Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  In the past week, between my job and spending time with Beau, not to mention quite a bit less drinking, I’ve been feeling better. Maybe I’ve passed the midway point of my tunnel, with the tiniest pinprick of light winking at me from the far faraway distance. The thought of sexy Mayor Beau makes me wish my lifeboat moved a little bit faster, but it goes as it goes, my Grams would say.

  Anne and I pass the rest of the thirty-minute drive in silence, which is expected, but her jaw is hard and she refuses to even try to respond to my conversation attempts. Fantastic. Even though I’m her chauffeur, the woman doing her bidding at midnight on a Wednesday, she’s apparently big on holding grudges. I’m also too wimpy to say any of that to her pasty face, since she does have a sword.

  A ghost sword. I wonder if it’s still sharp.

  I pull off the road just past the entrance to William Cormac’s former property. It’s gated and locked, at least to cars, and my feet crunch too loudly on the gravel. Anne’s out of the car and standing inside the gate, waiting for me with an impatient set to her strong shoulders.

  The wind blows harder here, snatching dirt and particles from their perches and flinging them into my eyes. The storm marches forward, gathering force on the horizon before making its full-on assault, but there’s no doubt it’s coming. It would be best to take an umbrella, but there isn’t one in my car even though I’m sure there had been when I’d left Iowa. Maybe she stole that, too, and her goal is to get me soaked and laugh it up.

  No. Whatever Anne is, whatever she wants, it’s not about pranks or haunts. She has a purpose.

  The ghost moves on, hiking down the lane that would eventually lead to the house and museum. Giant live oaks with trunks so wide it would take ten of me to ring them tower over the path, playing unwilling host to heavy curtains of Spanish moss that twist in the wind. Anne turns off the path before the house comes into view, and I follow, despite the fact that the wind rustling the trees grows stronger. The world blurs no matter how hard I blink, making me wish I’d gotten Lasik the twenty-seventh time David mentioned how dorky I look in glasses, instead of contacts. Perhaps stubborn defiance has not always served me well.

  Anne Bonny realizes I’ve stopped to try to wipe the dirt from my eyes and pauses, turning back to watch me. My vision clears for a moment, and when our eyes meet, there’s nothing of her previous smoldering anger, or even the frustration of our previous meetings.

  Tears roll down my face before my brain registers that I’m crying. Her anguished desperation is palpable; it pounds me with more ferocity than the wind, with more poignancy than even my own depression. It pushes me to my knees, the heartache that crashes into me, ripping at my heart with a kind of torment that seems too pervasive, too merciless to be real.

  It starts to ease when our gazes pull apart, but even the memory of it makes me gasp. Several moments pass before I climb back to my feet, ignoring the globs of dirt and pine needles sticking to my bare knees. Jeans would have been a better choice, but she didn’t inform me the evening plans included hiking.

  I follow Anne with renewed dedication, suddenly finding a purpose of my own. If I can help fix whatever tortures her after two-hundred-plus years, I’m going to do it. I haven’t the slightest idea what plagues her, but I couldn’t be happier it didn’t happen to me.

  We trek through the trees, sticking close together. She’d better know where she’s going, because after five minutes of twists and turns, there’s no way I’m finding my way back to my car on my own. It’s hard to know how far our hike has taken us before she stops at the edge of a clearing, staring across a pond of waist-high grasses crawling with who knows what kind of bugs and other creepies waiting to infect me with tropical diseases.

  The only tree is on the far edge, a magnolia so huge it doesn’t look real. Moss creeps up its trunk, and its thick branches twist and turn in a gorgeous, somehow threatening display of nature.

  The ghost steps toward it, her pace faster, almost running now. She slips around to the opposite side, the girth of the trunk more than enough to hide her wispy form, and I follow, scared to lose sight of her in this strange place. My feet tangle in the roots, sending me crashing to my hands and knees, twisting my ankle in the process. It’s the same one that betrayed me with Will earlier, but this time the pain that shoots right up the bone is no joke.

