment what a picture we must make: three able-bodied and intelligent women petrified at the sight of a six-legged bug. A three-inch six-legged bug with wings, but still.
“What
is
that?” Nola shrieked.
Standing with my back to Nola so I could keep my eye on the unwanted visitor, I said, “It’s the South Carolina state bird.” I kept my tone light so she wouldn’t know that I was petrified of the little beasts.
“It
flies?
”
As if it understood what Nola was saying, it fluttered its wings in warning.
Nola screamed again and ran for the door into the hallway, starting a chain reaction as my mother and I followed.
Nola almost crashed into Jack, who was running from the front door to the kitchen. He grasped Nola by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
The panic on his face reminded me of the look he had right before he dived from the kayak after Nola fell into the water. It made my heart squish a little in my chest before I remembered what had caused the crisis.
“It’s a palmetto bug in the kitchen.” I was a strongly independent woman who’d never relied on a man for anything, yet I would be a fool to bypass this opportunity. “Can you go get rid of it?”
His hands dropped as his gaze took in all three of us. “A bug? You’re screaming and running through the house because of a bug.”
“A big, flying bug,” my mother added.
“And it’s about five inches long,” Nola added.
“Five inches?” Jack repeated.
Nola nodded.
“All right. I’m prepared to do battle. Where is it?”
“On the sink,” I said, pushing him forward. “Just don’t squish him—see if you can get him outside first and then kill him.”
“Do you have to kill him?” Nola asked, chewing on her lower lip.
I gave her the look I usually saved for clients whose lowball offer for a house bordered on insulting. “It’s a cockroach,” I said.
“A palmetto bug,” Jack and my mother said in unison, as if the more genteel name made it less of an insect.
Nola continued to look at her father, her eyes hopeful.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll scoop it up in a cup and set it free outside, okay?”
Nola nodded, and her lips twitched into what might have been a smile.
“Don’t use one of the good cups,” I said to his departing back. “And throw the cup in the garbage when you’re finished.”
“Yes, Mellie,” he said as he disappeared into the kitchen.
“That’s one thing men are good for,” I said to Nola, feeling it was my duty to instruct her in the ways of the world.
“I heard that,” Jack shouted from the other side of the kitchen door.
When he returned a few minutes later, he looked like a knight returning from the Crusades. “Taken care of. He’s off amid the blades of grass, ready to populate the world with baby palmetto bugs.” He smiled at me. “Ready to go?”
“Where are you going?” my mother asked.
“We’re going back to the house we saw earlier this week—the one that we think the dollhouse was modeled after. Jack and Sophie did some digging and found out that the woman who lives there, Julia Manigault, is the last remaining member of her family—the same family who’s owned the house since the late eighteen hundreds. From what Sophie found, it looks like Julia is in her nineties now, and the dollhouse might have been hers.”
“Seriously, who cares?” Nola asked. “I don’t give a rat’s a—” My mother sent her a sharp look. Nola continued. “. . . rat’s paw who it belonged to. Why should we care?”
My eyes met Jack’s for a brief moment over Nola’s head, long enough to acknowledge our shared secret and for me to feel a little flush of heat flood my body.
Nola continued. “I mean, really. Do I have to go and talk with some old lady? She’s probably too senile to remember a stupid dollhouse anyway.”
Jack turned to her. “I guess not, but if you don’t I could make you spend the weekend with Rebecca and me at her parents’ home in Sum-merville instead. Your choice.”
Nola rolled her eyes. “I think I’d rather move in with the old lady,” she mumbled as she stared at the floor like she’d never seen it before. She glared back at her father. “But why are you going?”
Jack shrugged. “Because I’m always on the lookout for the next book idea. And besides, Mellie asked me.”
I hadn’t, but I didn’t bother to mention it. Jack and I had been investigating past lives in old houses long enough that it didn’t occur to me that he needed to be asked or that he wouldn’t naturally assume he should accompany me.
“Julia Manigault,” my mother repeated. She looked up, her eyes widening. “Do you know whether she ever taught at Ashley Hall?”
“Yes, she did,” I said. “I didn’t think to ask whether you knew her. Alston said she taught music at Ashley Hall until she retired, then taught piano lessons from her home—that’s how Alston knew the house.”
My mother smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “She was my first vocal teacher. I went to her to take piano lessons, but when she heard me sing we focused on voice. I only stayed with her that first year, before my parents found a more specialized teacher, but I’ve always credited her with being the person who inspired me to pursue my singing. I had no idea she was still alive. She was pretty old when I knew her.” She gave a little laugh. “Although she was probably younger than I am now.”
“Come with us, then. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you. I called and spoke to her housekeeper and set up an appointment—I doubt bringing one more would be a problem.”
“I’d love to, but I have another appointment that I can’t change at the last minute.” She gave me a sideways glance. “It’s to see Mr. Mc-Ghee regarding his late wife.” She glanced up at Jack and me so we would understand what sort of appointment she was referring to. “Please give her my best and tell her I will come by to see her soon.”
Nola headed to the door. “Can we go now? The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”
My mother touched my arm. “May I have a word with you, Mellie?”
