“I’ll tell him in the morning. He’s working right now and I don’t want to interrupt him, but I promise to update him later.”
I listened to the creak of the stairs as Nola returned to her room and I retrieved the Frozen Charlotte from the coffee table. I stood in the feeble light coming from the window, all of the unanswered questions swirling in my head like smoke. I clutched the metal coffin and started to walk out of the room, then stopped. I returned the coffin to where I’d picked it up, the pungent scent of burning wood heavy in the room. I left it on the table and exited, knowing that even if I did toss the Frozen Charlotte into the cistern, it wouldn’t remain there for long.
* * *
? ? ?
As Nola and I climbed the front steps of the Gibbes Museum of Art on Meeting Street, my phone buzzed with a text from Sophie. I stopped to read it.
Charlotte and her coffin are missing.
I handed my phone to Nola so I could dictate while she typed so we wouldn’t be stuck outside on the steps for another fifteen minutes while I struggled to text. “Tell her, ‘No, she’s not. She’s in my living room.’ And no emojis this time, please.”
Nola’s thumbs flew over the screen, and then she handed me my phone. “Too late,” she said with a grin.
I looked down at the string of scared-face emojis and a smiling purple devil. “Thanks,” I said, tossing the phone in my bag.
We climbed to the top of the three short flights of steps and across the black-and-white square tiles to the imposing front doors. I’d already bought online tickets to the upper-floor exhibits to save time. After showing the tickets at the visitor-services desk, I headed toward the elevators. “We have to move pretty fast.”
“But I’d really love to see the miniatures collection again. Did you know that this museum has the largest collection of miniatures in the country? I don’t have a lot of homework tonight, so no need to rush.”
I pushed the elevator button twice. “I have other reasons to go quickly.” I pressed the button again for good measure.
“Right.” Nola sent me a knowing look before walking past me to the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“To the third floor, where they have the special-exhibition galleries.”
“But the elevator is right here.”
She kept walking. “Taking the stairs is a good way to get in exercise throughout the day.” She held up her wrist with the purple fitness tracker Jayne had given her for Christmas. “I’ll wait for you at the top.” There might have been a sprinkle of sanctimonious piety in her voice as she began climbing the steps.
The doors of the elevator opened, forcing me to stare into its welcoming sanctuary. I let out an audible sigh before following Nola.
There were fewer people on the third floor, and it was quieter away from the busy lobby and the lecture rooms on the first level. Our footsteps on the bare wood floors seemed to invade the hushed atmosphere but didn’t completely hide the murmur of whispered voices that seemed to be getting louder as we approached gallery nine.
“I think this is it,” Nola said, looking up to read the bold black letters on the wall. “?‘The Living Dead. Charlestonians in the Victorian Age, 1837 through 1901.’?”
Only an older couple was in the room, halfway down the second row of vitrines on wooden pedestals that lined the four walls of the gallery.
I didn’t need to hear Nola’s confirmation. The swell of disjointed voices had grown louder, like a gathering wave leaking out of the glass cases.
Nola headed to the first one. “This is so cool.”
I walked slowly toward her, gritting my teeth while humming “Fernando.” The couple glanced over at me before returning their gazes to the display case in front of them. I hesitated, standing behind Nola and looking over her shoulder.
“There’s no picture in this one,” she said, moving aside so I could stand next to her. “Not all of the cases will contain postmortem photographs. I think the purpose is to just show the way people lived in Charleston during the Victorian era by showcasing their personal effects. You know, like how iPhones and Crocs will be displayed in one hundred years to showcase our lives. Or, in your case, spreadsheets.”
I sent her a sidelong glance before turning my attention to the displayed items. Inside lay a partially open gold brooch with a jet inlay; a silver brush, comb, and mirror set; and a crystal perfume bottle with an intact stopper, the bottom cloudy with dark orange liquid.
Nola made a face. “I think that brooch has hair inside it. It must be mourning jewelry.”
I didn’t need to read the sign on the case to tell that she was right. The specter of the old woman wearing heavy black widow’s weeds standing next to us told me Nola was right. After making sure there was nothing about the Vanderhorsts inside the case, I dragged Nola to the next one, which contained a gold pocket watch, a man’s silk embroidered waistcoat, and an engraved snuffbox. A framed sepia portrait of a middle-aged man sitting on a sofa and smoking a pipe sat amid the detritus of his life, the man identified by the plaque on the front of the case. Henry Pinckney Middleton. I didn’t have time to figure out any family connection, as I was aware of the growing number of dead Victorians now following our progress around the room.