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It wasn’t the first time a ghost had come to me seeking justice, but a murdered child was an entirely different level of horror. Who would have done such a thing to that little girl? And how could I uncover a killer when I didn’t even know the identity of the victim?
I touched a finger to the window. It was cool from the night air and nothing more. The temperature inside the restaurant was pleasant, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I reached for my sweater, draping it over my shoulders and clutching it to my chest as I searched the garden for the specter. She was gone, melted back into the shadows of the dead world.
I picked up my tea and then set down the cup with a clatter when I realized someone had approached the table. I assumed Temple had returned and arranged my expression so as not to give away my distress. But when I glanced up, another shock rolled through me and my fingers tightened reflexively around Rose’s key.
The woman who stood over me was a stranger, but I knew her name, knew her face, knew that smile tugging at her ruby lips as she stared down at me. I knew the sound of her voice even though we’d never spoken. She was Claire Bellefontaine, Devlin’s fiancée.
Even if I’d never seen her in person, I would have recognized her from the engagement photo that had run in the paper. A photo that I had regarded far longer and far more often than I should have, truth be told. But I had seen her in person and recently.
Only a few weeks ago I’d been walking back to my car on Tradd Street when the lights of an oncoming vehicle had startled me into a recessed doorway. From my hiding place, I had observed first Devlin and then Claire Bellefontaine enter a shadowy courtyard. Their clandestine behavior had seemed peculiar to me and I became convinced the shrouded carriage house beyond the courtyard was, in fact, the inner sanctum of the powerful and deadly Congé.
I had no proof, of course, but I trusted my instincts and by then Dr. Shaw had informed me of the infamous list and had warned me of the Devlins’ connection to the nefarious group. If Claire Bellefontaine was also involved, I now found myself in the presence of a very dangerous and cunning enemy.
Before either of us spoke, two thoughts ran simultaneously through my head. One: no matter that I still reeled from the shock of the ghost child’s revelation, I couldn’t give myself away to the woman standing over me. Two: now that I had the opportunity to observe her up close, she was far more attractive than I could have ever imagined. Easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever encountered. A cool, ethereal blonde. The physical opposite of Devlin’s late wife, Mariama, a fiery Gullah temptress. I didn’t like to think where I fell on that spectrum.
Claire’s silvery-gold hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, highlighting her near-perfect bone structure. Her eyes were blue, her lips full and her skin tanned and flawless. She wore a simple white sheath, exquisitely cut and adorned with a single gold chain.
“Please forgive the intrusion,” she said in a cultured drawl that reminded me of Devlin’s, but the tentative note in her voice took me aback.
“Yes?” My heart fluttered a warning as another thought came to me. Had she seen me with Devlin in the alcove? Nothing had happened but a cordial conversation, so why did I suddenly feel like the other woman? The role didn’t sit well with me and I tried to shake off the lingering effects of that brief encounter.
Her fingers curled around the back of Temple’s chair. I couldn’t help but note that her nails were clipped short and perfectly manicured. I didn’t see a ring on her finger and hated myself for looking.
“We’ve never met, but I know you by reputation. I’m Claire Bellefontaine.” She extended her hand and I could do nothing but offer mine in return. Her grip was appropriately firm and she didn’t linger awkwardly as if to prove a point, yet I felt an intense relief the moment she released me.
I dropped my hand to my lap and threaded my fingers together. “Amelia Gray.”
She smiled. “Yes, I know who you are. As I said, your reputation precedes you.”
Surely she hadn’t come over to my table to make a scene, so why was she here?
“I’m on the board that administers the Woodbine Cemetery Trust,” she said. “I wanted to tell you in person how happy we are that you’ll be overseeing the restoration.”
She couldn’t have caught me more by surprise, but I managed a courteous reply.
“Other firms were recommended, but your work speaks for itself,” she went on. “And of course, you have an ardent admirer in Rupert Shaw. He’s an acquaintance of yours, I believe.”
“We’re friends, yes, but I had no idea he was involved in the Woodbine project.” Yet more alarm bells sounded. Why hadn’t Dr. Shaw told me earlier about his involvement? Why had he pretended to know so little about the cemetery? I supposed it was possible that he could serve on the board and still be uninformed about the day-to-day details, but why not at least mention his recommendation?
