Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  He clumps into the living room, and I dab the wetness from my eyelashes and cheeks, determined to try to enjoy the evening. It’s been a long time, and even if it can’t continue, there’s no reason not to enjoy tonight.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Things change, Graciela. You can’t stop it.”

  His presumption that he knows what thoughts are clanging around in my head annoys me at least as much as the fact that he’s guessed correctly. “So, where are you taking me that requires a dress?”

  If Beau notices the change in subject, he doesn’t call it out. And he notices. I’m not sure he misses much of anything, though he’s well bred enough not to comment on most of it.

  “Just dinner. I wanted to see if you’d actually dress up.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re a cad, Mr. Mayor, and I’m not sure I should go anywhere with you.”

  His eyes twinkle, golden in the late-evening light. They make it impossible for me to stay angry, a smile twitching the corners of my mouth, but I manage to hang on to my composure. Barely.

  “Well, the joke’s on you, because I like wearing dresses.”

  Mayor Beau suggests we walk, which suits me fine since I decided on flat sandals. Dresses are fine, but I draw the line at heels, especially for a date I didn’t technically agree to. But the evening is warm, the setting sun determined to put on a sexy show as it slides down toward the horizon on silky sheaths of indigo and blush, and the man at my side smells amazing, like soap and sea and maybe a hint of some kind of pine cologne. He’s gone to some trouble with his appearance as well, choosing a dark pair of jeans, shiny brown shoes, and a lilac button-down rolled to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms shift with every movement and are pleasant enough to look at. All in all, the night could be worse.

  Our stroll leads us to one of the two nice restaurants in town. Gallants sits on the water, but unlike the Wreck, the decor includes table linens, silver place settings, and nice china, and boasts a wine list that would make half the restaurants in Napa Valley green with envy. There’s a host, not a hostess, who throws me a merely curious look as opposed to one full of venom. It’s kind of nice but also a tad disappointing. I do better reacting to outright adversarial attitudes than to feeling like an animal in a zoo.

  He nods to Beau, then grabs two menus from the stand in front of him. “Right this way, Mayor Drayton.”

  “Thank you, Jerry. How’s that new litter of pups?”

  “Doing good, thanks. When are you going to let me hand one over? Best hunting dogs in the state!”

  “I know, believe me. When I have time to squeeze in some hunting trips again, or to take care of a dog, I’m coming to you.” He claps the man on the shoulder as we stop at a quiet table that boasts a spectacular view of the sunset over the Charles.

  The sun itself has retired, leaving fingernails painted lavender and fuchsia clinging to the waves in the distance. Beau’s voice, relaying how much he wants to have a dog again, drifts to the corners of my mind as the scenery floods my senses. So many memories. Good ones, bad ones, scary ones. Painful ones. I’d spent my formative years getting older in Iowa, but this is where I’d grown up. Where every experience that formed me, pushed me forward, or gave me understanding happened on these streets, on this water.

  That’s what makes a place home, I suppose. The fact that all of the memories add up to the person you’ve become, or the one you wanted to be and might find the strength to be again. Despite everything, my summers in Heron Creek left me with far more good than bad. Unlike life with my mother, or the father who died before any memories of us together could take root.

  How on earth had I ever thought returning to Heron Creek would be easy?

  “How about a bottle of wine? Graciela?”

  The question snaps my attention back to the man across the table. His eyebrows are raised, an amused crinkle forming between them.

  “What?”

  “Wine. What kind do you prefer?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Now, that can’t be true. White or red?”

  “Red,” I concede. “A gamay or a red zinfandel, please.”

  The server, who had appeared sometime during my reverie, nods. “We have an excellent and rare gamay in stock, one of my favorites.”

  “We’ll try that,” Mayor Beau says.

  The server scurries off, leaving the two of us alone with our menus. I bury my face in mine, hating to be one of those people who aren’t ready to order, and also starving. Eight o’clock is late, especially when I’ve been eating on a ninety-year-old’s schedule. Early-bird specials all around.

