by Lyla Payne
“I know, Beau. I know that. It’s just … I’m … I don’t … I’m trying,” I finish lamely.
“You’re scared.” He sweeps my hair off my forehead. “We’re all scared, Graciela, and you’ve had a hell of a couple of years. I’m not pushing you, and neither are your friends. But there is some really scary shit going down right now.”
“Wait, did you already talk to Jasper about me?” My brain is catching up, too slow after the overloaded evening and desperate to avoid the emotional things Mayor Beau wants to pursue.
“Yes, right after we talked the other day. I just let him know that you might be asking for help and gave him a vague idea of why.” His brow furrows. “Is that a problem?”
Not a problem, but it is one more person who knows about my interest in Glinda. Someone I don’t know and, if Leo’s right, someone who might have a reason to maintain a certain level of interest in local shenanigans. “No. But I don’t think I’ll call him now, anyway. Not after talking to Clete today and everything that’s happened.”
The evasive response burns my cheeks with shame even though there’s no way for Beau to know there’s a double truth in it. Now that I have my own in, I don’t need Beau’s friend to show me back out to the Davis property. In fact, not taking Jasper along might give me the chance to drop his name into conversation, to find out whether he’s known among the mountain guys and what their relationship is.
“Graciela, I can see the wheels turning in your head. What’s up?” He’s watching me too closely, has gotten to know me so much better than I’ve gotten to know him.
It makes me feel selfish, and awful, for always being the one taking up the attention, but it’s not like I asked to suddenly start attracting ghosts like a fourteen-year-old boy who just discovered Axe body spray draws in girlfriends.
Then there’s the suspicious part of me, the dark part—maybe it’s those damn devils on both shoulders—that wonders whether Beau’s engineering the imbalance of information sharing in our relationship.
I shake it off, remembering he’s waiting for an answer and determined not to start digging up trouble where it’s content to stay buried. Or imagined. “If he’s the Berkeley County sheriff, then surely he knows Clete and the others, and at least suspects what’s going on out there. Maybe he knows more than that.”
I keep quiet about my secondary thought, which is that he could be on the take or involved somehow, too, but Beau sees something in my face and frowns. “Jasper’s a good guy, Graciela. I’ve known him since college, and he wouldn’t be involved with those kind of people.”
“I’ve known Will a lot longer than that, and as much as it kills me, I’m willing to admit there are circumstances that make people take actions they normally wouldn’t.”
“If I put you in touch with him and he agrees to help you out, you can’t go questioning him like he’s some kind of suspect in your amateur investigation. He’s planning on running for higher office one day, and the last thing he needs is to be involved in one of your rumors.”
The shame heating my cheeks turns to shocked anger in the blink of an eye. “Oh, you mean the way you are? I’m sure it’s going to be the talk of the town, how you had to bail your crazy-ass girlfriend out of jail in the middle of the night even though she probably killed poor Glinda in one of her drunken paranormal stupors.” Tears spill down my cheeks, and I’ve never hated my proclivity to cry when I’m angry more than I do right now. “I’m sure this is all going to look really good for your political aspirations, Mr. Mayor.”
“That’s not fair, Graciela. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that you’re making way too big of a deal out of what you perceive as your negative impact on my life.”
Despite the words, which are exactly the right ones for the moment, the tightness of his voice makes it clear that he’s still angry with me. And now it’s because of more than not trusting him with every last detail of my life.
My throat burns. It propels me out of bed and into my sandals before Beau scrambles from his side, tripping over the sheets as they slump toward the floor.
“Gracie, stop. It’s the middle of the night. Where are you going?”
“Home.” I swallow, finding the courage to meet his worried gaze. “It doesn’t mean anything, I just need to be alone right now. Plus, I don’t like leaving Millie alone after everything that’s happened.”
Which is true. Not just because of today, either, but because the specter of Mrs. LaBadie hangs constantly over our heads.
“You don’t have a car.”
“Will you drive me?”
