Page 25 of Ghost

M ason lifted the heavy door knocker and let it drop. The damn thing was heavy as all get out. Hmm, I need one of these for my front door. It’s more fitting that a modern-day doorbell, he thought to himself.

He was about to lift it again when the door opened.

“Good evening, Mason,” Sharon said, stepping aside to let him in. She took in his appearance, smiled and nodded. “Looking good,” she whispered. “Won’t you follow me into the drawing room?” she asked in a normal tone of voice.

Mason pulled his shirt down, trying to reduce the wrinkle where it had been folded as he followed Sharon into an elaborately decorated room. He couldn’t help but pause for a moment as he looked around. It was like taking a step back in time.

“May I get you something to drink?” Sharon asked.

“Sharon, bring Mr. Montgomery a whiskey,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “The special reserve should do. I have a feeling that he would appreciate it.”

Mason turned his attention to the elderly woman sitting in an antique chair by the fireplace. She was perched on the front end, her hands crossed in her lap and her ankles similarly crossed, slightly tucked underneath. Mrs. Trudeau’s posture was ramrod straight, her head held high.

“Good evening, Mason. Please have a seat.” She indicated the larger chair opposite her on the other side of the fireplace. “I’m so glad you could come.”

Mason stepped over towards her, handing her the bouquet of a dozen white roses. “It really is my pleasure. To be honest, I’ve not had a home-cooked meal in a while.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Mrs. Trudeau inhaled the fresh fragrance. “I bet Francis told you these were my favorite.”

He turned to take a seat and nearly fell over backwards. In front of him was an elderly man with a sour look on his face.

“Oh, don’t mind him.” Mrs. Trudeau said and laughed quietly. “He always looked like he’d just sucked a lemon. That is, or was, my husband, Gerald. Gerald, this is Mr. Mason Montgomery. He has recently purchased Francis’ house and is doing a marvelous job in renovating it.”

Mason looked from Mrs. Trudeau back to Gerald Trudeau. “Um... it’s nice to meet you Mr. Trudeau.

It looked to Mason as if Mr. Trudeau’s expression changed very little but there was a twinkle in his eyes now that hadn’t been there before.

“Have you managed to dislodge Imogene from the place?” he asked, his voice deep and commanding. “I had heard her screaming bloody hell recently, which suddenly stopped. I have no doubt that you would be the cause of her discomfort.”

“Yes, I do believe she is gone. Permanently,” Mason answered, still feeling a little odd at speaking to dead people.

“Good.” He nodded. “I am sure that she is getting her just desserts.”

“Mr. Montgomery,” Sharon spoke from behind him. When he faced her, she handed him a crystal glass with two fingers worth of whiskey in it.

“Thanks.” He took the glass and took a sip. “Wow, this is very good,” Mason said after he’d swallowed the very fine bourbon.

“Sharon, dear, could you please put these in some water for me,” Mrs. Trudeau said, standing to hand the bouquet to the young woman.

She turned to Mason. “I had a feeling that you would appreciate a fine whiskey.” Mrs. Trudeau sat back down.

She smoothed out the front of her black dress and assumed the same position he’d seen her when he’d arrived.

Mr. Trudeau had managed to move from one side of the room to standing behind her in the blink of an eye.

Mason blinked a few times. “I’m still having trouble with....”

Mrs. Trudeau waved one hand. Mason couldn’t help but notice the multiple diamond rings she was wearing. “You’ll get used to it soon enough.” She giggled. “Not that you’ll have much say in the matter.”

Mason took a seat in the chair she’d offered. “How long have you been... well, you know?” Mason asked, slightly nodding towards Mr. Trudeau.

“All of my life.” Mrs. Trudeau picked up a small crystal glass with an amber liquid in it and took a sip. “I was terrified as a child. My mother and nanny kept saying it was only childhood fright. My father, on the other hand, knew better and explained it to me. He also had the gift, you see.”

“I’ve only just started....” Mason didn’t even know how to explain what it was he was seeing.

“Yes, I understand. You had a bump on the head.” The silver-haired woman smiled at him warmly.

“It happens that way sometimes. There once was a woman who lived in Charleston who got a bump on the head and quite unexpectedly began speaking French. The brain is a strange but a magnificent thing, is it not?”

Mason didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing and only nodded.

“Now then, tell me about Francis,” Mrs. Trudeau looked expectantly at Mason, taking another small sip of her own drink.

“Did Imogene kill the lad?” Mr. Trudeau asked, his face hard.

Mason looked from one Trudeau to the other. “Yes, his mother did kill him. As far as Francis goes, he’s fine, I guess, other than being dead, of course.” He realized what he’d just said. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that! I mean that he’s good, it’s just that—”

Both of the Trudeaus laughed.

“It’s okay, Mason.” Mrs. Trudeau wiped at one eye with the tip of her left forefinger, removing a tear, the diamonds on her hand flashing. “I completely understand. Sometimes even I get confused as to who is living and who is not.”

Mason shook his head and grinned. He was beginning to really like Ellen Trudeau.

“Dinner is served,” Sharon announced from the doorway.

“Shall we?” Mrs. Trudeau asked, as she stood, still smiling. “And please, continue to tell me all about my dear Francis as we dine.”

