The Strangers on Montagu Street (34 page)

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Authors: Karen White

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

BOOK: The Strangers on Montagu Street
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We turned the hall light on, but left everything else in darkness. Of all the ghost movies I’d seen on TV, the one thing that Hollywood got right was that most ghosts really did prefer the dark. I suppose it made sense. They had once been living people, and most people I knew didn’t like the harsh light of day to show all of their flaws and shortcomings. Dead people shouldn’t be any different, and their most obvious shortcoming was their inability to die completely.
We walked slowly into the drawing room, General Lee prancing behind us, our steps muted on the Aubusson rug. The streetlights streaming through the stained-glass window splashed unintentional color onto the walls and furniture, but left the dollhouse, now moved back against the far wall, in its own black space devoid of light.
“Take William out of the bag,” my mother directed. “Then fold up the top and leave the rest in the bag on the hall table.”
I brought the bag back into the hall to see better. Glancing inside, I could have sworn Harold’s face glowered at me. Quickly finding William, I plucked him out of the bag and with one hand folded the top of the bag and placed it on top of a Chippendale console.
My fingers seemed to hum and vibrate, the tips warming as if I were touching a living, breathing person. Eager to put him down, I walked quickly back to the drawing room and set the figure down on the coffee table. “What do I do now?”
I felt rather than saw my mother’s reproving glance in my direction. “What did you do with the Hessian soldier and Mary Gibson?”
“I just spoke to them, like I’m speaking to you now.”
“There you go. Speak to William, and tell him what you want.”
I sat down on the sofa opposite my mother, the William doll on the table between us, and took a deep breath. Placing both hands flat on my knees, I cleared my throat. “William Manigault? Are you here?”
Nothing happened, the only noise that of the mantel clock and the sound of General Lee licking himself. I glared in the direction of the dog, then turned back to face the doll. “William Manigault, I have a message from your sister, Julia. Can you speak to me?”
The temperature of the room dipped sharply as a small pinprick of light appeared on the turret of the dollhouse and then began to grow and shimmer, gradually shifting into a column of light that hovered between the floor and the ceiling next to the dollhouse. General Lee whimpered, then shot out of the room, his tail firmly planted between his back legs.
“William? Is that you?”
The light began to take on a human form, with arms and legs visible, and then a head, tilted at an odd angle. His suit was in the style of the nineteen thirties, his neatly combed hair parted in the center, his body solid enough to be confused with a real person except for the fact that he glowed.
“Do you see him?” I asked quietly, turning my head slightly in my mother’s direction.
“Yes,” she whispered. “He’s the one I saw in my dream.”
Go away.
I felt the words rather than heard them, the menace behind them palpable as a sheet of icy wind blew at me, strong enough to move my hair.
“Your sister, Julia, wants to hear from you. Is there something you want to tell her?”
Stop her.
I stood and felt my mother stand next to me. She reached for my hand and grabbed it tightly. “We are stronger than you,” I said out loud.
No, you’re not.
My mother’s hand squeezed mine.
“Is there something you want to tell your sister?” I asked again. “She wants to talk with you.”
Stop her
.
I had to force my jaw to stop trembling as the temperature continued to drop. “What do you want her to stop?”
She knows. Only misery awaits if she does not stop.
“Why are you still here? Is there something you need to see finished before you can move on?”
He turned his head and I could see a dark welt of black and blue on the side of his neck. I recalled the dollhouse figure of William, and the fractured line of glue that had replaced the head back on the neck.
He will not let me.
“Who, William? Your father?”
Stop her. It will only get worse if she does not.
“What happened to you, William? I think Julia wants to know, to give her peace. Can you tell me that?”
What could have been a laugh rumbled through the darkened room.
She knows.
“Knows what?”
The light began to flicker and diminish, absorbed into the inky blackness like oxygen in fire.
“Wait!” I stepped forward, my mother moving with me, our hands still clasped. “What about the letter? The one Julia keeps in the Santa box. What is it?”
A spot in the center of the shrinking light brightened briefly.
She believes it is proof of innocence where there is none. Let her believe it. Make her stop.
“Stop what?” I asked again, but the light was gone, the temperature of the room already returning to normal. I fell back onto the sofa, mentally exhausted and frustrated. “Well, that was a big bunch of nothing.”
My mother, who’d moved to flip on the overhead chandelier, paused in the doorway leading to the foyer. “Not exactly.”
I smelled the smoke as I walked quickly to join her. We both saw the smoldering bag sitting on top of the Chippendale console. The central portion appeared untouched, but the folded edge glowed with red, the color fading and intensifying as if the bag breathed.
Thinking mostly of the furniture, I knocked the bag to the heart-of-pine floor and stamped my shoe down on the smoldering edge again and again until no red showed and the sole of my Bruno Magli slingback was crusty with paper ash.
I stared at my mother, the smell of burning paper heavy in the air. “Great. That went well. I think we really pissed somebody off—probably Harold. And I really, really don’t like it when he’s angry.”
My mother bent down to pick up the bag. “I know, sweetheart. But you did well, and you deserve a quiet evening to yourself. Go draw yourself a bath and have a long soak. No more ghosts tonight.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, the radio in Nola’s room burst into life at high volume, the words to “I’m Just Getting Started” so familiar to me now that I had them memorized.
“Or not,” I said as I wearily climbed the stairs, recalling with envy my previous life, when the voices of the dead were something I easily ignored.
 