  I sit on the ground, breathing through the pain and poking at the new scrapes up my legs, not realizing right away that Anne’s disappeared. Panic sets in, because it’s about to storm and I’m trespassing for the second time in the same day, with no way to get out, but I squash it down. She’ll be back.

  Instead of curling up in the fetal position and crying, which might make me feel better for a second but won’t do a smidgen of good in the long run, I turn on the flashlight app on my phone and go searching for what tripped me, mostly so I can chuck it against the tree.

  Or at least spit on it.

  My free hand finds a cool, smooth rock three-quarters buried in the damp ground. Then another, and another, and I put down my phone, exploring with both hands until I’ve uncovered a dozen grapefruit-sized stones embedded in the soft ground, glowing pale in the strikes of lightning.

  They’re too perfect to be naturally occurring accidents, not to mention that nothing but human hands could have placed them so carefully between the magnolia’s twisted, exposed roots. They almost look like marble against the backdrop of the velvety black night.

  The first drop of rain maneuvers its way through the thick canopy of leaves, plopping on my cheek with a good measure of defiance. Great. Anne Bonny’s ghost brought me out here, watched me trip over some weird rocks, and then left me trapped in a coming rainstorm. The tree will provide some cover, because the number of splashes hitting the leaves outnumbers those dropping onto my skin, but it’s a small comfort.

  Uncomfortable or not, without Anne or good light, there’s no way I’m finding the car.

  My attention turns back to the rocks, if only to use the mystery to calm my panic, which still teeters on the edge of a screaming freak-out. I’m enough of a country girl to know that the first rule of being lost in the woods is to not lose my shit.

  I brush away leaves and dirt from the sleek white rocks, until I’ve uncovered all of them—sixteen in total, that shape a crudely formed X. It almost makes me laugh, because for all Anne’s bluster and evil looks, I’m following around a pirate cliché.

  Then again, are you a cliché if you’re one of the people who set the standard?

  It’s a question for another, drier, possibly saner time. If I have any of those left.

  “Anne! What am I supposed to do now, you sadistic bitch? Sit here and get soaked? What’d you drag me out here for?”

  No answer, but of course the answer lies in front of me. X marks the spot, after all, so as more fat, chilly raindrops decorate my goose-pimpled skin, I search for a stick for a minute before finding one thick enough to help me dig. Time passes, and mud builds up on my arms and legs like a second skin as I work the four rocks in the middle loose with my stick and my hands, sacrificing four fingernails to the effort.

  The stick scrapes against something that doesn’t sound like dirt or roots, and I toss it aside in favor of the gentler ministrations of my fingertips. It’s a trick I recall from a couple of archaeology classes, to abandon sharp tools when unearthing artifacts.

  My hands find the smooth wooden surface that turns out to be the top of a small box. The bottom is half rotted away, but an oily piece of cloth covers the item inside, protecting it from the elements with a fair amount of success. It goes against all of my training to open such a thing in the rain, so I leave everything inside the smelly, half-damp box and tuck it under my shirt.

  Anne’s traitorous ass is nowhere to be seen, and fear or not, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind the next time she shows up. Of course, if this little present is all she wanted me to find, maybe she won’t come back.

  The thought saddens me, which ma
kes me shake my head at my idiocy. I need to take Leo up on that dinner offer, because if I’m looking for a sign that I need friends, missing a pushy, abandoning ghost is a big one.

  The clouds blot out the moon and stars, draping the night in complete blackness save the occasional flash of lightning. Each clap of thunder shudders the earth beneath me, transferring the booming shivers up my spine. Thunderstorms are one of my favorite things, but not so much when I’m trapped inside one.

  I could use the GPS on my phone, maybe, and send the location to…who? There’s no one I can call in the middle of the night to bail me out, and as with the horrible expression on Anne’s face on our trek out here, the realization that even a ghost has more passion for life than I do gives me a reason to change. It’s no way to live, clinging to the past and my hatred of David.