He looks at me for several seconds, sorrow and concern and an odd sort of desperation flickering across his too-hard features before easing into acceptance. “Yes, of course.”
I grab my bra and clothes from the bathroom, then loiter in the doorway while Beau tugs a T-shirt on over his bare chest. Even now, with my emotions on a roller coaster with no chicken exit in sight, lust tickles the edges of my awareness.
His hand brushes my waist as he steers me through the hallway toward the front door. The scents in his house collide, trying to convince me to stay, begging me not to run until my cheeks are coated with tears.
Beau pulls open the front door, then bends to wipe at the salty tracks on my face. He presses a kiss to my lips, one that’s too brief, but the rueful smile he offers afterward makes me feel better. “You’re not an easy woman, Graciela Anne Harper.”
The way he says it makes it clear that it’s not a bad thing, or at least not a deal breaker, and my heart breaks a little because I don’t deserve a man this great.
“I know,” I tell him, summoning a wobbly smile.
He walks me out to the car, and I can’t help thinking that this won’t be the last time we have this conversation. Because his friend Jasper is the only other person who knows about my interest in Glinda Davis and her land in Berkeley County, at least the only one I haven’t known all my life, and I’m not going to stop asking questions until someone damn well gives me answers that make at least a little bit of sense.
Chapter Fourteen
I’ve taken a day to myself to regroup, spending it with Amelia in front of the computer or the television, and one twilight walk down by the river. Hiding, basically, and while it isn’t the best way to clear my name or get rid of my ghosts, it’s done wonders for my mental state. We’re having an argument about adopting the mangy stray cat that seems to have a borderline personality disorder, and Millie’s still too mired in her own thoughts when she’s not lecturing me about one thing or another, but without any further appearances by the cops or moonshiners, things at home have settled back into something familiar, if with an unsettling edge.
The ghostly man watches me with mournful eyes as I toss my long hair up in a ponytail, the stray thought about it needing a cut making me sad. Everything that’s happened since Glinda’s death has kind of overshadowed the sorrow about it. And honestly, the shock. People don’t get murdered in Heron Creek. A woman we all knew, one of our own, is dead.
Her spirit drifts in through my bedroom window as though she read my thoughts, frightening away the original ghostly visitor of my day. Who knows how these things work? Maybe she did read my thoughts. Maybe she knows everything I’m thinking and all of the asinine, whiny shit that goes through my mind on a daily basis.
If so, that explains why she’s even more irritated and impatient dead than she was alive. Which is saying something.
There wasn’t a funeral for Glinda, or a memorial. It turned out she didn’t want one, at least according to the man at the funeral home who had a directive on file, and with no family except her granddaughter to go against her wishes, the town left flowers and candles and cards outside the abandoned beauty salon. She was buried quietly in the local cemetery, in a prearranged plot, and no one attended.
It’s kind of sad to think about no one being there to say good-bye, but no one knows better than me that Glinda’s not in her grave waiting fo
r people to come water the fresh-turned dirt with their tears. Even if she were, the woman was the queen of no-fuss.
I’m going out to the cabin today to meet Cooter, so a little more fuss would be appreciated.
“You know, if you could give me something besides ‘go to the cabin,’ Glinda, that would be super helpful,” I say, casting her stocky, transparent frame a sidelong look. She stands with her arms crossed near the comfy reading chair by the window where Anne loved to sit and stare at the sky. “Nothing, huh? What did you care about enough to hang around? The town?”
She frowns at that suggestion. Or maybe she doesn’t like the shirt I pulled on.
Glancing down, I realize it doesn’t really match the floral shorts I chose earlier and swap it for a white tank, figuring no one can argue with that. My change in wardrobe does nothing to improve ol’ Glinda’s disposition, leaving me to guess that her grudging love of Heron Creek and its residents isn’t the reason she’s still hanging around, judging our haircuts and clothes.