I struggled to simultaneously close my umbrella and make it through the door at Ruth’s Bakery without getting wet or dropping my purse and briefcase. A strong hand reached through the door and took the umbrella from me, allowing me to get inside. I turned to thank my benefactor, whose broad-shouldered back was to me as he carefully folded my umbrella and leaned it against the wall beside the door. My prepared smile dropped as Jack turned around to face me, his expression showing that he wasn’t surprised to see me. Or all that happy, either. He looked like a boy who’d been sent to the principal’s office, determined to act contrite despite his reluctance to be there. “Good morning, Mellie.”
I glanced over at Ruth, who stood behind the counter, her eyes sparkling as she surreptitiously smoothed her hair and fixed the collar of her shirt. If her skin weren’t so dark, I’d bet she was flushing, too, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether
anyone
, besides Nola, was immune to Jack.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as I approached the counter for my morning order of doughnuts and cappuccino that Ruth usually already had bagged and ready by seven thirty for me.
“I thought this was a public establishment,” Jack said as he sat down at one of the two parlor-style tables.
I looked up from where I’d been digging in my purse for the coupons I pulled every week from the unread Sunday newspaper for Ruth and saw that she was scowling at me.
“Where’s your manners, girl? This gentleman’s been nothing but pleasant and you’re being unkind. I know your mama taught you better.”
I thumped the coupons on the counter to circumvent the finger wagging I was sure was coming next.
“That’s all right, Ruth,” Jack said as he stretched his long legs beneath the table. “I’m used to it.”
I dug back into my purse for my wallet and beamed a smile at Ruth, who was doing weird things with her eyebrows and pointing to the fourth finger of her left hand and jerking her head in Jack’s direction.
I squinted, trying to figure out what she was trying to tell me. She did it again, this time her movements more exaggerated.
“No, I’m not married, Ruth,” Jack said from the table behind me. “Mellie’s aware of that fact, and I’ve had to rebuff her advances on many occasions. I’m just happy that I’ve remained relatively unscathed with all limbs attached and most of my clothes still in one piece.”
I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of arguing, so, facing Ruth again, I asked, “Is my order ready, Ruth? I have a staff meeting this morning and I need to be sugar-and-caffeine-fortified to sit through it.”
She pursed her lips, her whole body radiating disappointment in me. “No, and it’s going to be a while, so you might as well take a seat. I’m working on this gentleman’s order first.”
My raised eyebrows were wasted on her, as she didn’t even bother looking up at me as she slowly and deliberately began to fold a flat pastry box into shape. Sighing, I retreated to the other table adjacent to Jack’s, ignoring the second chair at Jack’s table that he kicked out in an apparent invitation to sit.
After dumping my purse and briefcase in the facing chair, I turned to Jack. “So, really, why are you here?”
“I told Nola I’d bring her breakfast, and you told me she likes Ruth’s powdered-sugar doughnuts. I need to ask her more about Bonnie, so I figured I’d take your advice and try a little bribery to soften her up first. I’d planned to have a discussion with her the other night, but we were having such a good time that I didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up her mother.”
Nola hadn’t volunteered any information as to what she and her dad had done, so I assumed they’d spent the whole day watching
Twilight
movies on DVD and eating popcorn. If I really examined my conscience I would admit to feeling a little left out, imagining that the three of us hanging out together might be more fun than the two of them doing something and me organizing Mrs. Houlihan’s spice rack by myself.
“What did you do?” I found myself asking.
“I took her down to the Spoleto Festival. I’d bought some tickets to see
The Gospel at Colonus
at the Gaillard Auditorium and she loved it. She’s got pretty eclectic tastes when it comes to the creative arts, and I figured Spoleto was the perfect place to take her.”
He was right, of course. The Spoleto arts festival in Charleston was a yearly event that attracted national attention and poured thousands of visitors into the city for a two-week period. I’d never attended any of the concerts, plays, or art shows, choosing instead to avoid the crowds and carry on with business as usual. But I could only think now how fun it would have been to be with Nola and Jack.
“I’m glad she had a good time.” I glanced at Ruth, who was now, with excruciatingly slow movements, curling ribbon with the sharp edge of a pair of scissors. For Jack’s box of doughnuts. In all the years I’d been coming to see Ruth on a daily basis, I’d never seen even a scrap of ribbon.
I turned back to Jack. “Did you find out who that Rick Chase person is? I haven’t heard Nola talking on her phone with him again, but that could just mean that she’s being careful not to do it in front of me.”
He drummed his fingertips on the table. “Yeah, I did. Besides being Bonnie’s last boyfriend, he’s also the guy who wrote that Jimmy Gordon hit—the one they’re playing on the radio all the time.”
“ ‘I’m Just Getting Started’?” I asked. “That’s the song that’s always playing when Nola’s radio turns on by itself. What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jack shrugged. “I just think it’s a little too coincidental for Nola to hate this singer whose song has a connection, although a distant one, to Bonnie. I want to ask her about it, and also find out whether ‘my daughter’s eyes’ means anything to her.”

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