  Of myself.

  My phone’s dead, anyway, I realize when I try to turn the flashlight back on for a little bit of light. That’s not good, because in the morning Gramps is going to panic when I’m not there, and more when he can’t get ahold of me. Aunt Karen will give me the business if he ends up having a heart attack because of me, the very girl who claims she moved back to the Creek to help him.

  Not to mention I’d never forgive myself.

  My ankle aches where I turned it, and whatever help the Advil lent to my face earlier has worn off. Chills creep over me as the errant drops of rain join together to make rivers on my skin, then little cold lakes under my skin. I draw my knees up to my chest, my back against the tree, which helps keep my body heat circulating and the box as dry as possible, then put my head down on my arms. It’s not much, but it’s enough to thwart my shivers. I think there’s no way I’m going to sleep a wink but close my eyes anyway, just in case.

  Chapter Eleven

  My eyes open to a brilliant, cloudless morning and the first streaks of golden light across the sky. Even with the clear weather, my bum ankle and the fact that I have no idea where my car is ensure it’s almost noon by the time I make it back to Heron Creek. My phone lies useless on the passenger seat, and every time it gleams in the corner of my eye my stomach clenches harder, knowing there’s no way to tell Gramps I’m fine.

  He’s got to be worried sick. There’s no telling who he called, either. Maybe Mrs. Walters. It kills me to think people are going to say I’m not good for him, even more so because they’re right. They’re so right.

  Gramps’s house appears at the end of the block like a mirage. I want nothing more than to reassure him I’m fine, then take some painkillers and a shower, and go to bed. In that order.

  There’s someone sitting on our front porch, and the figure jumps to its feet at the sight of my car. It’s Melanie, I realize as I park and open the door, watching Grant leap after what might be a frog in the side yard. She strides toward me, worry pinching her pretty features. Red circles rim her eyes and bloom on her cheeks, and she calls Grant to her before she gets close enough to startle at my appearance. If it was horrific yesterday, there probably aren’t words now.

  She makes no comment. “Get to the hospital, Gracie. They took Gramps a few hours ago.”

  “Who took him?”

  “He called Mayor Drayton when you didn’t come down this morning, and when he got here he found Gramps unconscious in the living room.”

  “What are you doing here?” It might be a rude question, but I can’t tell. My brain stopped functioning at the news that my disappearance and subsequent failure to have a charged cell phone like a goddamn adult hurt the one person who never stopped caring about me.

  “The mayor called Will. I guess you must have mentioned we’re all friends. Were all friends, whatever, and he thought someone should be here to tell you. Will went with Gramps to the hospital.”

  The smallest bit of relief filters through my mountain of grief, trickling down like a cool river. “Thank you.”

  “Go. I’m going to feed Grant lunch and then stop by and check on you.”

  It takes ten minutes to get to the Creek’s rinky-dink hospital. It smells like the worst things in the world—antiseptic, false hope, and death. I’d add doctors to the list, but at the moment they’re sort of a necessity and I don’t want to offend the universe. It hates me enough as it is.

  My ankle throbs as I limp-hop to the information desk and get Gramps’s room number. He’s lying on a bed by the window when I burst through the door, fast asleep and hooked up to a few monitors. At first glance I can see there’s nothing invasive, no tubes in his nose or down his throat. The other bed, the one closest to the door, is made and empty.

  Mayor Beau sits on one side of Gramps, reading papers probably culled from the briefcase on the floor next to his uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. Will’s on the opposite side, his eyes focused on the Cubs game playing on television. They both look up, then jump up at the sight of me in the doorway, which makes me realize I should have at least wiped my face in the car. The weirdness of seeing them here, together, sticks my feet to the spot while they rush over, helping me into the chair closest to Gramps. Will grabs the seat Beau had been using, sliding it over to support my ankle, which looks even worse than it feels.

  “Jesus, Gracie, where have you been? And what happened to your foot? And your hands and legs?” Will’s gush of concerns washes over me, snapping me out of my trance.