Claire’s expression remained guileless, but something hard lurked beneath that cool surface. “Perhaps he didn’t want you to think that he had influenced the outcome. But I assure you that despite his wholehearted endorsement, the board would never have awarded you the contract if we hadn’t been unanimously impressed by your résumé and portfolio.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s all I wanted to say. I won’t keep you any longer.” She produced a card from her bag and placed it on the table. “I know you already have a contact on the board, but if you ever have a question or problem that can’t be resolved to your satisfaction, please feel free to call me. This project means a great deal to me. You see, I have family in Woodbine.”
“I understand.” She had family in Woodbine? In one of the unnamed graves?
“Good night, Miss Gray.”
“Good night.”
She walked away, trailing the faintest scent of sandalwood and privilege. The other diners watched her. Men and women alike. Her beauty and charisma were palpable. What a magnetic couple she and Devlin must make.
I picked up her card. The stock was thick and creamy. Expensive and understated. Claire Bellefontaine. Attorney at Law.
The restaurant had grown cold again. I thought perhaps my suspicions regarding Devlin’s fiancée had chilled me. It wasn’t every day I found myself in such close quarters with a possible member of the Congé, someone whose mission it was to stamp out unnaturals like me.
But the frost was otherworldly. I turned to the garden, startled to find the ghost child hovering directly outside the window, so close I could have touched her cold face if not for the glass between us. I could see her features clearly now, could sense her powerful emotions. Her pale hands were clenched at her sides and as I sat there riveted by her nearness, her mouth dropped open and she emitted a piercing howl. The inhuman sound was so ear-splittingly shrill that I thought the window might shatter.
I resisted the urge to cover my ears, but the sound sliced like a blade through my nerve endings. The pain became so intense I felt physically ill. I glanced around at the nearest diners. How could they not hear that scream? How could they remain impervious to such bone-chilling rage?
She remained right outside the window, but she wasn’t looking in at me, I realized. Her anger was directed elsewhere. When I followed her icy gaze to the front of the restaurant, I saw that she was staring at Claire Bellefontaine.
And Claire Bellefontaine stared back at me.
Eight (#ub0e52320-9b52-50ae-8f54-f926e647d306)
I said good-night to Temple and left the restaurant alone. She didn’t seem to mind. She headed off to the bar for another drink and I suspected she’d already made plans with Rance Duvall. I didn’t like the idea, but there was nothing I could do about it. Temple had a mind of her own and even if I could have offered a cogent argument for staying away from Duvall, she wouldn’t have listened to me. I comforted myself with the reminder that she’d always been a savvy judge of character and could take care of herself. Right now I had other issues to worry about.
My head swirled with everything the ghost child had revealed to me in the garden. The sound of her scream still echoed in my ears. As stunned as I’d been by that dreadful howl, an even greater shock came with the realization that the ghost’s focus had been trained on Claire Bellefontaine. What was their connection?
Claire’s attention had been directed at me, but something in her frozen expression made me wonder if she’d seen or heard the apparition for herself. Or had at least sensed a supernatural presence. Dr. Shaw had once told me that he believed many of the Congé were sensitive to the other world, thus making them adept at ferreting out the unnatural. Had she read something on my face or in my eyes that aroused her suspicions? Or—an even darker thought—had Devlin told her about me? Had he confided his own suspicions regarding my gift?
Whatever the case, the encounter had left me trembling and dazed. Her involvement with Woodbine Cemetery couldn’t be a coincidence and I had to wonder why Dr. Shaw, knowing what he knew of my gift, knowing what he knew of the Congé, hadn’t at least warned me about her. Instead, according to Claire, he’d recommended me for the job and until I had a chance to speak with him again, I could only speculate as to his motive. Surely it would have been best for everyone if I’d stayed far away from Devlin’s fiancée.
I turned on Queen Street, walking all the way over to Rutledge Avenue. It was still early and the streets buzzed with traffic. I passed any number of pedestrians on my way home, mostly tourists and a few students from nearby UMSC. Despite my uneasiness over the evening’s events, I wasn’t frightened. I had my phone and pepper spray handy. Even so, I kept a watchful eye on my surroundings as my mind continued to spin.
