by Lyla Payne
Lavinia glides us through the mess without entanglement. It’s the most purpose she’s shown since popping up in my life, and it’s almost a relief. If she wants something, truly, then my worries about her being sent by another Fournier to spy on me don’t seem quite so plausible.
I trip half a dozen times as we weave through the plots, trying my best not to think about what exactly is catching my toes. The dead might have become friends to me, in a sense, but that doesn’t give me immunity from the knee-jerk freaked-out reaction that comes with the idea of traipsing across graves.
Finally, we come to a clearing that must be on the edge of the church’s property. A low stone wall marks the boundary and there’s a small space beside it that doesn’t appear to have been home to any burials. Or if it was, they took place so long ago that the earth has already reclaimed the stones.
Lavinia perches on the wall, kicking her heels silently against the stones, and points toward the ground under her feet.
“Um, I didn’t exactly bring a shovel.”
She shakes her head. The ghost starts to open her mouth and then closes it, frustration tightening her over-large features. Then she points at herself. At the ground.
Understanding dawns. “This is where they buried you. The concerned women.”
Lavinia’s expression turns to one of disgust and she hocks a loogie toward her resting place. If she’s really here—it’s another rumor, after all, and Brian said there’s no proof.
I decide to make a concerted effort to shrug off my instinctual fear of her. Daria says she’s evil, but our trek here tonight—and the fact that she didn’t try to run my car off the road or otherwise do me in—makes me rethink the assumption that her being bad means she’s not looking for help.
With everything I’ve got going on in my life, getting rid of the crazy lady sure would be a good feeling.
So, I sit up on the wall next to her, careful to leave plenty of space between us. Her eyebrows wing up in surprise, then lower in suspicion.
“Is this what you want? Me to dig up your bones and put them somewhere else? Or…” I trail off when she doesn’t react, either with a nod or anything else. “You want to set your story straight?”
The latter was Henry’s reason for sticking around. Most of the ghosts who’ve visited me are concerned about their legacy or the impact of their death on their descendants. I don’t think either of those things would concern Lavinia and her husband, but maybe I’ve missed something.
“Do you want me to mark your grave so your descendants can visit you or something?”
The look of disgust she gives me makes me feel as if she physically shoved me backward.
Okay. So that’s not it.
“You’re going to have to help me out here. Because I’m all out of guesses.”
She leaps down off the wall and lands on the spot she indicated before, then mimics shoveling.
“You do want me to dig up your bones. And then what?”
Her pointer finger aims over the wall. Out of the cemetery.
“Take you somewhere else? Where?”
She shrugs, then makes a circular motion with her hand that seems to mean she’ll tell me later. I’m not super excited about following her directions even if it does mean getting rid of her. Grave robbing, even when approved by the owner of said grave, is a crime. And we’re not in the middle of nowhere, like I was when Anne Bonny asked me to unearth the box that ended up containing the clues to solve her mystery. We’re in the middle of the city.
It could be that whatever is in that hole is not simply Lavinia’s body but something else—or something more—that she wants to have back. Still, I’m not sure how this is feasible.
“Okay,” I tell her, because to say anything else would be a recipe for disaster. “But I can’t do it tonight. I don’t have any tools.”
She holds out her hands, and for the first time, I notice that her fingernails are freakishly long and a disturbing yellow-black color.
“I’m not digging with my hands. Sorry.” I swallow, doing my best not to let my revulsion show on my face. In here, surrounded by the too-cold breeze and the slight stench of rot, she’s blended in.
But now, as she gets emotional and angry, the scent of death plugs up my nose. Coats my throat until I can’t stop myself from gagging. I bend over and put my hands on my thighs as I retch, unable to stop myself even though it bugs me that this reaction seems to be what she wants.
And when I look up, she’s gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Since I’m in the city and it’s going to be at least an hour before my blood pressure returns to a level that’s appropriate for getting behind the wheel of a car, I text Amelia and tell her plans have changed, and not to eat. Maybe she’ll forgive me for freaking her out if I bring her dinner from one of her favorite spots. Takeout from FIG will put a dent in my wallet, but it will, as always, be worth it.
While placing the order over the phone, I walk the few blocks toward Market Street to see if I can find Odette. Sure enough, she’s plopped on the curb in front of one of the many storefronts offering an assortment of desserts.
Her love for pralines sparks in my memory as I approach her. The other day, I was thinking I owed her dinner, but perhaps dessert would do on short notice. Now that I’m away from the eerie Unitarian cemetery and the smell of Lavinia Fisher’s rotting ghost, I find my own stomach protesting the long stretch between lunch and now, interrupted only by coffee and more coffee.
She smiles before I say anything, and without looking up. Her gnarled hands are busy stowing piles of unused sweetgrass in her satchel. In a box at her feet are the baskets and roses that went unsold during the day’s business.
“I din’ figure ta see ya again, not after tha curse was gone.” Now tips her head back to look at me, her gaze pleased. “Yah got more trouble, girl?”
“You know me, Odette. I’ve always got more trouble.”