“I don’t know what else you cared about, except moonshine and tax-free cash, apparently.” That makes her frown harder, but a light sparks in her pale eyes at the word cash. Could she have money stashed out there? “What does a ghost need with money?”
I ask the question aloud, even though she’s obviously not going to answer me. Amelia’s gone, at some pregnant-lady exercise class instead of Sunday-morning church service, so at least she’s not around to give me a hard time for chatting up dead people without any regard for who might be listening.
Were there oxygen in her lungs, Glinda’s response to my question would probably have been a huff, blowing her thick bangs out of her eyes and off her forehead. I feel as though I’m playing a game of Hot or Cold with a mute. I guess I kind of am.
So, it has something to do with money but not because the ghost wants money. Got it.
That’s good, because money doesn’t seem like something a guy such as Clete’s going to be fond of parting with, whether it’s technically his to begin with or not.
“How come you’re intent on leading me on a wild goose chase through the woods instead of telling me who killed you? Do you want someone like that running loose in Heron Creek?”
Her expression darkens, anger flashing. It doesn’t seem to be directed at me, so when she raises a finger, pointing directly at my chest, it’s confusing. “Me?”
She shakes her head again, poking the finger my way, looking more exasperated than ever. I throw up my hands and slip into my tennis shoes, tying them securely before grabbing my purse. “Well, we’re not going to solve this one today. Will you show up at the cabin? That’ll be helpful.” A blank stare. “I’ll have to make sure your old friend Cooter waits outside, I guess. Unless you’re wanting to haunt him, too.”
A wicked smile paints her lips at the suggestion, which makes me shake my head. Glinda and I are getting along in death about how well we got along in life, which is to say driving each other nuts and failing to communicate well on most levels. I’m also still doing her bidding, which is exactly how it’s always been, but the difference is this time I at least have a chance at helping her in a way that’s pleasing to her.
Glinda’s never happy with a job done, or even done well, because Lord knows she could have done it better herself were she not so tired or hot or infirm or just so busy with her own—mostly imaginary—affairs.
I’m ready to go but still have at least thirty minutes of extra time before I’m scheduled to meet Cooter or Big Ern or whatever character Clete’s sending to meet and/or murder me at the abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere.
“How about we go check out your grave before I go stare body odor and poison ivy in the face? I haven’t seen it yet.” I look up from my shoes to find her gone, nothing in that corner of my room except the empty chair and yesterday morning’s crusty Bloody Mary glass on the table beside it. “Well, how do you do. I’ll take that as a yes.”
I drive my car, which is sporting a brand-new distributor cap thanks to the son portion of Jackson and Son Garage—who happens to be a girl named Eleanor—because even at 7:00 a.m. it’s hot enough outside to melt my eyeballs right out of their sockets, and because I am going to have to head straight to the country after visiting Glinda’s grave. It wouldn’t be necessary otherwise, since the town’s cemetery is less than a ten-minute walk from home, like everywhere else in Heron Creek. Amelia and I used to think it was the most hilarious joke asking Grams and Gramps, “How far?” every time we left to go somewhere.
The cemetery rests at one of the town’s highest points, the farthest away from the river, but still barely meets the requirements for burial as far as water tables and sea level go. It’s small but growing, though slowly enough not to give anyone serious worries. The grass is a little long but the grounds on either side of the wrought-iron arch are well maintained, even though the majority of the plots and headstones are unadorned by flowers, wreaths, or other trinkets. I don’t think anyone died between Glinda and Gramps, and her still fresh grave, positioned under a middle-aged sweetbay magnolia tree, isn’t hard to find.
The bench across from the tall headstone transfers a blessed coolness through my shorts to the backs of my thighs, and in the shade from the thick, waxy leaves the breeze feels almost pleasant.
I read the inscription absentmindedly, thinking it’s nice how they referred to Glinda as the town’s mother, before noticing the smaller, older grave sinking into the dirt beside hers. The name on it reads nell davis, and the simple inscription refers to her as beloved daughter and mother. Nothing about her being a wife, and the dates of birth and death put her around the age of thirty when she died.
