I walked through the wrought iron gates of the park that faced Broad Street, eager to find a bench and use the fifteen minutes before our meeting to eat my second doughnut and drink my coffee in peace. But as I strolled down the brick walkway in the direction of the miniature replica of the Washington Monument in the center of the park, my heart fell at the sight of the pert and perky form of Suzy Dorf sitting on a bench beneath one of the matronly oak trees. A heavy swath of Spanish moss hung from a thick branch directly over her head, temporarily blocking me from her view.
I changed my direction and ducked behind the pedestal holding the statue of George Washington while I tried to decide whether to eat my doughnut there or risk finding another bench.
“Melanie—I’m over here!” Her unmistakable voice was as perky as the rest of her, and I stifled a groan as I straightened.
Pretending surprise, I waved and made my way toward Suzy. “Good morning,” I said. “I never have a chance to read the plaques on these statues. So interesting.”
Her look made it clear I wasn’t fooling anyone. “Good morning, Melanie.” She tilted her head. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d come.”
I sat down next to her, noticing how her toes barely brushed the ground. “Really? Why is that?”
With raised eyebrows, she said, “Are you really asking me that? Maybe the constant avoidance of my phone calls made me think you didn’t want to talk to me. Even though you owe me an interview.”
“I know, I know. And I’m sorry. It’s just that with three kids, a house, a job—”
“Stop.” She held up her hand. “I know. And with Marc Longo practically living in your house and directing the film. I keep waiting to get the call to write about the homicide.”
“Really, Suzy. Marc’s pretty awful and underhanded, but I can’t imagine him committing murder.”
“It’s not him that I’m worried about.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well, even after he’s dead, there’s no guarantee that he won’t bother me anymore. Assuming I’m able to talk to the dead.”
Suzy turned a hard gaze on me. “Right. Assuming.”
I didn’t blink. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
She let out a long, satisfied sigh. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. As I’ve mentioned before, and assuming that you are a conduit to the dead, I’d like to interview you about your abilities, as well as witness you”—she made a vague gesture with her hand—“doing your thing with ghosts. My goal is to write a series for the paper or put it in a book. Or both. I’ve already started on the book—about fascinating Charleston residents past and present—and as I’ve already told you, I think you’d be a pivotal figure because you can be the bridge between them.”
I was careful not to give her any indication that I’d heard what she’d said or agreed to any of it. I bit my bottom lip, carefully considering my words. “You once told me that you’re not a fan of Marc Longo. That he bankrupted your brother in a sour business deal.”
Her gaze didn’t stray from my face. “Yes. That’s all correct. It’s why I’ve helped you several times, despite your unwillingness to return my phone calls. He did more than bankrupt Kenny. He destroyed him. Kenny spent two years in a psychiatric institution and is still trying to put his life back together.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I looked down at my crumpled doughnut bag. “My ‘abilities,’ as you call them, aren’t something I’ve ever wanted to advertise or even make use of. But that could change. Marc has backed us into a corner and I’m willing to do anything to get him out of our lives.”
Suzy raised her pixielike chin. “I think we could work together. We have a common goal. I could help you send Marc running with his tail between his legs, and then I get to ‘out’ you in my book. The pen is mightier than the sword, right? I could really mess with Marc with just a few well-placed columns.” She tilted her head. “Except I’m assuming that you’ve made some sort of devil’s deal with Marc to allow him to film in your house, so sending him running might be complicated. And with all the online chatter about there being a missing half of the Hope Diamond that might be connected to your cache, I can only imagine that’s the main reason why Marc has insinuated himself into your house, to have a closer look.”
I returned her gaze, recalling how she’d once told me that she’d seen Jack in a bar, apparently bargaining with his demons before ordering a ginger ale. Despite our somewhat cantankerous relationship, her warning had been offered with concern instead of the malicious gloating I would have expected. Nor had she publicized what could have been a humiliation that Jack couldn’t have afforded. Her kindness had surprised me, had even altered my perception of her, and was the main reason why I’d finally agreed to meet with her.
“Possibly,” I said, my reluctance to admit the full extent of our deal due more to embarrassment at our gullibility than uncertainty as to whether or not to trust her. “We made the mistake of believing that Marc had changed along with his hair, and he and Rebecca appealed to us because we’re ‘family’—distantly and only by marriage, thank God.”
“So what happened?” she asked gently. When I didn’t respond right away, she said, “My brother tried to kill himself after Marc was through with him. It’s taken him nearly five years to get his life back on track. Believe me when I say that I will do everything in my power to bring Marc Longo down to his knees.” She shrugged. “Besides, I like you. I like your family and the way you’ve made the Vanderhorst house a home even though I know you’re not a fan of old houses. Maybe it’s your sense of doing the right thing that I admire. I know Nevin Vanderhorst would approve.”
“You knew him?”