CHAPTER 1 Snow in Charleston is as magical as it is rare, the icy white dusting on palm trees and church steeples, ancient statues and wrought iron fences transforming the Holy City into an enchanting snow globe. Snowmen sprouted like weeds in lawns and parks, and snow angels spread their wings on every flat spot of ground as children and adults alike ran outside to play in an exotic frosty playground. For nearly three days after the record-breaking snowstorm as the temperature began to rise, patches of white clung desperately to every surface, gradually shrinking as the world thawed, leaving only trickling eaves and slushy puddles as a reminder that they had ever been there at all. I watched it all from inside my house on Tradd Street, my heart seemingly as frozen as the icy stalactites dripping from the Pineapple Fountain in Waterfront Park. In less than a week''s time, my life had flipped itself upside down as if it had decided to accept the wintry invitation to glide on the ice without benefit of skates. Or any kind of padding that might soften the inevitable fall. I had somehow managed to go from being a very happily married mother of three to being a seemingly single mother with an estranged husband and a marriage as precarious as the melting ice. And all because I had made the simple mistake of breaking my promise to trust Jack enough to share everything with him.
To be a team in all things. Despite what everyone seemed to think, it wasn''t entirely my fault. Jack-a bestselling author of true-crime mysteries-and I had been working to solve the mystery of where a Revolutionary War treasure was hidden, before Jack''s nemesis, self-proclaimed author and all-around jerk Marc Longo, discovered it first. Marc had managed to steal Jack''s book idea about the disappearance of Louisa Gibbes, who''d once lived in our house on Tradd Street and been murdered by Marc''s ancestor Joseph Longo. Marc not only made the book an international bestseller but also scored a major movie deal. And then he somehow managed to manipulate us into allowing the movie to be filmed in our house. For Jack''s sake, I couldn''t let Marc win again. It wasn''t my fault that Jack had had a bad case of the flu at the same time I''d figured out that the treasure was buried in the cemetery at Gallen Hall Plantation-owned by Marc Longo''s brother, Anthony-and that I hadn''t had time for Jack to get better.
It wasn''t my fault that Marc and Anthony had anticipated my solving the mystery and were waiting for me to point the way to the hidden treasure. Nor was it my fault that my half sister, Jayne, had told Jack what I was up to and that he had then insisted on going to the cemetery. And it was definitely not my fault that he had happened to step on an old grave full of crumbling coffins that collapsed under him, nearly burying him alive. As far as I could tell, my only mistake was believing that Jack would be so happy that I''d found the treasure that he''d forgive me for everything else. But, as I''d discovered, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and it turns out that asking for forgiveness is not necessarily easier than asking for permission. I''d rushed through the snow-covered landscape of my Charleston neighborhood to tell Jack that I was sorry, that I''d made a mistake and wouldn''t let it happen again, and found him packing his bags. His response had been telling me good-bye, followed by a decisive snap of the front door as it closed in my face. For three weeks I didn''t leave the house, not wanting to be absent when Jack decided to return.
Friends and family came and went in various attempts to rouse me, to try to coax me outside with promises of doughnuts and coffee-neither of which seemed appealing to me anymore. Christmas passed almost as a nonevent. My stepdaughter, Nola, had outdone herself by going against her own dietary preferences and making my favorite gluten- and carb-filled desserts and other dishes that I''d done my best to pretend to eat. She and my twenty-one-month-old twins, JJ-for Jack Junior-and Sarah, saved the entire holiday by being the only bright spots of joy. Their nanny, Jayne, had bundled them up to take them to Jack''s parents'' house, where they would celebrate Christmas for the second time on the same day. Nola and the twins hadn''t seemed to be nearly as upset as I had been at the prospect of their opening more gifts without me there. Gifts that no doubt had been wrapped haphazardly instead of their every corner being measured for preciseness and each dab of tape being exactly the same size since apparently only their mother knew how important those kinds of things were. I''d even showered and washed my hair, with the dim hope that Jack would come himself to collect them, but then had had to bravely kiss the children good-bye.
My three dogs-General Lee, Porgy, and Bess-had whined and snuffled, brightening my mood until I realized that they were upset not on my behalf but because they''d wanted to go, too. Even after Christmas, when everyone was returning to work, my job as a Realtor with Henderson House Realty didn''t entice me enough to put on clothes and make my way to my office on Broad Street. It was slow this time of year anyway, and our receptionist, Jolly, promised to call me with anything important. Besides being a meticulous record keeper and notetaker (something I appreciated more than most), she was also a self-professed psychic whose predictions were either wildly inaccurate or eerily spot-on. She''d called only once, to let me know definitively-according to her-that ghosts didn''t leave footprints in the snow. I hadn''t had the heart to tell her that she was wrong. Now, almost three weeks into the New Year, I stood at one of the tall dining room windows that overlooked our Loutrel Briggs garden, which had been lovingly restored by my father. All of his painstaking work had been drastically undone by the previous spring''s torrential rainstorms, which had revealed an ancient cistern and exposed more than just old bricks.
If my entire demeanor and outlook on life hadn''t been as dark and empty as the bottom of the cistern, I''d probably have been hoping that the last of the restless spirits that had been awakened by its sudden exposure had quit the premises. After all, they were partially responsible for Jack''s leaving. But only partially. The rest of the blame lay elsewhere, although Jack and I apparently had opposing opinions as to exactly where. Pressing my forehead against the cold glass of the window, I watched with disinterest as small indentations began to appear in a line around what remained of the snow atop the blue tarp, protected from the sun by the ancient oak tree. The occasional bare peak of blue canvas made me think of the protruding elbows of frozen swimmers. I blinked, recognizing the clear marks of the heel and toe of a small booted foot creating a path through the garden. I straightened when I realized the footprints had stopped directly in front of the window where I stood.
"Mellie?" I jumped, something I rarely did, and spun around with my hand on my throat. For most of my forty-one years, I''d been visited by the dearly departed, but I''d always found them more annoying than frightening. Especially the ones who seemed to enjoy appearing behind me in mirrors or materializing on stair landings before rudely shoving me. At some point, I would need to have a discussion with them about manners. Jayne stood behind me, holding a bag that smelled suspiciously like doughnuts. In her other hand she held a mug from the kitchen, with steam rising from the surface, its light brown color telling me that she''d added just the right amount of cream. We''d known each other for only about a year, but long enough to know we both liked our coffee with lots of cream and even more sugar, that she was more athletic than I was, that she hated the dark for the same reason I did, and that we''d both inherited from our mother the ability to communicate with the dead. She was looking beyond me toward the garden and the single set of footprints.
"Who is that?" she asked quietly, as if not wanting to alert whoever or whatever it was that we were there. But she was too late. The hairs on the back of my neck and along my arms were already standing at attention. I suddenly recalled the most recent column written by Post and Courier journalist Suzy Dorf. the cistern excavation at the former Vanderhorst residence on Tradd Street is still in progress, but an unnamed source has told me that there are more secrets hidden there, and there are bets going on in certain parts of our society on whether the owners of the house will be residing together in the home by the time the last treasure is revealed. I deliberately turned my back to the window. "I have no idea, and no intention of finding out. I''m done with all that.
" "But what about your friend Veronica? You promised to help her find out who murdered her sister. We''re supposed to work together, remember? Not to mention that Veronica''s counting on you. Especially now that her husband is pressing to sell their family home. Adrienne''s still there-you''ve felt her presence. And we both know that if they move out, you''ll lose the best chance of finding her killer." I stared back at her for a moment before nodding slowly. "And I imagine that you won''t let me forget about it anytime soon." "Nope.
" She stood next to.