Jayne’s eyes widened hopefully. “No—we haven’t had a chance. I know I saw an old turquoise phone on the wall in the kitchen.” She began walking excitedly to the kitchen, as if the thought of having an intruder in the house making phone calls to my cell was much more palatable—and conceivable—than any other explanation.
We followed her into the kitchen and watched as she picked the handset from the wall and held it to her ear. Her eyes closed briefly before she shook her head, then slowly hung up the phone. “It’s dead,” she said.
That’s not the only thing, I thought, but kept my mouth closed. She’d made her decision about keeping the house—for now—and I didn’t want to muddy the waters. Whatever was here could be dealt with or just ignored, depending on how persistent it became. I hoped without Jayne being any the wiser.
Thomas leaned against a kitchen counter, then immediately straightened and brushed at his sleeves as he noticed the dust coating the kitchen table and chairs. “I’ll double-check to see if the number’s been reassigned and who it’s been reassigned to. If it hasn’t, well, things get a little more complicated.” He didn’t look at me, but I could tell he wanted to. Instead he tilted his head slightly to regard Jayne. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”
“Positive,” Jayne said with a smile. “Because I’m pretty sure I would have remembered meeting you.” Her cheeks pinkened as she seemed to notice for the first time that he was an attractive male and not just a police detective. “I mean, well, you’re a detective. And tall. With clean fingernails. And I like your shirt.”
I rolled my eyes behind her back and tugged on her elbow to get her to stop. She was worse than I’d been when I met Jack. I’d also sounded like a teenager who’d never been on a date before. Which was actually pretty accurate at the time. I supposed that was something else Jayne and I had in common—lonely childhoods that didn’t leave a lot of room for a social life or relationships of any kind.
“Thank you,” Thomas said with a smile in his voice. “My oldest sister bought me this shirt for my birthday. I’ll let her know that I received a compliment on it today.”
Jayne was saved from spouting more infantile gibberish by the distinct sound of a ringing bell. She looked at me in surprise. “I thought the servants’ bells didn’t work.”
“I thought so, too,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I guess we were wrong.” We turned back to the kitchen.
“They’re over here,” Jayne said as she walked into the butler’s pantry, its glass-covered cabinets full of crystal and china and what looked like a salt-and-pepper-shaker collection. I peered closely at what appeared to be a peanut-shaped ceramic saltshaker with the word “Georgia” painted on its side. I had a sinking feeling that there was a set from all fifty states. I’d have to get Amelia in here to see what was in these cabinets and the rest of the house and let Jayne know whether any of it was valuable. I hoped for Jayne’s sake that the china was rare and expensive so she’d have an excuse to sell it and not keep it out of obligation to Button Pinckney. The china was covered in pink roses, with gold-covered scalloped edges. Definitely old, and definitely European. And definitely hideous. I assumed all the Pinckneys had been very slim, since eating off those plates must have diminished appetites.
Jayne pointed to a metal box with a single bell. “That must have been what made the noise.”
“I don’t think so,” Thomas said, using his height to full advantage and getting a closer look. “There’s no hammer anymore—or it rusted away. But this dog won’t hunt, that’s for sure.”
I found it odd that nobody asked the obvious question: Then how did the bell ring?
After an awkward pause, Jayne said, “It must have been the doorbell,” and began marching toward the front door, Thomas and me dutifully following. She opened it and swung the door wide, then stepped out onto the front landing as if to make sure nobody was hiding. Turning around, she pressed her finger into the old doorbell button, her effort rewarded by silence.
“Actually, Jayne,” I said, “most doorbells in these old houses rarely operate because of the high humidity and salt in the air.”
She walked into the foyer and slowly closed the door. Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “It must have been a bike from outside, then. So many people on bikes in Charleston, I noticed. I’ll have to get one.”
A flash of white from the landing flitted across my peripheral vision, but I dared not turn my head. I became aware of my second sight being blocked again, like a hand being held over my eyes, allowing me to see only what it thought I should.
A loud thump and then the sound of scurrying little feet tumbled downstairs. “Help me!” It was the doll’s voice, high-pitched and strident, the words seeming to echo in the otherwise silent house. Jayne and I turned around in time to see the black cat race across the landing and disappear up the stairs.