“Veronica, this is my daughter, Melanie Trenholm. Melanie, this is Veronica Farrell. I believe you’ve met her daughter.”
I stared at her with confusion, trying to place the name and the face. “I’m sorry . . .”
“My daughter is Lindsey. She’s a friend of your stepdaughter, Nola, and they’re in the same year at Ashley Hall.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said, recalling the girl Nola had brought home. The girl with the Ouija board. There was something else about Lindsey that I had meant to remember but had forgotten. I wish I’d thought to weigh my brain before and after childbirth so I’d have proof that one loses a substantial amount of brain matter with each child.
A small smile lifted her lips and brought a lightness to her pale face. “And I know you from USC. We were in an art history class and worked on a project together.”
That was it. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead. “Oh, yes. Lindsey mentioned that to me. I’m afraid that I don’t remember much about my college years. I think I’ve deliberately tried to repress those memories so I won’t remember how lonely and socially awkward I was.”
She smiled fully now and I saw the resemblance she had to her daughter, despite their different coloring, their delicate, almost fragile bones, their high cheekbones and straight eyebrows. “Patrician” is the word I would have used. I did remember her now, albeit vaguely, and remembered why I’d probably dismissed her from my thoughts as soon as we received our grade on our project. She’d been one of those girls inordinately close with her family. Her mother or sister always called when we were working together, and instead of letting the phone ring she’d answer it, then spend precious work time recounting whatever it had been that had occupied their conversation. I’d found it tedious, although now I could probably admit that in my lonely, parentless state I’d been jealous.
“We got an A if I remember correctly,” I said with a smile, as if that might make up for a semester of being dismissive and aloof.
“We did. And well-deserved. You were so committed to getting good grades and it really got me involved. I remember you were very organized, and that was a good influence for me. I think that semester was my highest GPA of my entire college career.” Her smile faltered. “My sister visited me while we were working on it. She was staying in my dorm room, trying to decide between USC and the College of Charleston. You met her.”
It seemed important to Veronica that I remember. I frowned, trying to sort through my memories like sifting flour and seeing what got stuck. But nothing did. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. Although I do recall that you were close—talking on the phone a lot. Are you still close?”
A shadow fell over her face and I could hear her swallow. I became aware of the scent of a perfume that seemed oddly familiar. The only thing I was sure of was that neither one of my companions was wearing it or I’d have noticed it earlier. I watched as a halo of light appeared and surrounded Veronica, the scent of the odd perfume even more pronounced as the light undulated behind her. My eyes moved to the gilded mirror above a sideboard across the room, revealing the reflection of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, her hand on Veronica’s shoulder, her black-eyed gaze staring directly back at me. I felt relief first—relief that I could still see spirits. And then surprise that whoever this was had been waiting for me.
“She died,” Veronica said flatly, as if she was used to keeping the emotion out of her voice when speaking about her sister. “She was murdered her freshman year at the College of Charleston. They never found out who did it.”
The light behind her brightened to a clear white, then vanished along with the scent of perfume.
“That’s why Veronica came to see me this morning,” my mother said gently. “Detective Riley gave her my name and phone number with my permission, hoping that I might be able to help.”
I stood to leave. “Since you’re obviously not done, I think I’ll go walking by myself this morning.”
My mother put her bare hand on my arm. “Stay, Mellie. I wouldn’t normally ask you to get involved with one of my clients, but because you already have a connection with Veronica, and have met her sister, Adrienne, I think you can help.”
I gave my mother a look that I hoped she interpreted as “wait until I get you alone” and resumed my seat. “I’m not sure how I can help. . . .” I got a whiff of the perfume again, recognizing it as the one I wore in college. Vanilla Musk by Coty. It was very popular in the late nineties when Adrienne would have been a freshman.