Not surprisingly, my thoughts eventually turned back to Devlin, as they almost always did. Why couldn’t I move on? Why couldn’t I accept once and for all that he was gone from my life and was never coming back? I didn’t want to think of myself as a woman who pined. I’d been alone for most of my life. I knew how to endure, even to flourish, on my own so why couldn’t I forget him?
Maybe Temple was right. I’d created a dangerous fairy tale around him, one that kept me clinging to the past. He was my one and only serious love affair, so instead of facing the reality of our breakup, I’d allowed myself a bittersweet hope that his departure had somehow been a noble gesture. I’d convinced myself that because of his reluctant involvement with the Congé, he’d distanced himself in order to protect me. Why else would he have found a way to warn me of the danger I’d faced in Seven Gates Cemetery? I told myself that no matter his association with that deadly faction, no matter his engagement to Claire Bellefontaine, he still cared for me.
My thoughts continued to churn as I turned right on Rutledge Avenue. The palm trees lining Colonial Lake cast long shadows across the moonlit surface. The water looked eerie and mysterious, and as I hurried along the street, the long row of Charleston-style houses seemed to crowd in on me. At the intersection of Rutledge and Beaufain, I paused to glance in the direction of the lovely old Queen Anne where Devlin had once lived with his dead wife and daughter. I couldn’t see the house clearly from my vantage, but I had no trouble conjuring the turrets and arches and the shimmer of ghosts at the front window.
Up until that point, I hadn’t felt a sense of urgency to get home, but as the memories faded, a vague worry descended. A nagging premonition that something wasn’t right.
The steady drip-drip-drip of the rain-soaked trees niggled at my nerves. A streetlight hummed and sputtered and I turned anxiously to survey the shadows as a dog barked in the distance. Traffic had dwindled. Suddenly, I felt very alone in the dark and I continued on down the street, glancing over my shoulder now and then until my house came into view.
I couldn’t deny a sense of relief as I pushed open the gate and entered the garden. I sailed up the porch steps and unlocked the front door, but I didn’t go in. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe some instinct warned that I should remain vigilant or my heightened senses had picked up an uncanny vibe. Or maybe it was as simple as wanting to enjoy the fresh air from the safety of my front porch. Whatever the reason, I moved to the corner where the shadows were the deepest and I could watch the street without being seen.
I drew calming breaths and focused. The night came alive for me. The waxing moon hung just above the treetops, and here and there stars peeked through a translucent veil of clouds. I could smell the tea olives at the side of the house and the last of the fall gardenias in the front garden. The perfumes mingled and drifted through my senses like a dream. Awash in that heady aroma, I stood there thinking of Devlin.
Where was he now? I wondered. Still at the restaurant with Claire and the others? Or had the two of them slipped away to spend the rest of the evening alone?
A night bird called from a treetop, coaxing me out of my reverie. The air had grown cooler and I pulled my sweater around me as I turned to go inside. Then I halted at the sound of an approaching car. Normally, this wouldn’t have alarmed me. Rutledge was a busy street. But I was certain the vehicle had slowed as it neared my house.
I was still hidden at the end of the porch, but I found myself sinking even deeper into the shadows as I peered across the garden to get a look at the long, sleek sedan with tinted windows. The vehicle pulled to the curb and stopped in front of my house. I caught my breath as the driver cut the engine. Was I being followed? Watched?
I wanted to believe paranoia was getting to me. After everything I’d been through, it would hardly be surprising. But was it really paranoia? I had enemies among the living, the dead and the possessed. All those malevolent faces flashed through my mind as I huddled in the dark and waited.
The back window slid down. I could see the shadowy profile of the passenger as he leaned forward to speak to the driver. I had the impression of a rigid posture and a sleek cap of silver hair. When he turned his head to stare up at my house, I caught my breath in astonishment. I knew him. As with Claire Bellefontaine, I’d never met him, had never even heard his voice. But I would have recognized Devlin’s grandfather anywhere.
This was turning out to be a night of unnerving firsts.
I pressed back against the wall as I tried to make myself invisible. I heard the click of a car door and a moment later, the driver came around to the open passenger window. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a menacing presence. I heard the soft murmur of their voices in the dark, but I couldn’t make out the conversation.
The driver left the car and came up the walkway, pausing with his hand on the gate as he tilted his head to stare up at the second-story windows. His behavior troubled me. I had the notion he was trying to determine whether or not the upstairs tenant was home. Another moment passed and then he opened the gate and stepped into the garden.