  It’s also a good excuse to avoid talking, which means avoiding saying something embarrassing or getting all teary-eyed over one thing or another, which has become something of an unwanted specialty of mine of late. As soon as I put my menu aside, Mayor Beau pounces.

  “Where were you before? When we first sat down?”

  My cheeks feel hot. He reads me too easily. “Old Heron Creek. Which is the same as new Heron Creek, with the exception of aging friends. Aging me.”

  “And a new mayor.”

  “Of course, how could I forget.” I give him a smile, but it feels strained. I’m kind of tired of putting on my teasing, sarcastic face for Mayor Beau. It’s exhausting, and maybe the way to make him go away is to act more the way I feel—lost and depressed.

  “Tell me about your summers.”

  “It’s not that exciting. Nothing different from anyone’s childhood summers, I’d wager.”

  “I’m not a fan of gambling.” A glint in his eyes tells me the comment isn’t offhand, but the energy to prod him about it is nowhere to be found. “You were friends with Will and Melanie, an enemy of Leo Boone. It seems you’re better connected here than my family ever has been in Charleston.”

  That makes me roll my eyes. “Doubtful. My friends’ families don’t have Drayton clout, though my cousin, Amelia, did marry a Middleton.”

  “Which one?” Shadows claim parts of Beau’s face, and it squeezes my lungs with fear.

  I don’t want to say Jake’s name, but I do. “Do you know him?”

  Beau nods, slowly, taking a sip of the wine he approved while we studied the menus. “Our families are old acquaintances. Sometimes friendly, sometimes not, depending on the generation. They’ve got quite a bit more stature. And money.”

  My mouth twists, sourness coating my tongue in spite of the sweet, fizzy gamay. “I’m aware.”

  We’d all been treated to extensive Middleton family histories when Jake had first come into Amelia’s life. Their roots trace all the way back to the foundation of the country, with Arthur Middleton, the grandson of the original patriarch, signing the Declaration of Independence. His grandson Williams Middleton signed South Carolina’s order of secession, an act that might be considered less honorable by some, but not necessarily by South Carolinians.

  “Anyway, the four of us were pretty inseparable as kids. All the way through high school, really.”

  “Then what happened?”

  I shrug, draining the rest of my first glass of wine. “What happens to anyone when they grow up? People move away, others move on…same old story, it just happens to be mine.”

  The idea of talking about what happened with Will and me makes the wine turn to vinegar in my stomach. It may be true that I long ago accepted the finality—the inevitability—of our ending, but it’s still a part of my past that seems best left undisturbed under a glass case. A piece of history relegated only to those who lived it.

  A change of subject can’t come fast enough. “What about you? Where did you grow up?”

  “Charleston, but I didn’t have the carefree summers or close friends you seem to have had. I didn’t find my place until I went to boarding school in England at fifteen and still keep in touch with most of my mates.”

  “What brought you to Heron Creek?”

  “I spent time in several co
astal towns when I finished graduate school but couldn’t get this area out of my mind. I love the people, mostly, and when they offered me a job in the local police department I jumped at the chance.”

  “Wait a second, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.” He sips his wine, content to let me put the numbers together.

  Even with finishing graduate school in a couple of years, he can’t have lived here more than four. It’s impressive, rising from entry-level cop to mayor in that amount of time, but knowing him even a little, it’s not surprising. Everyone likes him, and he makes it his business to remember details about everyone’s lives.

  It’s not my favorite thing about him, because now he’s intent on uncovering mine.

  “Impressive,” I offer.

  “I don’t think any more impressive than finishing a doctorate in archival studies, complete with a fluency in Latin and Greek, in less than four years.”

  My academic achievements are impressive, without the reason for my motivation being revealed. I’d wanted to be on David’s level, his peer, too badly to slow down.