Her head bobs up and down. “Yep. Thassa true thing, ya say.”
She holds out a hand, a silent request for help to her feet, and I oblige after bracing myself to handle her substantial weight. Odette’s not fat, but she’s a solid woman.
“You want some pralines and lemonade?” I offer.
“’Pends on what yah want in return.” Her lips purse, her expression turning appraising as we shuffle toward the store. We both know that she’ll take me up on the offer to buy her sweets regardless of whether she decides to answer my questions.
I’m not sure I even have any, to be honest. Odette’s area of expertise is Gullah culture and curses, the latter of which, thank the stars, no longer applies to me. She does give good advice on life in general, though. Maybe I should take advantage of her lukewarm offer to chat.
The inside of the store is warm and still festive from the holidays—garlands and lights adorn the front of the glass case and a red bow dresses up the cash register. Odette rubs her hands together. It’s hard to say whether she’s trying to warm them up or she’s excited about the prospect of dessert, but given that it’s going to be a good hour before the food from FIG gets in my belly, I’m pretty stoked about some sweets, myself.
We both order pralines, and then Odette asks for a large lemonade and a double scoop of ice cream to go with hers. It’s a liberal interpretation of my offer, but I don’t complain about her taking advantage of me like I might have when we first met. I like the woman, and she basically saved my life. And Amelia’s. She can have all of the sweets she wants.
There’s no one else in the shop except employees. We take a table for two away from the windows, which are letting in a bit too much cold air around the seams. The wrought iron chair screeches across the linoleum as Odette pulls it out, then creaks under her weight when she drops into it. I sit, too, letting out a breath once we’re both settled.
The first bite of praline melts on my tongue, and we each down a whole one before attempting any sort of conversation.
“That curse gone,�
� Odette confirms for a second time, surveying the air above my head. “S’good.”
I nod. “Yep. Amelia had the baby, too, and he’s doing fine. Depriving everyone of sleep but being so cute that we don’t care.”
“Thassa babe fer ya. Miss ma own, I do, even though when they little ya think ya might die from the tired.”
“I didn’t know you had children.”
The look she gives me is familiar—it says I’m an idiot.
“’Course. Woman ma age? Lotsa kids.”
I stop myself from asking about them—where they live, whether or not she sees them, who their father is—because of the way her whole face is shuttered. She doesn’t want to talk about it, and if I understand anything, it’s the desire to keep certain topics off limits.
I decide to try a different route. One that’s less personal, at least for the two of us.
“What do you think about the Unitarian graveyard? I mean…is it haunted or just creepy because of how old and overgrown it is?”
It’s an odd question, maybe, but anyone who’s lived in the city as long as Odette has heard the stories—and probably visited often enough herself to have formed an opinion.
If the query or the sudden shift in topic surprises her, she doesn’t show it. The wise old woman continues to slurp her ice cream out of the dish, far more focused on that than on me. I’ve learned after dealing with her for months that this doesn’t mean she’s not listening. I eat another praline and sip my own lemonade, trying to be patient. It doesn’t come naturally to me, but as with most things, practice makes perfect.
“I think most places in this here Holy City got spooks,” she replies, dropping her spoon in her empty dish. I half expected her to lick it clean. “Think places where tha dead lie got even more. That place no more than others.”
“Why would someone be unhappy with where they’re buried? I mean…” I trail off. If I want real help, I’m going to have to be more specific, but I don’t want to really talk about my ghosts with Odette. “I can see why a person who wasn’t buried properly or through the church might be upset. But what if a person was buried in a graveyard, by people who cared about the destination of her soul? Why would she want to be moved?”
I still don’t know whether Lavinia wants me to move her actual bones. There’s still a chance there’s something buried in there with her. But what if there isn’t? What am I going to do with a pile of old, stinky remains?
“Come on, girl. Ghosts yer bisness, not mine. Ya know why a person not wanna be buried on holy ground. Ya jus don wanna admit it.”
Odette sucks down the rest of her lemonade in two big gulps and stands up, then goes to chuck her trash in the receptacle. I follow suit, thinking that it’s past time for me to make my way to FIG and then home—I’ve done as much damage in Charleston as I can do for one night.
We part ways outside, with her saying she wouldn’t mind if I came to visit her again. I nod, but my mind is elsewhere, on her last, exasperated sentence.
I do know why a woman like Lavinia Fisher might be uncomfortable with being buried in that graveyard, and it jives with what Daria told me about the nature of her spirit.
I just don’t know what I’m going to do about it.
Both Amelia and Brick are glad to have the food I brought, especially since it’s nearly seven-thirty by the time I pull into the driveway and we’re all starving. My cousin is upset when she hears what happened, but she’s mostly giving me a pass in front of her…whatever he is.
And my lawyer. I know there will be plenty of questions later, probably from both of them. Brick looks like he’s barely restraining himself from bringing up my case at the dinner table, which only serves as a reminder that I need to dig through the bag from the farmhouse.
