Free The House on Tradd Street by Karen White Page A

handwriting on the letter that I’d read so many times now that the paper had become soft. “He said that there was more to that story, and that maybe fate had brought me to him to bring out the truth. So that his mother might finally find peace.”
    Jack leaned back in his chair, his food forgotten. “Sounds like a ghost story to me. Have you seen or heard anything?”
    I looked up at him, startled. “No, of course not. Why would you ask?”
    He crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t look away. “Well, your mother was pretty famous around here for her . . . I guess you’d call it her sixth sense. She was really popular at parties, from what I’ve read. I thought maybe that if there’s any truth in her abilities, you might have inherited some of them. And that you could save me a lot of research and investigation if you could just ask the source, if you know what I mean.”
    The tips of my fingers were turning white as I pressed them hard against the table. “I don’t think that kind of thing is genetic—assuming you believe in that sort of thing.” The waitress came and I told her to take my half-finished plate.
    “Did Mr. Vanderhorst say anything else? Anything about any particular valuables or jewelry that might be in the house?”
    Surprised, I said, “No, not at all. He bequeathed everything to me, but nobody’s mentioned any specific item.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Why? Is there something I should be aware of?”
    He shrugged. “No—just wondering. Seeing as how he didn’t seem to mention leaving you the house, I was curious as to what he actually did mention.”
    Did you see her? In the garden — did you see her? She only appears to people she approves of, you know. Jack was looking at my hands and reached over to take them in his own.
    “They’re like blocks of ice.”
    “I’m very cold-natured. My hands and feet are always cold.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to respond to that?”
    I tried to jerk my hands away, but he didn’t let go. “So, what do you think? We could work together. You could give me access to the house, and I’ll share any information I find. I’m also an old hat at restoration work. I helped with my condo in the French Quarter, and my parents are an encyclopedia of information on all things old.”
    “What happened to me not having to set eyes on you again?”
    “Did I say that?”
    “Yes, you did. That was the main reason why I agreed to stay and have dinner with you tonight.”
    He pretended to think for a minute. “But don’t you think it would be much more fun to be partners and work on this together? I’d get the info I need for my book, and you’ll get the answers for Mr. Vanderhorst.”
    The group of men at the bar was shouting and laughing loudly now at some joke one of them was telling, and I glanced over my shoulder to where the crowd had parted and saw that the man sitting down was wearing an old U.S. Army uniform. A pit of dread began to grow in my stomach.
    Jack let go of my hand and looked at his watch. “Forty-five minutes, Mellie. I really don’t want to pressure you, but I think we both know what your answer should be.”
    The laughter from the bar was becoming almost too loud to talk over. When I looked at the group again, I saw that the man in the uniform had tried to stand but had fallen, taking his barstool with him.
    I jerked my attention back to Jack and studied this overconfident, almost-arrogant, and way too good-looking man, and I could suddenly see in my mind’s eye the bold script on Mr. Vanderhorst’s letter.
     
But there’s more to that story, though I have failed to discover what it is. Maybe fate put you in my life to bring the truth to the surface so that she might finally find peace after all these years. God bless you, Melanie. All of my final hopes rest with you.
     
The sound of breaking glass brought us both to our feet, and I saw that the uniformed man had attempted to stand again but his