  “You’ve been reading up on me.” There are other things easily located with Google—my engagement, for instance—but as usual, he doesn’t bring up anything unsavory. It’s as though he’s determined to see me in the best possible light, which works against my plan to make him understand that this will never work out.

  The topic turns to lighter fare as the food arrives, and as our bottle of wine disappears. It’s on the tip of my tongue to suggest we order another, but the thought that I’m going to need every last ounce of my wits to deflect his charm on the walk home makes it a bad idea. Plus, it’s time to either commit to or give up my drinking problem, and I find that solving the mystery of Anne Bonny encourages sobriety.

  She doesn’t come up in conversation, and neither does Will. We chat a bit about Gramps, all stories that bring a smile to my lips and an ache to my heart, as well as the Braves’ chances to make it to the play-offs this year. I learn that Beau laughs loudest when it’s surprised out of him, that he’s close to his mother and sister but doesn’t get along with his dad, and that he has political aspirations beyond Heron Creek.

  “You know, that makes three meals you’ve bought me,” I comment as he signs his credit card slip.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”

  He offers his arm, which I take because my brain is doing a backstroke in the wine, and threads his fingers between mine. The air outside has cooled to a mostly comfortable degree. Moonbeams bounce off the gently moving water of the Charles River, lighting the uneven sidewalk as well as the pale streetlamps.

  I take a deep breath, sucking down courage and blowing out the lust that had infected my nether regions when his fingers locked with mine. “Mr. Mayor, I had a lovely time tonight.”

  “As did I. But if you don’t start calling me Beau it’s going to ruin everything.”

  “There’s nothing to ruin.” I chance a look at his profile and get caught in the expression he’s using to kill my resistance. “I’m sure that you uncovered a few things besides my doctoral work at the University of Iowa. I came back here for Gramps, that’s true, but I’m also here to kind of…hide away. Heal. Figure out where I go next, and if I go there alone.”

  He says nothing, and the comfort of his strong silence almost flings me into his arms. Which is the opposite of what I’ve been saying, and what I think I feel. Want.

  Maybe need.

  “What I’m saying is that I’m not ready for romance, or a relationship, or probably even a roll in the hay. I don’t know if you have any or all of those on the agenda, but I want you to know where I stand. When I say I’m a mess, I’m not trying to be cute or coy. It’s the truth. You shouldn’t get caught up in it.”

  Beau stops, turning to face me. The moonlight sweeps across his face, pale shadows dancing with dappled light that catches every strong angle. They should be too sharp, too hard, but for some reason it works with the softness of his hazel eyes, the gentle squeeze of his fingers around mine.

  “I know we don’t know each other all that well, and I’ve been pretty silly, popping around and looking you up so I felt more ready for our date tonight. But the truth is, it’s been a long time since anyone has walked into this town and snagged my interest. Since anyone has been brave enough to look me in the eye and tell me what they think, not what they assume I want to hear.” A crooked smile appears, along with a single dimple and an endearing expression of chagrin. “But most anyone in town—including your friends the Gayles—could tell you that I’m not the type of guy to go out of my way for a roll in the hay. I’d go into this wanting more, but if you’re not ready, I’ll settle for a new friend.”

  Friend. Without Amelia or Melanie close at hand, just the word makes me aware of the empty caverns inside me. They used to be filled with laughter and secrets, love and generosity. It hits me hard, the craving to have that again, but the way he affects me, it’s unlikely I’ll find it in Beauregard Drayton. Or only that, at any rate.

  Maybe that’s not fair. Will and I had been friends, once. It’s not a bad place to start, and for all my bravado and pushing away, I don’t like the idea of passing the mayor on the street with nothing more than the same tip of the head he offers everyone else in town.

  We start walking again before I decide on an answer, but my heart knows I need a friend. I’ve said as much as I can manage; there won’t be any more protests from my lips. It’s sweet of Beau to care.