  “Her legs? What happened to her face?” Beau’s voice sounds strangled and holds a trace of restrained anger.

  He should be mad at me. Everyone should hate me for this.

  “Who cares what happened to me, what happened to Gramps?” His face is pale, too pale, and the shallowness of his noisy breathing seizes my three-sizes-too-small heart. It’s going to disappear altogether when Gramps leaves me, I know it.

  “He had a coughing fit that wouldn’t stop, I think. His face was all red after I came down from checking upstairs for you.”

  “What do the doctors say?” My land, I hate doctors.

  “Pneumonia. They did a bunch of tests and haven’t gotten the results yet, but they’ve got him on strong antibiotics and some steroids for his lungs. What happened to your face?”

  “I’m going to let you explain that to Beau while I find a doctor to take a look at that ankle.” Will excuses himself, likely because he knows two things the mayor doesn’t: how I busted my face, and that if I’ve been outside, me tripping, falling, and generally getting scratched up isn’t an interesting or new tale.

  It makes me feel so much better to know that Will’s here. Things might be awkward between us, but it’s nice to know that when it counts, there’s still love and friendship in the bedrock of our relationship. With Mel, too. A flare of hope, small but bright, catches in my chest. If Will, Mel, and I can find our way back, maybe Amelia can, too.

  Exhaustion obscures the flame, blots out everything but what’s right in front of me. I’m left with Mayor Beau, whose tight, guarded expression smolders like hot coals around the edge of a fire, so I cough up a story for him. “I fell at work yesterday and hit my face on the corner of a cart.”

  Lying to him hurts a little in unexpected places, like a corner of my heart that’s somehow made room for him. This is no way to start even a friendship, but I’ve told that story so many times now there’s no way to change it without starting a domino effect.

  Plus, he doesn’t need to know I broke into the library. It’s called plausible deniability.

  “Well, it looks awful. Your eyes are both black, your nose is swollen, and it doesn’t look like you’ve cleaned it up. Not to mention your legs are scraped all to hell—did you go rolling in a rosebush?”

  My shoulders slump as the last bit of energy, the surge that got me to the hospital, bleeds out onto the floor. It makes sense, what he says, because I feel as though I’ve been chewed up and spit out.

  Beau sighs and disappears into the bathroom, where I hear the water turn on a second later. With the sun warming me through the window, it’s hard not to fall asleep to the sound of Gramps�
�s steady breathing. The mayor reemerges with a wet washrag, a dry towel, and a couple packets of alcohol pads. He pulls the chair Will vacated around next to me, then sits, his knees straddling my curled body.

  “Look at me.”

  I do what he says, because it’s nice to have someone take care of me for a change. I do such a shitty job of it on my own. The washcloth is warm against my face and feels good as he swipes at dirt with a gentle hand. He lays the other one at the base of my throat, his long fingers reaching up to rest on my pulse as he steadies me for his ministrations.

  “I went for a walk,” I say softly as he towels me dry and then goes to work with the alcohol pads, which sting enough to make me grit my teeth. “I got lost when it started to rain, so I had to wait out the storm.”

  Will’s voice slips in from the hallway, wriggling between us and holding the rest of my story hostage. There isn’t much more to tell, if I don’t count Anne’s insistence on a road trip, her subsequent disappearance, and the buried treasure on her father’s land.

  Beau watches me as Will explains to someone that I need a doctor to examine my ankle, his typically good-humored eyes serious now. “We’re going to discuss this further. You know this town like the back of your hand. Where exactly were these attack woods that trapped you all night and half the day?”

  A gaggle of shivers force themselves upon me, my skin chilly in the filthy, damp clothes from last night. It could be the ragged, worried tone of his voice or the certainty that he’s going to wrangle the truth out of me one way or another. I’ve told him too much already; he knows my getting lost in Heron Creek is impossible. I couldn’t get lost in Charleston, either, but the surrounding acres of plantations, marshes, and river lands are a different story.