The Strangers on Montagu Street (30 page)
Read The Strangers on Montagu Street Online
Authors: Karen White
Tags: #Romance, #Psychological, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Jack picked up his wrap again. “Did she mention the last name? Rick sounds pretty familiar—like I might have come across it while researching Bonnie.”
“Yeah, it’s Chase. Do you want me to ask her more about him?”
“No. I don’t want Nola to think that I’m prying, especially if he’s only who he says he is. I just want to make sure.”
I nodded again, my attention now focused on two guys wearing College of Charleston T-shirts and throwing a yellow Frisbee. “Does ‘my daughter’s eyes’ mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
I shrugged, then dug into the bag for the first brownie. “I sort of spoke with Bonnie—while I was with Sophie at the bridal shop. It’s a long story, and the words weren’t directly from her, but basically she told me to look for ‘my daughter’s eyes.’ I have no idea what she meant.”
Jack chewed thoughtfully for a long moment while slowly rolling one of the paper bags into a ball. “I don’t have a clue. Did you ask Nola?”
“Not yet. She’s still so prickly about her mother that I really have to search hard for the right time to spring something like that on her. Stop by Ruth’s Bakery on your way home to drop me off and I’ll bring home her favorite doughnuts. Bribery couldn’t hurt.”
“Doughnuts? Nola?”
“Yep. Don’t ask me how I know, but I have my ways.”
Jack leered at me. “I know.”
My cheeks warmed, and I concentrated on digging into the bag for my second brownie. “We need to find out more about the Manigault family. I was right about Julia having ulterior motives. When I asked her what she really wanted she said she just wants to speak with William, but there’s something more there. She claims that ‘stop her’ doesn’t mean anything to her, but she’s afraid of something—of William, I think.” I took a bite of brownie. “And we need to find out more about her fiancé, too. She said his first name was Jonathan. Do you think we need the last name, too?”
“‘We’? I like the way you assume we’re a package deal in all this.” He smirked. “As for getting the information we need, with Yvonne, all things are possible.”
I took a sip of my drink so I didn’t have to say anything. He gave me his Jack smile and I forced myself not to look away.
“You should wear that color more often, Mellie.”
I looked down at my Anne Fontaine blouse. “White?”
“No. Pink. Like the color of your cheeks.”
I made a concentrated effort to focus on my brownie. “It’s because I’m hot,” I said finally. “I walked a lot today.”
“Uh-huh.” He slipped his sunglasses in his shirt pocket. “So, what did you want to talk with me about—besides Bonnie and Miss Julia?”
I met his eyes and steeled myself so that I wouldn’t notice how very blue they were. “We’re friends, right?”
He raised an eyebrow.
I took a deep breath. “I just . . . well, I . . .” I stopped and took another breath, totally unprepared for this kind of conversation. I’d had them before, but I was always the bug under the magnifying glass, and Sophie was the one holding it. “Look, are you all right?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Do you think I’m sick or something?”
I let the words fall out of my mouth before I could pull them back. “Are you drinking again?”
He wore the expression of a man who’d just been punched in the gut. Hard. With measured precision, he said, “Why are you asking?”
“You’re just . . . you’re not yourself. I know you’re having problems with your publisher right now, and I know that can’t be easy. Your career is important to you—like mine is to me—and it must be frustrating not knowing what’s going on.”
“Did your dad put you up to this?”
I shook my head. “Not exactly. My mom and Nola, too. We’ve all noticed it. They thought that since you and I, well . . .” I couldn’t think of what to call us, so I just kept going, hoping he didn’t notice I wasn’t filling in the blanks. “And you look so tired and preoccupied every time I see you. I just wanted to know whether you were all right. If things were getting to be too much for you so that you were tempted . . .” I stopped, his expression scaring me. Not that I would ever think he’d physically hurt me, but I knew his words could create permanent wounds.
He leaned toward me so that I could see my reflection in the dark blue of his eyes. “And what would you do if I said I wasn’t all right? Would you sleep with me if I said it would make me feel better?”
It was like I’d been plunged into a deep pool of warm, warm water, dunked so suddenly that my lungs filled, making it impossible for me to speak.
With jerky movements, he began to throw all of our garbage into the remaining bag, ripping off the handle. He tossed the half-eaten brownie into the bag, but I couldn’t bring myself to protest.
I stood and brought my shoulders back. I barely recognized my voice when I found the air to push out the words. “You didn’t answer my question, Jack. Are you drinking again?”
He walked to a nearby garbage can and stuffed the bags inside before turning back to me. I’d never seen him this angry before, but the subject was too important to let it drop. Or to think about the consequences.
I had to force myself not to take a step backward. He stood directly in front of me, close enough that I could smell the soft scent of his cologne. “And you didn’t answer my question, either.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, but I didn’t look away. “You first.”
His eyes smoldered with anger. Very slowly and deliberately, he said, “As I believe I’ve mentioned more than once, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He spun around and began stalking away.
“Where are you going?”
“Not to a bar, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That’s not what I was thinking,” I said, jogging after him, feeling like I’d just made a permanent mistake, but not quite understanding what it was. “I’m sorry, Jack, if I said the wrong thing. I’m worried about you.”
He kept walking.
“Jack, please!” I was embarrassed to find that I was close to tears and I still had no idea why.
Without looking back at me he said, “What?”
I was winded, and emotionally exhausted, and all my explanations of why I was worried about him and how I only wanted to help shriveled in the heat and humidity. Regardless of what I said, he’d made up his mind.
