“I just wish Rebecca’s pregnancy wasn’t interfering with her ability to see things in her dreams. Her premonitions are almost worth having to claim her as a relative and be nice.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Jack said under his breath right before I heard the latch on the garden gate open.
“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”
Jack removed his arm from around me at the same moment I spotted Rebecca, turned out in her new signature mauve maternity coat and matching ankle boots and carrying two shopping bags with pink and white tulle spilling over the tops.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “I forgot she was coming over to discuss her baby shower.”
“That’s my signal to leave.” Jack stood and picked up both twins with record speed. “By the way”—he leaned down so he wouldn’t be overheard—“I enjoyed our kiss. I miss that, too.” Then he straightened and called out a brief greeting to Rebecca before heading back to the house in the opposite direction.
I picked up the red heart-shaped pillow when I stood, playing with the ruffle as I watched Rebecca approach, suddenly aware that the pillow was soaking wet. As if it had been immersed in water.
I looked back at Beau and our eyes met before he returned to his work, leaving me with no doubt as to who had placed the pillow in his truck. Or that Beau knew, too.
CHAPTER 21
I left the house early to meet Sophie in her new office at the Cigar Factory on East Bay, leaving enough time to find a parking spot and sit in my car listening to ABBA as loudly as my ears could take it. I needed at least twenty minutes of the latter before I was able to block out the black-and-white faces of the deceased factory workers who apparently still felt the need to show up for work each day, and pressed their faces against my car windows as if I were taking attendance.
Despite the extensive renovations that had transformed the old factory building into luxury lofts, restaurants, classrooms, and office space, I had to walk quickly and pass the brick walls, wood ceilings, and newly buffed floors with my head down if I hoped to get in and out before any more restless spirits noticed me.
Sophie’s door—covered with posters of rainbow-colored peace signs; “shop local” reminders; no fewer than three house-hugger bumper stickers (including one that read Historic Preservationists Make It Last Longer); and a ubiquitous anti-cruise-ship graphic—stood partially open. I gave a brief tap before entering.
Sophie stood from behind a cluttered desk to greet me. As usual when I first saw my friend, it took a moment to absorb her ensemble. If I’d had to guess, I’d have said her toddler, Skye, had done her hair—if judging only by the sheer number of multihued plastic barrettes that covered Sophie’s curly hair like confetti—and had also selected her outfit. She wore nineteen eighties–style overalls with rainbow suspenders à la Mork & Mindy and matching leg warmers pulled over the cuffs and up to her knees. I wasn’t surprised that her toes were swathed in rainbow knit that peeked out of her lime green Birkenstocks.
“Tenure,” Sophie reminded me as she answered my unasked question of how she was allowed to dress the way she did.
“Good morning, Mrs. Trenholm.”
In a corner of the room, Meghan Black straightened from a file cabinet she’d evidently been searching through, her pearls and cashmere cardigan standing out in marked contrast to Sophie’s outfit. Seeing the two of them together was a bit like watching the “before” and “after” of one of those “what not to wear” reality shows.
“Hello, Meghan. It’s good to see you again. Haven’t seen much of you since the filming at the house began.”
“I know. Dr. Wallen-Arasi has been keeping me busy researching brick mortars in the city and coming up with short-and long-term goals for brick walls that were previously ‘repaired,’?” she said, using air quotes around the last word. “People who didn’t know better used mortar with heavy concentrations of cement. That kind of mortar is too heavy for old bricks and will crack them. It’s really devastating to see.”
“I bet it is,” I said, attempting to sound enthusiastic.
“Mortar needs to be the sacrificial element, not the brick.” She smiled at Sophie. “We should put that on a bumper sticker.”
“Great idea.” Sophie appeared serious and actually made a note on a pad of paper. Returning to her seat behind the desk, Sophie said, “So, what did you want to give me for safekeeping?”
I reached into my tote and pulled out the Frozen Charlotte in her coffin, the strong aroma of smoke clinging to it like a shroud. I plunked it in the middle of Sophie’s desk on top of a folded newspaper. “This. Can you put it somewhere safe? Like behind a locked door.” I sent a glance toward Meghan. “It keeps turning up in odd places, and I don’t want it to get lost.”
I actually would have loved for it to get lost, but I couldn’t say that out loud in present company.
Sophie picked it up, studying it carefully as she turned it over in her hand. “You know,” she said, returning it to her desk and opening the lid, “this reminds me. The Gibbes Museum has a new exhibition running for the next few months that you might want to see.”
Sophie smiled at me with the same smile she used when thanking me for a gift card for a hair salon or nail appointment. It lacked the sincerity I was used to seeing from my friend. “It’s called ‘The Living Dead.’?”
Meghan slammed a file drawer behind me. “Ew—you mean the Victorian postmortem photography? There is no way I’m going to go see that. It’s photos of dead people propped up like they’re still alive. The stuff of nightmares.”