It crosses my mind that if we spent more time talking about my ghosts around Brick, perhaps he would seriously consider an insanity defense. Which may be about the best I can hope for at this point. A padded cell doesn’t seem like too terrible of a place to spend a few years, except for the lack of booze. And sex. At least I could use my free time to churn out a bunch of papers—and I guess I’d be carrying on a family tradition.
Our conversation is stilted over dinner. I’ve clearly interrupted a more comfortable evening, and with Amelia wishing she could wring my neck for worrying her and Brick probably biting his tongue to stop from talking about legal matters, I can’t wait to escape to the sanctuary of my bedroom.
I take a shower to give myself a little more time to digest everything that’s happened this evening. The time does little to help calm the somersaults my stomach is doing, so after I listen at the top of the stairs for a bit to make sure Brick and Amelia have retired to their separate rooms, I tiptoe down to the kitchen and clean up the dinner mess. It helps to keep my hands busy so that my mind can sort of float. As far as making me tired, no go.
After I finish, I head back upstairs, pleased to think that Amelia will be happy to come down to a sparkling clean kitchen in the morning. At least I managed to do one thing right today.
Which is a pretty low bar, but at the moment, it’s the best I can do.
Back in my room, I drag the bag from the farmhouse out from under the bed. It seems like a somewhat imperfect hiding place, given that the last time I stashed something important under there it was stolen, but there really isn’t anywhere else that’s safer. The extra locks and the alarm system should be enough to keep us safe.
From ghosts?
I frown at the voice in my head and shove it away. There’s nothing more to do about it now, other than just go through everything I filched from the farmhouse and take pictures of anything that seems relevant. Maybe it would be better off at Will and Mel’s house, or I could simply return it to Gillian’s creepy, empty house if there’s nothing inside that could possibly help with my criminal defense.
The contents are what I remember stuffing inside before Lavinia showed up—some old books and the burned paper fragments I pulled from the fireplace. The books look like exactly what they are—old, leather-bound copies of different classics. She’s got Wuthering Heights, The Lord of the Flies, a bunch of Shakespeare’s tragedies, Tolstoy, and Jane Eyre. Those are the ones that are the most worn, and it’s vaguely interesting to note that she veers toward the dark and moody in taste as opposed to things like Jane Austen, which would be included in most collections of classics.
It’s what’s inside of the books, though, that catches my eye. They look like something out of a psychological horror novel.
The margins are full of dark slashes and scribbles. The pencil marks are smudged in several places, hard to read. The ones that are legible send shivers down my spine. They’re rantings. Incoherent babbles of words. Thoughts that don’t string together, but all of them have a common theme: They’re after me. They’ve found me. It won’t be long, now. I should run. Then: It won’t matter if I run.
Some of the Carlottas in the journals wondered if they were crazy. So did my father. But this woman? She seems certifiable to me. Legitimately paranoid, possibly delusional, and unable to control her thoughts as they spilled out of her and scattered around like loose scraps of paper fluttering on the breeze.
Of course, someone tossed her house. She’s missing. Frank is dead.
She might be struggling mentally, but that still doesn’t mean she’s wrong.
We don’t know where she’s gone or if she’s even alive, so it’s possible that someone did come for her. That the person who killed Frank also killed or attacked her.
Or that she killed my father, and she’s coming after Travis and me next.
I set the books aside in favor of the charred paper fragments, wishing now that I hadn’t eaten dinner. My stomach is a mess of knots and acid. The questions keep piling up like bags of trash, and there’s no garbage collector in sight. It’s almost too much. Like, I should put the bag back and try again tomorrow.
Except I’m running out of tomorrows.
The morning migh
t be rough if I stay up and work on this, but that’s nothing new. It’s not like I’ll be performing brain surgery or monitoring the atmosphere for potential missile attacks.
The pages are badly burned, curled up and brittle on the edges. Some pieces crumble in my fingers and I brush them off the bedspread onto the carpet, wrinkling my nose at the stench of smoky paper. There was writing on them, maybe in pen this time, but most of it is faded to the point of illegibility.
I catch a few words here and there, though, and when my own name leaps off the page, it’s like a slap in the face. My cheeks feel hot as I stare down at the page. My hand trembles, and the burnt edges of the paper slough off and flutter away.
It’s my name—Graciela Anne Harper, and what looks like pieces of my address back in Iowa. Was she keeping tabs on me? Looking for me? Did she know I’d moved to Heron Creek, and if so, were we in danger?
Could she be the one who tried to push me off the dock?
I don’t know how long it takes me to put away the scrap with my name on it, but a few chunks later, I find one with Travis’s name. On that same sheet there’s a reference to a Carlotta, along with fragments of an address in France.
Oxygen struggles to make its way in and out of my lungs as panic crowds closer. No matter what Gillian’s mindset was when she scratched down my name, and Travis’s, and Carlotta’s, and conceivably every other still-living Fournier she could find, it doesn’t make me feel good about the fact that she’s missing. Lurking out there somewhere on the edges of the world.
I know that I need to call Travis. Warn him. I should probably write back to the woman who sent me Frank’s note, to warn her, too. If I can find a way to contact her, like she promised.