Accepting that sleep was no longer a possibility, I hit the Google icon. I took a deep breath and began typing, eager to distract myself with a search for the anonymous blogger and online presence known as Blackbeard. I remembered to filter out terms like “Pirate” and “Edward Teach” and prepared myself for several hours of chasing down links, but was surprised by the short list of results. Either Blackbeard was new to the treasure-hunting forums, or the identity was newly created.
There was nothing nefarious about having different identities online. Yvonne Craig had been the one to suggest using another name to protect my privacy when I’d first begun researching the history of my house. Only she, Jack, and Nola knew that DonutGirl was really ace Realtor Melanie Middleton. Yvonne was Batgirl, although she’d never explained why and I was a little afraid to ask.
Every Google hit was from a treasure-hunting forum, blog, or YouTube channel. All of the flagged comments were listed under stories about the Hope Diamond and the supposed existence and whereabouts of the other half of it. I gritted my teeth at the mention of Jack and me and our house in relation to the Confederate diamonds as well as links to buy Marc’s book online. Mr. (or Ms.—it was impossible to know) Blackbeard asked intelligent questions and seemed genuinely interested in the history of the diamonds and even hypothesized about the credibility of the rumors surrounding the Sultan of Brunei.
My phone binged with a text from Yvonne. U up?
I almost laughed, imagining the elegant older lady texting in slang. We had first bonded over our mutual admiration of Jack Trenholm, but had recently discovered that we were both early risers. Or, in my case, late to bed due to stress-induced insomnia.
Yes.
Three dots appeared as she typed and I turned my attention back to my laptop while I waited. The phone binged again, but this time when I looked, dread seeped through me. It was the anonymous number from before, the number assigned to a nonexistent pay phone in the lobby of the College of Charleston residence hall where Adrienne had once lived. And died.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen, my mouth dry. I wanted to erase the message without reading. Pretend I hadn’t seen it. But that was something the old Melanie would have done. The old Melanie I wished I could still be at times. Like now. Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the text to read.
IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS
I stared at the screen. Texting with a ghost was a first for me, and while I was wondering if I should text back, another message appeared in a green bubble.
SHE DESERVED IT
With a shaking finger, I tapped each letter slowly. WHO?
My phone rang in my hand and I jumped, sending my phone skidding across the wood floor. General Lee gave a sleepy woof of complaint from the bed as I grappled for the phone to look at the screen. To my relief I saw it was Yvonne calling and slid my thumb to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Melanie, are you all right? You sound out of breath.”
“Fine,” I lied, my whole body vibrating with the heavy thumping of my heart. “I dropped my phone and had to find it—sorry.”
“No worries. I just had some information for you and I figured it was easier to call than to text. I know how you dislike reading on your phone. You really should try and enlarge the text size.”
“I have,” I muttered, unwilling to share that Nola had compared my text size to that used on Jumbotrons.
“Yes, well . . . Is Jack awake? You could put him on speaker and I can tell you both what I’ve found. It’s about that grave we were talking about.”
“He, uh, he’s sound asleep and I don’t want to wake him. Go ahead and tell me and I’ll fill him in when he awakens.”
“Or I could call back later.”
“No. Please. I couldn’t stand the suspense and I’d never get to sleep.”
She laughed. “Do you know if Jack has had a chance to study the Vanderhorst family tree yet?”
“Yes. He had time for only a cursory glance, but he didn’t find any Vanderhorsts—male or female—who died in 1861 or 1886 with the first initial of their name an E except for Emily, and we already discounted her. He said he’d dig a little deeper when he has the chance later tomorrow. His files are stored . . . off-site. Because of the filming going on around here, he wanted to keep them in a safe place.”
“Ah, very smart. I don’t trust that Marc Longo. He called and left a message at the reference desk here asking for an appointment. I told the other reference librarian that I would handle it.” I imagined I could see her impish grin.
When she didn’t say anything, I realized she was waiting for me to go first. “So, Yvonne, did you find anything?”
“Oh, yes!”
I pictured Yvonne with her breath held, waiting for me to prompt her, and for a moment I considered telling her I’d changed my mind and decided that I could wait. Instead, I said, “Since it’s four in the morning and we’re both on the phone, you might as well tell me what you found, don’t you think?”
I heard a slow exhalation of breath. “All right, then. Do you recall the name Captain John Vanderhorst?”
My fingers tapped impatiently on my drawn-up knees. “Yes. He was the man responsible for hiding the diamonds in the grandfather clock. He was killed in battle in 1863.”
“Very good!” I pictured her clapping her hands at my stellar recall. “I found a picture of a painting of him wearing his cavalry captain’s uniform—he was quite the handsome man. The painting belongs to the Charleston Museum, but it is no longer on display. You and Jack might want to try to acquire it since I believe it belongs in the house. . . .”
“I’ll put it on my to-do list. What else did you discover?”
“Well, since I couldn’t find any Vanderhorsts who fit our parameters, I spread my search a bit and began looking for the names of nonfamily people associated with the property around the time of the fire and the earthquake.”
When she didn’t say anything, I prompted, “And did you find anything?” Someone really needed to talk with Yvonne about her need for drama when relaying information.
“I did! During the time of the great fire in 1861, the Vanderhorsts had a cook. Well, they had other servants, too, but I thought because of the headstone’s proximity to the kitchen house, this would be the best place to start. . . .”