Hollywood is coming to the Holy City! Thankfully, it’s not for a far-be-it-from-reality reality series but for a feature film from a major studio. Charleston native Marc Longo’s book, Lust, Greed, and Murder in the Holy City, hasn’t even hit bookstore shelves yet, but there’s so much buzz about this book that the rumor mill has reported that the movie rights went to auction for a cool seven figures.
I looked up at Jack, who was valiantly trying to keep his face expressionless. It had been his story first, before Marc had stolen it from him and rushed his own version of the story to publication before Jack even had a chance. The murder involved Marc’s family, giving him the inside scoop, but the bodies had been found in our garden. Jack had already written his own book about how we’d solved the mystery, and he’d signed a publishing deal. It just hadn’t been published before Marc got there first. We’d had a small victory when we were able to keep Marc from buying the house out from under us, but only because Nola had lent us the money. It was unfair, and humiliating, and something we’d learned to get past and forget about. Until now.
“Is this what your agent called you about the other day?”
He nodded. “Keep going. It gets better.”
I’ve heard from an anonymous source that the Vanderhorst house at 55 Tradd Street—the setting for the sordid story behind the book—will be used for filming, to give the movie an authentic flair and the all-important nod from the Charleston establishment. And, with the appearance of new yellow caution tape in the back of the property, who knows what else might be discovered and used for fodder for a sequel? The house is supposedly haunted, so this could get interesting. Boo! Stay tuned to this column for further updates.
My hand was shaking as I slid the paper back to Jack. “Well, those Hollywood people have another think coming if they think for one second I’m going to open up the door to my home to let them film a movie about a book my husband didn’t write. And the nerve of that reporter to assume that it will happen, without even asking us!”
Jack cleared his throat as if to remind me that Ms. Dorf had, indeed, tried to talk to me, but I ignored him. “Have you heard from Marc about this?” I drew back, horrified at the direction of my thoughts. “Or Rebecca? She forced us to give them an engagement party. Surely that doesn’t give them the right to assume . . .” I stopped when I caught sight of his expression. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re so sexy when you’re angry.”
I blinked a few times. “Stop distracting me. I—we—have every right to be angry. Why aren’t you taking this as seriously as I am?”
He reached over and took hold of my hand again. “Have you ever considered how long it’s going to take for us to get back on our feet financially and pay Nola back? She refuses to call it a loan, but I don’t think we’ve ever considered it anything else.”
I stared at him for a long moment, sure I misunderstood. “Jack, surely you can’t . . .” I was interrupted by my phone ringing. Jack stared at it, noticing the number without a name, then met my gaze. “Did you change your ring tone? I was kind of getting used to Mamma Mia.”
I shook my head as I hit the red button to end the call. “No. I have no idea where this ring tone came from. Or who’s calling. They’ve called a bunch of times, but I don’t recognize the number and they never leave a message—well, only once. They didn’t say anything—just a bunch of odd noises.” I gave an involuntary shudder, remembering the sound of prying wood and a tinny note vibrating in the empty air.
“Have you looked up the phone number?”
It was my turn to look confused. “Can you do that?”
He gave me a look that said he thought I might be joking, but he reached over and picked up my phone. “You can do a reverse lookup—just type in the number and . . .” He was silent for a moment as he punched numbers into the phone, then paused. “Oh.”
The waitress waited until that moment to deliver our food, and for the first time in a long while, I was less hungry and more interested in what Jack had to say. When she finally walked away, I said, “What is it?”
“Do you know a Caroline B. Pinckney?”
I thought hard for a moment, the smell of the food battling with my memory. I began chasing a grape across my plate, hoping that having food in my stomach might jog something loose.
Jack continued. “Do you happen to know Button Pinckney’s real name? Assuming Button was a nickname, of course. In Charleston, there’s no guarantee that an odd name isn’t the name appearing on the birth certificate. . . .”
I dropped the fork with which I’d been trying to stab a grape and met his eyes. “It was definitely Caroline,” I shouted. My voice sounded parched even though I’d just had half a glass of water. “Jayne said her name was Caroline.” I swallowed. “Why?”
“Because that phone number is registered to a Caroline B. Pinckney on South Battery Street.”
We continued to stare at each other for a long time, neither of us questioning the impossibility of a phone call from a dead person.
CHAPTER 9