It seems logical to assume she might have been the daughter of Merle—who I still can’t believe I never knew existed—and Glinda. Maybe the mother of Glinda’s granddaughter, Winnie. I’m curious what happened to Nell, whether anyone in town remembers, and make a mental note to find out.
The fact that there’s no grave for Merle next to Glinda and the girl is telling of the state of their relationship, and it’s very strange for Glinda to never talk about an estranged husband who made moonshine in the mountains. Even if, according to Leo, she did take over the business.
As pleasant as this spot is, there’s nothing to be learned sitting here. I get up and wander over to where Gramps was buried a few months ago, right next to Grams and their son who died as a child. My mother chose to be buried in Iowa, for reasons that weren’t disclosed to me, and if nothing else, it’s annoying that I can’t visit everyone all at once. My mother, as much as I loved her, was never much for making life easy on me.
Thinking about my family brings a smile to my face. Whatever’s gone wrong the last several years, they started me out right. That means that, underneath the insecurity and embarrassment and anger and loss, there’s a good foundation. Anything can be rebuilt from that. Even me.
“Hey, Gramps.” Sunlight touches my cheek, and I smile bigger. “Things haven’t gotten a whole lot calmer since you left, but I’m still vertical. And Mayor Beau hasn’t run off yet, just like you predicted. You must be wearing a big shit-eating grin to hear me admit that.”
I pause, knowing it’s silly to talk to him like this. He and Grams aren’t here. There was a time in my life when I’d have been sure they were together again in heaven, and that’s the hope they both clung to until their dying breaths. Longing, potent and swift, fills up my lungs and soaks my blood, the result a strange waterlogged sensation that makes my body feel heavy in the early morning.
Those days—those wide-eyed, unquestioned beliefs of my youth—made life seem so simple. Direct and straightforward, as though one thing automatically begat another, so that days and months and years could turn into an ordered life if one just followed the rules.
That’s not true, of course, and like my cousin, the events of the past several years have left me unsure of faith and belief, even though they’re at my core, waiting to be revisited.
/> But now’s not the time.
I stay for another couple of minutes, telling Gramps that the Braves are looking good for the play-offs, admitting to Grams that I’m finally thinking of taking her up on the suggestion to check out the local shooting range now that I’ve taken up with the area’s criminal element, and reminding them both how much Millie and I wish they were still here.
The sound of a mower interrupts the peace and calm of the morning, and on my way out of the cemetery, I run into Leo in the driver’s seat of the riding John Deere. Marcella, an impossibly pretty little four-year-old with silky black hair and giant dark eyes, grins at me from the safe spot between her uncle’s arms.
“Hey!” I shout before he runs me over.
The grumble of grinding gears evaporates, leaving my ears ringing until the rustling leaves and singing birds sound like silence.
“Hey,” he replies in a normal tone, using his sweaty arm to swipe at grass and pollen stuck to his forehead. “What are you doing out of bed before noon?”
I make a mock-belly-laugh motion, grabbing my gut with a silent guffaw. “How many jobs do you have, Leo? And why don’t you just pick one?”
Before he can answer I grin at Marcella, whose bright eyes shine my direction. “Hi, Marcie.”
She smiles in response, her thumb sneaking toward her lips.
“Some of us like to stay busy,” Leo answers. “And besides, this one’s volunteer. Can’t charge a church on Sunday mornings, right? This takes the place of a monetary donation, and I get out of sittin’ on those hard pews for an hour.”
“They’re not so bad unless you’re shifting with guilt,” I tease.
“I don’t like the way that guy stares at me.”
“What guy?”
“The one in all the stained-glass windows?”
“You mean Jesus?” I pat Leo’s arm. “Word on the street is he’s not at all judgy. Maybe you just have issues being loved.”
His eyes sparkle. “Doctor Pot, Paging Doctor Kettle.”