The night had gone deathly still. Even the songbird fell silent. Oddly, the scent of the gardenias deepened, as if Jonathan Devlin’s arrival had somehow stirred the heavenly scent. The driver’s footsteps were muffled as he strode up the walkway and climbed the porch steps.
I didn’t move a muscle as I tracked him. If he peered into the shadowy corner, he would spot me huddled and quivering, but he didn’t even look my way. Instead he paused on the top step as Angus barked a warning from inside. Then he turned to glance over his shoulder at the car.
“You hear that?” he called softly.
“You mean the dog? Yes, come away from the porch before the whole neighborhood is awakened,” Jonathan Devlin said gruffly. “We’ll wait until morning.”
The driver immediately turned and exited the premises as quickly and as quietly as he had come.
I cowered in my hiding place as my heartbeat thundered in my ears. Only when the sound of the car faded did I rise and clamor down the porch steps, rushing along the walkway, through the gate and out to the street. I even took a few steps toward those receding taillights before I came to my senses and halted. What was I doing?
If Dr. Shaw’s research and conjecture proved correct, then the elderly Devlin was not only a member of the Congé, but perhaps the leader. He could be every bit as dangerous as Claire Bellefontaine, perhaps even more so.
Why else would he have come to my house? Why now, if not on a mission for that dastardly faction?
Nine (#ub0e52320-9b52-50ae-8f54-f926e647d306)
Once inside the house, I calmed Angus as I locked the door, reset the alarm and then stood at the window for several minutes watching the street, my breath catching at the sound of every car engine. I didn’t see the black car again but I could imagine the sleek lines gliding through darkened alleyways back to the exclusive enclave south of Broad, back to that towering mansion on Battery Row.
Letting the curtain fall back into place, I knelt to stroke Angus’s back and scratch behind his battered ear nubs. Now that the outside threat had passed, he relaxed and pushed up against me. Since our time in Seven Gates Cemetery, we’d returned to our old friendship and I welcomed the ease and affection with which he now greeted me.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” I murmured, dropping all the way to the floor so that he could nuzzle my face. “You’ve no idea.”
After a few minutes in his calming company, I began to think a little more rationally. I even managed to consider the possibility that I had overreacted. The unexpected visit from Jonathan Devlin had thrown me for a loop, but if he were up to no good, would he have had his driver park in front of my house? Would he have sent the man up to my door? He was far too smart and seasoned to leave that kind of trail. No, whatever his motive, he hadn’t come here on business for the Congé. So why had he come?
My nerves still thrummed as I headed down the hallway to the kitchen, Angus at my heels. I put on the kettle and fixed a cup of chamomile before letting him out in the rear garden for his evening activities. I sat on the back steps and sipped the soothing brew as he made his rounds through the bushes and flower beds, sniffing here, pawing there before disappearing into the shadows to do his business.
The night was still clear, but the wind had risen since I got home, and I snuggled my sweater around me as I listened to the tinkle of the wind chime. The discordant notes were a comfort because they didn’t settle into a melody. I hoped that meant the ghost child hadn’t followed me home from the restaurant.
Even so, I remained jittery, my disquiet too easily summoning the images that had unfolded in that garden. I shuddered as I thought back on that horrifying tableau. Someone had killed that child. Murdered her in cold blood. I wondered about her assailant, why he had remained invisible to me. Was he—she—still alive? Had he gone unpunished all this time?
As I sat there puzzling over the child’s death, bits and pieces of last night’s dream mingled with the ghost’s revelations. In the back of my mind, I could see Mama and Aunt Lynrose at the edge of that open grave, rocking and sipping sweet tea as my aunt warned me not to poke my nose in places it didn’t belong.
Leave her be, Lyn. We should have tended to this business years ago. Now it’s up to Amelia to uncover the truth.
What business? What truth? How could that child’s murder be connected in any way to my family?
It couldn’t, I told myself firmly. Sometimes a dream could portend the future or unlock the past, but sometimes a dream was just a dream. It was pointless to try and infer anything from those disjointed images when I had concrete clues to decipher.