Sharon served a creamy tomato and basil soup.

Mr. Trudeau was standing looking out a window, facing the side street.

When Sharon left, Mrs. Trudeau picked up her soup spoon and looked at Mason. “Well?”

“I’m not sure what it is you want me to tell you.” Mason followed his hostess in picking up his own spoon. “He’s fine, I guess. We talk quite a bit, especially since my friends have left.”

“Does he seem at peace?” Mr. Trudeau asked, still facing the window.

“I guess so. He doesn’t seem agitated or upset if that’s what you mean.”

“That sounds like Francis,” Mrs. Trudeau commented. “He was always so easy going. There was hardly anything that fazed him.”

“Until it came to business,” Mr. Trudeau commented. “The man was said to have a sharp mind and knew how to make money. I personally saw proof of that.”

“And sadly, I think that is why he was killed.” Mrs. Trudeau sighed heavily. “Imogene, without understanding it, killed the golden goose.”

“What do you mean?” Mason asked as he finished his soup, which was delicious. “This soup was really good. Thank you again for having me.”

“Our pleasure.” Mrs. Trudeau smiled warmly.

“What my dear wife means is that Imogene was a selfish spendthrift.” Mr. Trudeau turned to face the pair at the table. “She spent money like it grew on trees with never a thought of where it came from.”

“Imogene despised living on the plantation,” Mrs. Trudeau added. “She wanted to live in the city.”

“There wasn’t any way to prove it, but I am sure that she killed Francis’ father as well.” Mr. Trudeau looked angry.

“That was always the rumor,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “I don’t remember him very well. He was just as handsome as Francis, however. I do remember that and that he was a kind and gentle man.”

Sharon came and gathered the soup bowls and quickly returned with a small, tossed salad.

“I promised Francis that I would find out about the family home,” Mason said. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Trudeau said, looking somewhat astonished, like I should have known. “I own it.”

“Couldn’t let those damn Yankees get their dirty hands on it,” Mr. Trudeau added. “We couldn’t really afford it at the time, but I was able to shake some bushes and get the financing.”

Mrs. Trudeau picked up the story. “Gerald and a few of his banking friends got the money together with the promise that they could build a hunting lodge on the property.” She snorted. “I am sure that there were many things that went on in that lodge that were anything but Christian.”

For the very first time, Mr. Trudeau smiled. “Yes, dear. We all knew what you thought about that.” He winked at Mason, his eyes sparkling. Mason had no doubt at that point that indeed there were some things going on there that Mrs. Trudeau would not have approved of.

“I can feel you smirking back there, Gerald, and it is most unattractive.” Mrs. Trudeau actually rolled her eyes, not looking at her late husband.

“At any rate, we were able to save the property, even though it cost more money to maintain than it made back then. Now it is self-sustaining, but not profitable,” Mrs. Trudeau continued. “The weddings that are held there make up most of the income.”

“Can it not be made profitable?” Mason asked.

“Oh no, dear boy.” Mr. Trudeau looked at his wife. Mason could see that he loved his wife dearly.

“After the war, the War between the States, it was barely able to get rice crops planted and harvested without slave labor. Francis’ father was able to keep it all together for a long time, well past what the other rice plantations could do.

You see, he treated his slaves well, and after the war, he was able to give them a wage, built a school and most of them stayed and were happy to not have to deal with the carpetbaggers, who were actually worse than most of the slave owners.

” Mrs. Trudeau had a wistful look about her.

“But like most good things, that too came to an end,” Mr. Trudeau said.

Mrs. Trudeau sighed. “Francis had a plan to save the place, but Imogene wanted him to sell it so she could continue living high on the hog here in Savannah.”

“What was his plan?” Mason asked as Sharon brought in the main course of shrimp and grits, one of Mason’s all-time favorites.

“I never found out,” answered Mrs. Trudeau. “I wish I had.”

“Maybe then, it wouldn’t be sitting there costing money,” Mr. Trudeau said, the sour face back.

“Gerald, you know as well as I do that it isn’t costing any money now, so just hush up about it. We’ve been over this a thousand times.” Mrs. Trudeau looked concerned. “I didn’t think to even ask, Mr. Montgomery, but I hope you like seafood.”

Mason nodded enthusiastically, his mouth full. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “This is one of my favorite dishes. Do you think that I could go and see the plantation?”

Mrs. Trudeau smiled. “Of course, dear. I’ve not been up there in a few years. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you.”

Mason looked down at his bowl. “There’s something that I’d like to talk to you about: I’d like to make sure that Francis has a decent burial. I don’t know how to go about it, though. I have no real right to the remains. I don’t even know where to bury him.”

Mrs. Trudeau reached across the table, wanting Mason’s hand. Mason reached out and let her take it. “Mason, if I may call you by your Christian name, that is very sweet of you. We, meaning you and I, will take care of it. There is a family cemetery at Hobonny.”

“Hobonny?”

Mrs. Trudeau smiled again. “Yes. The name of the plantation. I cannot wait to show you the place. There is a wonderful portrait of Francis’ father there. I also have quite a surprise for you, my dear. I think we are going to be great friends.”

Mason smiled. He also thought they could be good friends. He wanted to ask a lot more questions about seeing ghosts too.