  All thoughts of romance and friendship and loneliness flee my brain when we get within shouting distance of Gramps’s house and see my car. Starlight glints off a bed of glass that used to make up the windows. My mouth falls open, and my feet stumble to a stop, but Beau keeps going, his stride quick and purposeful as he checks the area and then surveys my car. It’s too dark to make out his expression, but his tight movements communicate both efficiency and concern.

  His reaction mirrors the one flashing through my mind, which is that this is Heron Creek. Cars don’t get vandalized in people’s driveways. Even as kids, the worst thing we did was toss a few eggs or rolls of toilet paper. Nothing that cost people money or frightened them.

  Beau leans over my missing windshield, plucking a square of yellow paper that looks familiar from the wiper blade. My stomach sinks, landing somewhere around my knees. It wasn’t a joke, the note at the library. Now they—whoever they are—came to my house. To Gramps’s house.

  I wish Mayor Beau hadn’t seen the note. It’s going to make an explanation necessary, but explaining things I don’t understand doesn’t rank very high on my favorite things. If at all. Not to mention I feel like an idiot—likely the first person in the history of Heron Creek to be left vaguely threatening love notes.

  “Someone left you a note, Gracie.”

  It’s odd, but my first thought is how nice my nickname sounds covered by his honeyed drawl. No proper response comes to mind as his fingers toy with the crispy parchment, folding it open. My feet move, though, carrying me to his side in a few steps, wishing for a way to steal the note away before he can read it.

  Not possible, of course.

  “Stay away from the archives. This be not only your second warning but your last,” he reads aloud while I follow along. Clouds of anger thicken on his features when he’s finished. “What the hell is this? What does it mean, second warning?”

  His demanding tone leaves no doubt that he’s not often ignored. It’s beyond my capability to do so now, and if we’re going to be friends, this seems like a good place to start.

  “I don’t know, okay? After we ate at the Wreck yesterday, there was something similar on my car. Except it didn’t say anything about the archives or staying away from them. Just some vague crap about me being warned.” I take the note from him, mentally comparing the paper and handwriting. “Looks like it’s from the same person.”

  “I certainly hope so. One note-writing vandal in tow
n seems to be quite enough.” Irritation swirls in his hazel eyes, dark in the deepening evening. “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

  I feel defensive, which makes me hate everything about this situation, including the man standing in front of me. David had me on the defensive all the time, even when he’d imagined whatever upset him in the first place. I never want to feel that way again, never want to have to explain myself, yet here I am.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Mayor, maybe because you’re about the only person in town who doesn’t have me pegged for a girl with only one oar in the water the way it is? I wanted to keep it that way a little longer, and confessing that I’d received a weird note the day after deciding I’m seeing the ghost of a goddamn eighteenth-century pirate seemed like the fastest way for you to grab your own pitchfork and light me on fire.” A chill sinks into my bones, leaving me shivering in the eighty-degree evening.

  “This note is real, Graciela. It’s not some figment of your imagination, and as far as Anne Bonny’s ghost, I’m sorry Martin and I had a laugh at your expense last night. You certainly wouldn’t be the first person to see her, and you won’t be the last.” He reaches out, snagging my hands and squeezing tight. The slight pain in my knuckles focuses my attention. “We can figure this out. We’ll talk to Gramps, I’ll notify the police, and I won’t let them relax until they find who did this.”

  “No, please. If we report it, it’ll just get around even faster. And as far as Gramps, I came here to ease his burdens, not make them bigger and more embarrassing.” My tone turns pleading, and it makes me feel disgusting and weak. But this is my life, and my call, and some stupid vandal that leaves stupid notes isn’t going to ruin what little I’ve got. “I’m not scared, Beau. Whoever’s doing this is a coward, leaving notes and making messes.”

  His lips pull down into a deep frown, eyes burrowing into mine as though they’re looking to dig up a different response. “I don’t like it. This person could be dangerous. But it’s your decision.”