Lucy, obviously in her element talking about “her” family, unhooked the velvet rope which kept the second story off-limits. Although the rooms on the ground floor had been refinished, funding had run out and the upstairs bedrooms remained pretty much as they’d been when Phineas Rothmere willed the place to the city in the 1950s and were off-limits to the public. Explaining this, Lucy led us up two flights of stairs with a half landing where they turned. I was a step below Braden and another kid in a letter jacket and crew cut. Braden leaned toward the other guy and said in a low voice, “Don’t do it, man.”
Oh, great. What kind of prank was brewing? I hoped it didn’t involve alcohol, nudity, or combustibles of any kind.
“Mark—” Braden started.
The crew-cut kid shook his head and called, “Wait up, Lindsay.” Taking the stairs two at a time, he caught up with a tall brunette. He put his arm around her waist and she snuggled up against him. Braden’s shoulders slumped as he watched the pair.
Lucy paused in a gallery that overlooked the ballroom. A collection of portraits hung on the walls, barely visible in the dusky gloom. “Stay away from the railing,” Lucy cautioned. “It’s why we can’t allow visitors up here. We’re in the process of moving the family portraits to the museum.”
When she flicked a light switch, I could see lighter patches on the walls where paintings had hung.
“But Cyril’s family is still here,” Lucy said.
Cyril and an anemic-looking blonde I took to be Annabelle were seated in the middle of a large family that included four sons and three daughters. I edged closer to the painting she pointed at and tried to figure out which of the three young ladies posed in hoop skirts and ringlets was Clarissa. I decided she was the youngest, a sweet-faced girl of maybe sixteen, with chestnut curls, a pale complexion, and a shy smile. I could see her writing the letter I’d read last night.
“Rothmere was the largest plantation home for miles around when it was finished in 1831,” Lucy continued, “and Cyril and Annabelle hosted a huge engagement party for their daughter Clarissa shortly after it was completed.”
“When do we get to the ghost?”
It was the tall girl Mark had his arm around, Lindsay. Spaatz frowned her down.
Lucy led us back the way we’d come, her skirt swaying as she descended the stairs, one slow step at a time. “There was a huge storm that night, and many of the guests who weren’t staying over left early. That may explain why nobody heard it.”
“Heard what?” a breathless voice asked.
“Cyril’s fall,” Lucy said. She stepped off the final stair and looked up at us. “In the morning, a maid found him, dead.” She paused to let us absorb the image. Then, with a shush of heavy skirts, she turned and gestured to the floor at the base of the stairs. “His neck was broken.”
Students jostled for position on the stairs and someone bumped me, hard. I teetered on the edge of the step, unable to grab the banister because of people on either side of me. As I toppled forward, Glen Spaatz hauled me back with an iron hand around my upper arm and turned to glare at the teens behind us. He gave my arm a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
“Was Cyril murdered?” This came from Tasha Solomon, her brow creased with concern.
We all made it down the stairs alive and circled Lucy. “No one knows,” she admitted. “What we do know is that Annabelle remarried as soon as her year of mourning was up. She married the neighbor she’d been engaged to when she met Cyril. And Cyril’s eldest son, Geoffrey, inherited the plantation just in time for his last son to be born here. Rumor has it the inheritance was timely because his business in Savannah was failing and they were about to lose their house.
“Cyril’s buried in the cemetery out back, but many of the sightings of his ghost have been in the house, including on the landing, the spot from which he fell . . . or was pushed.”
Ari Solomon and I spoke up simultaneously. “What happened to Clarissa?” I asked.
“Have you ever seen him, Dr. Mortimer?” the redhead asked. “Cyril’s ghost, I mean?”
Lucy hesitated. Her fingers strayed to the cameo at her throat. “I’m not the fanciful type.” Clearing her throat, she said, “I’ll be in my office. Remember, I’m locking up at ten o’clock sharp.” She turned on her heel and bustled off down the left-leading hallway.
“Thank you, Dr. Mortimer,” Spaatz called after her. He took her place in front of the semicircle of engrossed high schoolers, some of whom carried weird electronic gadgets about the size and shape of a GPS.