There’s a lot you don’t know about me
.
There’s a lot you don’t know about me
.
With resignation, I said, “I was wondering if you could drive me back to my office.”
He stopped so suddenly that I almost ran into him. “Always so practical, Mellie. Here.” He dug into the pocket of his khakis. “I’ll pick the car up at your house later. Leave it on the curb and lock the doors. I have another set of keys.”
It took me a moment to register that he’d placed his car keys in my hand. “But I don’t know how to drive a stick shift. . . .”
“Try something new for a change. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
I held up the keys again to protest, feeling like I’d lost something I hadn’t known I’d had in the first place, but he’d already walked away.
I parked four blocks away from my mother’s house, because I needed two spots together to be able to maneuver Jack’s car into a parallel parking space. After much trial and error and an emergency phone call to my father to talk me through the rudiments of a manual transmission, I’d managed to get the car into second gear and left it there, coasting through stop signs and lights so I wouldn’t have to stop and start again. The engine was making a funny grinding noise by the time I thankfully pulled up the emergency brake, but I didn’t care.
Mrs. Houlihan and General Lee were in the kitchen, the smell of barbecued meat loaf wafting to my nostrils. I was about to remind her about Nola’s dietary restrictions before remembering that Nola was with her grandparents all weekend, and did a little fist pump in the air at the thought of three whole days of meat and preservative-rich delicacies. The housekeeper slapped my hand as I pinched off a corner of her buttery sweet corn bread. “Save something for your daddy and mama—they’ll both be here for supper.”
I looked at the clock on the microwave. “What time will the food be ready?”
“About six—but it’ll be later if I can’t get some peace and quiet in this kitchen.”
General Lee tugged at his leash, which hung on a peg by the back door, his eyes pleading. Even without psychic powers, I knew what he was saying. “I’m going to take the dog for a walk so we’ll both be out of your way.”
I clipped the leash on General Lee’s collar and allowed him to pull me through the back door. I knew better than to force him to go where I wanted to; he was adept at locking all four legs if his desire to lead was questioned. I’d tried dragging him down the sidewalk with locked legs before, but apparently Charleston had a lot of dog-loving residents, and judging by the looks I’d received I realized it was just a lot less stressful to let General Lee take charge.
Today he led me north on Legare toward Broad Street, took a right on Queen and then a left on Meeting. I should have been paying more attention, but I was too busy rewinding my conversation with Jack, and going over in my head the unspoken answers to both questions. When General Lee finally stopped, I almost tripped over him, then let out a groan when I saw where his ramblings had led us.
We were in front of the ancient cemetery adjacent to the Circular Congressional Church on Meeting Street. He stared up at the sign on the gate as if he could read it. ESTABLISHED 1681. ALL VISITORS ARE WELCOME WHEN GATES ARE UNLOCKED. Then he looked at me.
“No, sir,” I said. “I don’t do cemeteries. Especially not this one.” The church had been burned and rebuilt at least once, and tombstones and bodies moved as part of the new construction, not necessarily together—which was never a good idea. Apparently the displaced residents sometimes let their displeasure be known during Sunday services inside the church. Imagine the spirits’ excitement if they knew I was there. I looked down at my dog, whose pink tongue was hanging out in a display of canine cuteness. “And I’m sure they don’t welcome dogs, even if it doesn’t say so on the sign.”
As if he hadn’t understood a word—or had and didn’t care—General Lee bolted inside the gate, nearly taking my arm out of the socket, yanking the leash from my hand. In all of my years of seeing dead people, there was one sure thing I’d learned: They expected respect when someone was visiting them in their place of rest and got very agitated when visitors traipsed over graves like they were at a playground. That’s why if I did venture into a cemetery I never stepped on the ground between a headstone and footstone, spoke quietly, and I most definitely did not allow my dog to run amok over the antiquated graves of the dearly departed.
“General Lee!” I shouted, startling a middle-aged woman and her teenage daughter who were taking pictures of tombstones with an old-fashioned Polaroid camera and reading inscriptions. I’d heard that some amateur ghost hunters thought that Polaroids captured ghostly images better than digital cameras. I had no idea, as I’d never needed any camera to see what wasn’t there. I turned back to where General Lee had run, already hearing the murmur of conversation as those seeking a voice into the world of the living became aware of my presence.
I started humming “Mamma Mia” to ignore the sound as the little fur ball bolted past the mother and daughter and into the back corner of the cemetery, an older section where it was hard to distinguish what was grave and what was a stepping path in the jumble of cracked marble and missing headstones. Circling a large brick mausoleum with a gray granite plaque on the side, he let out a bark. I started to shush him, but stopped as he took off again to the other side of the mausoleum, following the transparent tail of a bushy dog as it disappeared around the corner.
I was about to start chasing him again when my gaze was caught by the skull-and-wings engraving on the plaque on the mausoleum, right above the name chiseled in large block lettering: MANIGAULT.
I stopped to scan the list of names dating back several generations to before the American Revolution. Inscribed near the top were the names Harold Wentworth Manigault and his wife, Anne. She’d died in 1939, and her husband the same year. Julia’s name and date of birth were there below theirs, along with a hyphen preceding a blank space, presumably for her date of death. But, even though there was room, Julia’s brother, William, wasn’t listed below or above Julia’s name, or anywhere else on the plaque. It was as if he’d been forgotten entirely.
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