Even after Christmas, when everyone was returning to work, my job as a Realtor with Henderson House Realty didn’t entice me enough to put on clothes and make my way to my office on Broad Street. It was slow this time of year anyway, and our receptionist, Jolly, promised to call me with anything important. Besides being a meticulous record keeper and notetaker (something I appreciated more than most), she was also a self-professed psychic whose predictions were either wildly inaccurate or eerily spot-on. She’d called only once, to let me know definitively—according to her—that ghosts didn’t leave footprints in the snow. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that she was wrong.
Now, almost three weeks into the New Year, I stood at one of the tall dining room windows that overlooked our Loutrel Briggs garden, which had been lovingly restored by my father. All of his painstaking work had been drastically undone by the previous spring’s torrential rainstorms, which had revealed an ancient cistern and exposed more than just old bricks.
If my entire demeanor and outlook on life hadn’t been as dark and empty as the bottom of the cistern, I’d probably have been hoping that the last of the restless spirits that had been awakened by its sudden exposure had quit the premises. After all, they were partially responsible for Jack’s leaving. But only partially. The rest of the blame lay elsewhere, although Jack and I apparently had opposing opinions as to exactly where.
Pressing my forehead against the cold glass of the window, I watched with disinterest as small indentations began to appear in a line around what remained of the snow atop the blue tarp, protected from the sun by the ancient oak tree. The occasional bare peak of blue canvas made me think of the protruding elbows of frozen swimmers.
I blinked, recognizing the clear marks of the heel and toe of a small booted foot creating a path through the garden. I straightened when I realized the footprints had stopped directly in front of the window where I stood.
“Mellie?”
I jumped, something I rarely did, and spun around with my hand on my throat. For most of my forty-one years, I’d been visited by the dearly departed, but I’d always found them more annoying than frightening. Especially the ones who seemed to enjoy appearing behind me in mirrors or materializing on stair landings before rudely shoving me. At some point, I would need to have a discussion with them about manners.
Jayne stood behind me, holding a bag that smelled suspiciously like doughnuts. In her other hand she held a mug from the kitchen, with steam rising from the surface, its light brown color telling me that she’d added just the right amount of cream. We’d known each other for only about a year, but long enough to know we both liked our coffee with lots of cream and even more sugar, that she was more athletic than I was, that she hated the dark for the same reason I did, and that we’d both inherited from our mother the ability to communicate with the dead. She was looking beyond me toward the garden and the single set of footprints.
“Who is that?” she asked quietly, as if not wanting to alert whoever or whatever it was that we were there. But she was too late. The hairs on the back of my neck and along my arms were already standing at attention. I suddenly recalled the most recent column written by Post and Courier journalist Suzy Dorf.
. . . the cistern excavation at the former Vanderhorst residence on Tradd Street is still in progress, but an unnamed source has told me that there are more secrets hidden there, and there are bets going on in certain parts of our society on whether the owners of the house will be residing together in the home by the time the last treasure is revealed.
I deliberately turned my back to the window. “I have no idea, and no intention of finding out. I’m done with all that.”
“But what about your friend Veronica? You promised to help her find out who murdered her sister. We’re supposed to work together, remember? Not to mention that Veronica’s counting on you. Especially now that her husband is pressing to sell their family home. Adrienne’s still there—you’ve felt her presence. And we both know that if they move out, you’ll lose the best chance of finding her killer.”
I stared back at her for a moment before nodding slowly. “And I imagine that you won’t let me forget about it anytime soon.”
“Nope.” She stood next to me and pressed her forehead against the window to peer into the garden. “Are they almost done with the excavation? Dad’s garden is practically destroyed. Although between you and me, I think the prospect of starting all over again excites him. I think we should limit the number of gardening classes he attends. His enthusiasm is getting out of control.”
I nodded, no longer on the defensive when she referred to my father as “Dad.” She was born after my parents divorced, after our mother had reconnected with an old beau. Jayne’s identity and the fact that she hadn’t died at birth, as our mother had been told, had been only recently confirmed after she’d unexpectedly inherited a house on South Battery and we’d had to work alongside our mother to combat the angry ghost of her father’s wife.
Having been only recently reconciled with my estranged mother and father, I’d had difficulty accepting a new sibling, who’d been immediately embraced by both parents. Despite my initial misgivings, I’d come to accept and love the new addition to my family and was secretly thrilled to have a sister who shared more with me than just DNA.
“Sophie keeps telling me that they’re close to being done. I’m not going to tell her about the footsteps because I want that cistern filled in and forgotten.”
Jayne turned to face me. Instead of rebuking me, she widened her eyes as she took a closer look at me. “Have you been raiding Sophie’s closet?”