Nola nodded, then used her finger to flick open the latch. “It reminds me of that scary clown in It. Worst movie ever.”
Beau examined the doll without touching it. “Best movie ever. Nobody will ever look at a stray red balloon the same way ever again.”
“That doesn’t make it a great movie,” Nola said with disdain. “So, what’s a Frozen Charlotte?”
“They originated during the Victorian era and were called Frozen Charlottes—or Charlies, for male dolls,” Beau said. “They were made in response to a popular song, ‘Fair Charlotte,’ which was based on an earlier poem, ‘A Corpse Going to a Ball.’?” He grimaced. “It was a cautionary tale for children—especially young ladies—about the dangers of vanity and not listening to your parents. That’s what the words on top of the little coffin are for. The dolls were made of porcelain—which is why this one is still in perfect condition—and very cheap to buy, which added to their popularity. They were even baked into birthday cakes at one point. Not all of them had their own coffins, though, so this one is special.”
“Sounds uplifting and perfect for children,” Nola said.
“Those crazy Victorians.” Beau grinned. “They were also fond of postmortem photographs of loved ones and making jewelry out of a deceased person’s hair.”
“You sure it’s Victorian?” Sophie asked.
“Yeah, definitely,” Beau said, handing her the coffin.
“So it probably didn’t come from the cistern,” I said. “Everything we’ve pulled out of it has been middle to late eighteenth century.”
“But what’s the significance of the buttons?” Sophie asked, reaching inside to pick up a mother-of-pearl button layered with painted tulips.
Beau studied it closely. “You’ve got me on that one. I can call my grandmother—she’ll probably know. She actually has a collection of Frozen Charlottes.”
“Of course she does,” Nola muttered just as a car horn sounded from outside. “That’s Mrs. Ravenel,” she said as she scooped up her backpack again.
“See you Saturday at the store,” Beau said. “The front display windows need to be cleaned. We’re expecting that shipment of Italian crystal serve ware that Amelia wants to put there.”
I saw Nola’s jaw working as she ground her teeth, just like Jack’s did when he was trying to pretend that he wasn’t annoyed. Without another word, she left. We waited a moment before hearing the front door slam behind her.
Beau turned his smile on me. “Nice girl. A little sensitive at times, but a nice girl. Speaking of sensitive—”
Sophie interrupted him. “Not yet, Beau. I haven’t had a chance to say anything to Melanie yet.”
The hairs on the back of my neck began to dance, alerting me to two things at once: I wasn’t going to like what Sophie was supposed to have told me, and it was no longer just the three of us in the kitchen.
“Say what?” I asked.
Beau held up his hands. “Sorry. I don’t want to jump the gun or anything. But when I first came to Charleston, I read Marc Longo’s book, Lust, Greed, and Murder in the Holy City. I’m sure you’re aware that you’re mentioned in the book along with his allegations about how you can talk to ghosts.”
I flicked a glance at Sophie, understanding now what she’d meant when she’d introduced me to Beau as the friend she’d been telling him about. If only laser eye daggers were a thing, Sophie would have been putting out small fires now peppering her hideous scarf. Or for real punishment I’d make her wear a solid navy one without even a hint of fringe.
Returning my attention to Beau, I said, “I wouldn’t know, because I haven’t read it.”
A brief smile graced his face as if in acknowledgment that I’d avoided answering the unasked question.
Beau continued. “I met Dr. Wallen-Arasi at a Charleston Library Society lecture about Philip Simmons and I mentioned my podcast to her. She told me that you were friends.”
I sent Sophie a look meant to emphasize the word “were.” “Your ‘podcast’?”
“Yes, ma’am. I host a paranormal podcast about real ghost stories. It’s just a hobby, something I started a couple of years ago because it’s something I’m interested in.”
“I have no idea what a ‘podcast’ is, but if it has ‘paranormal’ in the description, I probably don’t need to hear any more.”
“Sure—I get it. Dr. Wallen-Arasi warned me. I was just hoping . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind.” He straightened, smiled. “So, I’ll find out if my grandmother knows anything about the buttons, and I’ll work on an estimate for the fencing. You’ll probably see me out here taking pictures and measuring, but I promise not to disturb you.”
“Sounds great. Thank you, Beau. And do keep an open mind when you’re thinking about the fence. There are many more materials, many a lot less costly than iron, that would work and still look nice.”
He and Sophie wore matching expressions, something I imagined people facing an approaching tsunami might wear.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I walked toward the back door and held it open. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I’ll talk to you later, Sophie.” I smiled at her but I was sure I saw the fear in her eyes. “And, Beau?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“If you call me ma’am one more time, you might find yourself a subject of your own podcast.”
He grinned, and I couldn’t be angry with him. Jack’s grin seemed to have the same effect on me. “Yes, ma—Melanie.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw something move. We all turned to see the Frozen Charlotte in her coffin standing up on the counter by the refrigerator instead of on the table where we’d left her.
“I didn’t see anything,” Beau said.
I faced Beau, who was staring directly at the startlingly mobile tiny coffin. “Me, neither,” I agreed. He looked at me for a moment before turning quickly away and leaving me wondering how much Sophie had told him. And why.
I shut the door behind them, then leaned against it and closed my eyes and wondered, for about the millionth time, what had happened to my once-uneventful and orderly life.
CHAPTER 4