I had the sinking feeling she was hoping to continue our previous conversation. I looked to Jack for help, but he either missed or ignored my silent plea.
“Can we take your car?” he asked. “I don’t want Nola in the backseat of the Porsche—it’s too cramped, and to be honest I don’t know how safe it is.”
I handed him my car key, then stared at his back for a moment as he headed to my car, remembering the times I’d been forced into his backseat to allow Rebecca in the front. “I’ll drive. Go wait by the car and I’ll be right there.”
He cocked an eyebrow, then said good-bye to my mother before sauntering toward my car with Nola.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—how Bonnie said Jack’s name when you wanted to know why she won’t speak to you directly.”
I relaxed a bit. “Did you come up with something?”
“Maybe Bonnie wasn’t answering your question at all. Maybe she was trying to tell you something else entirely.”
“Like what?”
She looked over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t within earshot of Jack or Nola. “I spoke to your grandmother last night.”
I looked at her, surprised. My grandmother always communicated with me first. It had always been that way, even when she’d been alive. “I wonder why she didn’t speak with me.”
“She already has, but apparently you weren’t listening.”
I remembered the phone call the night I’d found Jack’s wallet on my dresser, something about listening to my heart. “I don’t understand.”
“Jack’s in trouble, Mellie. I don’t know how or why, but maybe that’s what Bonnie was trying to tell you.”
“But why me? Why not Rebecca?”
My mother looked at me, her eyes hard. “Let it go, Mellie. Whatever it is you’re holding on to that’s preventing you from seeing what everybody else sees so clearly, let it go.”
I thought of Jack, and the way he’d always made me feel as if I were standing at the edge of a cliff, and how unprepared I was for the free fall if I should take a step forward. And I had no idea what it was that made me cling so hard to solid ground.
“They’re waiting for me. I’ve got to go.”
I looked away quickly from the disappointment in her eyes, and walked to the car wondering how I was supposed to save Jack when I had no idea how to save myself.
CHAPTER 12
 
I
t was a short drive to Montagu Street, and I found parking in front of the house. As we stood on the opposite side of the street from the house, I took it as a good sign that a bird sang from the overgrown crape myrtle that obscured most of the front garden and walk. I didn’t dare look up at the turret window.
Jack faced the house, studying it with a practiced eye. From his younger years, when he’d helped his parents find items for the store at estate sales, he’d developed a good sense for fine lines and quality workmanship in both furniture and houses. And probably women, too, but that was something I tried not to dwell on.
“Sophie must have jumped out of her Birkenstocks when she saw this,” he said, leaning back to see the weather vane on top of the turret roof. I followed his gaze, stopping at the bottom of the window.
“Pretty much. And neither one of us has any doubts this is the house.”
“Me, neither. I’m thinking the paint used to be blue instead of gray, although I’m guessing the original color was yellow, like the dollhouse,” he said, stepping back to allow Nola and me to proceed ahead of him.
We had to duck down to pass beneath the crape myrtle’s branches while simultaneously watching our step to make sure we didn’t get stuck in any of the holes in the path from broken or missing bricks. The front steps seemed solid enough as we climbed them to the front porch that wrapped around the front and sides of the house. The paint covering the Doric columns that supported the porch roof was peeling and chipped, as was the haint blue ceiling. The color was supposed to ward off evil spirits and nesting birds—something it had failed to do on both counts, judging from the large amount of bird droppings liberally deposited at the base of two of the columns, and my previous experience with the man in the turret window.
The double front doors, heavy wood with a leaded-glass transom, badly needed refinishing, as did the splintered wooden floorboards of the porch. I stopped myself from examining anything else, embarrassed by how naturally my train of thought now went to restoration details.
A tarnished brass button next to the door drew our attention. With a backward glance at Nola and me, Jack pressed it. A distant tinkling bell sounded from inside of the house, and for the first time Nola looked nervous.
“I wonder if the house is haunted,” she said. “If you believe in that kind of thing,” she added quickly. “No way would I come trick-or-treating here if I was a little kid.”
I kept my gaze trained on the front door, afraid to look at either Nola or Jack lest my expression give me away.
After a few moments the sound of heavy footsteps approached the doors before one of them was opened by a middle-aged heavyset woman with sandy blond hair held back in a ponytail, curly wisps straggling down the sides of her cheeks. She wore a loose white T-shirt, black capris, and flip-flops, all three speckled liberally with what looked like paint.
The woman smiled brightly, her blue eyes examining us closely, her gaze settling on Jack. Her smile widened. “Can I help you?”
Attempting to redirect her attention, I stepped forward. “I’m Melanie Middleton. I believe we spoke on the phone yesterday about coming to see Miss Manigault?”
Her eyes didn’t leave Jack’s face. “Oh, right. I forgot—must be the paint fumes. I’m Deanna Davenport, Miss Manigault’s house manager or whatever you want to call me. I’m sort of her hands and feet, so to speak, since she can’t do for herself anymore.” She straightened, her ample bosom pressing against her T-shirt. Still looking at Jack, she said, “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve got glue all over my fingers. And you can call me Dee for short.”

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