The prospect of another investigation so soon after my harrowing experiences in Seven Gates Cemetery overwhelmed and exhausted me. What choice did I have, though? The ghost had already latched on to me and she wouldn’t fade away of her own accord. I had learned that the hard way. Her tricks would only become more pernicious if I tried to ignore her. The sooner I started putting the pieces together, the sooner she would go back to her grave and we could both rest easy. That was the hope, at least.
Succumbing to my weariness, I yawned and called to Angus. He appeared at the edge of the shadows, head cocked as he regarded me across the garden. When I called to him again, he took a step toward me and then halted, his tail going up as he fixed his gaze on the steps beside me.
“What is it?” I murmured even as a thrill skirted along my spine. I turned to stare at the empty space beside me. There was no ghostly chill, no shimmer from a manifestation, only a quivering certainty that I was no longer alone.
“John,” I whispered. It wasn’t a question. I knew he was there just as I knew if I put out my hand, I would feel nothing but air.
The night became unbearably still, so quiet I could hear the sigh of the wind in the trees. Or was that my own sigh? I swallowed and touched my face where I could have sworn I felt his lips.
A moment later, the wind chime tinkled as if brushed by an invisible shoulder. I heard the gate creak as if a flesh-and-blood entity had gone through it.
Then all was silent in my garden.
* * *
I had another strange dream that night. I was a child again, no more than nine or ten, wandering through the familiar terrain of an abandoned cemetery. The air smelled of old death and fresh earth, a scent that I did not find unpleasant. As I walked on, the breeze picked up, swirling the mist at my feet as the leaves overhead started to whisper my name. Amelia. Amelia.
I wasn’t at all frightened of those whispers or of my withered surroundings. I was at home here. The eerie sights and sounds were a comfort.
On either side of me, angels with broken wings rose up out of the mist and I wanted to stop and read the epitaphs as I had always done with Papa. But the plates on the monuments were blank, as if the inscriptions had somehow been scrubbed clean.
A memorial without a name seemed very sad to me. I didn’t like the notion of the dead being hidden away and forgotten. Everyone had the right to be mourned and remembered, even those who had dwelled on the fringes of someone else’s life.
I walked on, the paving stones cool beneath my bare feet. The shadows grew longer and a tingle up my spine warned of the coming twilight. But I didn’t turn back. Something awaited me in the cemetery, something important. Something I needed to see. A part of me knew that I was dreaming, but it was more than a dream. Deep in my subconscious, memories were stirring.
Eventually, I came upon Mama and Aunt Lynrose still rocking beside that open grave as they sipped sweet tea from frosted glasses. They were dressed in cool linen, hair precisely coiffed, makeup and nails done to tasteful perfection. I caught the whiff of lemon sachet on the breeze and more faintly, the green notes from their perfume.
The familiarity of those fragrances wrapped me in the warmest embrace and I hurried forward, eager to be drawn into their circle. They whispered to one another, their expressions anxious and didn’t even glance up as I approached. I went right up to the fence and called out to them through the wrought-iron gate, but they didn’t seem to hear me and for whatever reason, I couldn’t enter. The gate was locked tight.
I sank down in the mist and closed my eyes, letting their voices drift over me. I heard my name now and then, but mostly they were reminiscing about their girlhood days. The murmur of their soft drawls and clinking glasses aroused a dreamy nostalgia. I hugged my knees to my chest as I thought back on all those overheard conversations, all those sisterly secrets that intrigued and mystified even as they deepened my loneliness.
Mama said with a little sigh, “Lyn, do you know what I’ve been thinking about lately? That dress Mother made for your sixteenth birthday. The midnight blue one.”
Aunt Lynrose clutched her hands to her heart. Her voice grew soft and unbearably wistful in the twilight. “Oh, how I loved that dress! I wore it to the spring dance, remember? The crystals on the skirt twinkled like starlight when I twirled.”
“You wore your hair up that night and Mother let you borrow her diamond earbobs. You looked just like a princess.”
“And I felt like one, too.”
“I remember how happy you were when you left the house. How you couldn’t stop smiling.”
“It was a night like no other.”
“If only we’d known—”
“Don’t, Etta.”
“When you didn’t come home—”
“Oh, don’t let’s talk about that part,” my aunt pleaded. “I just want to remember the music and the moonlight and the scent of honeysuckle drifting in through the open doors.”
