Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “Can I go pick the flowers?” Marcella asks, turning a questioning gaze on Leo. She’s bored with us, obviously, and it makes me smile.

  “Sure, hon. Don’t leave the cemetery, okay?”

  She nods, and he helps her slip off the mower. We both watch as she runs, bending every few feet to pluck a dandelion or a purple clover, and I think how this conversation could be weird, but somehow Leo makes even the true things you want to believe aren’t true seem more humorous than embarrassing.

  Even so, I’m itching to change the subject. “I was just visiting Glinda.”

  “Came to say you’re sorry for killing her, huh?”

  I sigh at the sly look he gives me. “Word’s already out, huh?”

  “You mean how the cops showed up and searched your house, then marched you out in handcuffs? Or how you spent a few hours in jail while Mayor Drayton ran all over hell’s half acre and dragged a judge out of bed to grant your bail in the middle of the night?”

  “Oh Moses smell the roses, it wasn’t the middle of the night, and it wasn’t as dramatic as all that. It’s just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  The mischievous glimmer in his eye changes to concern in a blink. “Seriously, Gracie? Because the rumor at the church breakfast is they found the murder weapon in your car.”

  God love small towns. There are no secrets anywhere, which makes it even weirder that there aren’t guesses—other than me—as to who among us committed murder. If we lived two hundred years ago we’d blame it on some faceless stranger who passed through town, but no one passes through Heron Creek without being noticed.

  Despite striving to act as though my biggest problem is what the town’s saying about me behind my back, the unmistakable tang of fear coats the back of my tongue. Detective Travis doesn’t know me, he thinks he’s some hotshot cop, and he’s brand-new and probably more than a little determined to show the town that he’s up for the job. I’m worried that if the case against me is too airtight he’s going to stop looking for the real culprit.

  And mostly I’m worried about that because, by the sound of it, I’m going to be about the only one who cares.

  “Don’t worry about me, Leo.” An idea strikes me, as fast as the bees I used to step on in patches of wildflowers. “Unless you want to help me with something?”

  Wariness smothers his concern, as well as the previous mirth. “With … ?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. I’ve got to be somewhere. Are we running this afternoon?” It’s not that he can’t know, but I don’t want to give him time to come up with a good excuse to back out, and besides, maybe after going out to the woods again I won’t need his help sneaking around, anyway.

  “Sure.”

  I wave and scurry from the cemetery before he can launch more questions my direction. “See you soon!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The drive out to the country is pleasant, more so than it was the other day when I was following the directions of a see-through pointer finger and the scent of hairspray. My dislike of air-conditioning is under my control in the car even if it’s not at home, which means there’s sweat pooled between my boobs and under my thighs by the time I pull into the gas station parking lot.

  It looks exactly the same as it did the other day, except the weeds growing through the cracks in the concrete have grown even higher. Strange, that. The weather has escalated from sweltering to on par with the surface of hell since that morning, and everyone’s struggling to keep their lawns from spontaneously bursting into flames, but the weeds … those survive.

  As though on cue, Big Ern emerges from the trees on the other side of the two-lane dirt-and-gravel road. He’s wearing the exact same overalls–no shirt–no shoes getup as the other day, making me wonder whether it’s some kind of hillbilly uniform, but today he’s topped it off with a sweetgrass hat.

  “Smashing,” I tell him, nodding toward his adornment.

  He frowns like a little boy who can’t decide if he’s being complimented or made fun of, but eventually gives me a nod. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” I’m strangely comfortable with Big Ern, though there’s no way to put my finger on why. It’s almost like he’s a big, sweet, dumb bear or something.

  Clete seems like the type of guy who likes to be the smartest one in the room of criminals, and there’s something to be said for the service of blind fools. Ern’s sweet enough now, but even though I trust him not to knock me down and have his way with me, there’s not a doubt in my mind that he’d snap my twig neck between his meat paws if Clete gave the signal.

  He leads me through the woods on a more direct path than I took trying to keep up with Glinda’s ghost the other day, and we arrive at Merle’s cabin in less than half the time. I can pay better attention now that I’m not panicking about getting lost or dying of thirst, and a beaten path through the underbrush emerges when I look hard enough.

  The exterior of the house hasn’t improved in the past several days, and several boards on the deck sink under my weight. The smell of rotted wood and standing water is nothing compared to the reek of mildew, animal droppings, and general disuse that slaps me in the face when we step through the sliding glass doors.

  Big Ern shoves them all the way open with a screech that rattles my spine. The stagnant air from outside is a relief, and I suck in deep gulps as my eyes adjust to the dim interior of the cabin.

  The floors are wooden and appear to be at least as rotted as the deck. Dust whirls and jerks through the beams of morning sunlight spearing the darkness. It’s hard to say what’s moldy or where the smell of excrement is coming from, because the place is a holy mess. There are stacks of newspapers everywhere, plastic tubs harboring unknown contents, books and magazines and just trash spilling from every corner. The kitchen’s to the right, and the back door opens into an eating area that might once have been referred to as a dining room, if the owner had seen fit to decorate it with anything but a couple of folding chairs, an array of overflowing ashtrays, and an impressive collection of empty liquor bottles

  The slightest glimpse of the crusted plates and dishes covering the kitchen counters and the trail of ants parading up and over them might have propelled me right out the door—Glinda’s spirit be damned—had we not been joined by a stranger at that moment.

  He’s as skinny as a rail, pale and freckled, with a shock of hair so bright orange he would have stolen Ron Howard’s role in Music Man, no question. He’s not wearing overalls and he is wearing a shirt, thank the Lord above, but like Big Ern he seems to take issue with shoes.

  “Hey, Coot.”

  “Hey, Ern.”

  Coot, which I’m assuming is short for Cooter, is also short more than a few teeth. He grins at me anyway, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his lips. “You Grace Harper?”

  “Something like that.” I’m used to having to correct people about my name, but in this case it seems as though the fewer people who can find me on the Internet, the better.

  “This is Cooter. He worked with Glinda, so if you know what exactly yer lookin’ fer out here, might be he can help you find it in this rats’ nest.”

  The description, which I’m thinking might be literal, makes me gag. The reason for my reaction seems totally lost on Big Ern, who doesn’t seem concerned about the number of insects that are probably crawling up his gaping pant legs at this very moment.

  “Nice to meet you,” I manage, nodding at Cooter.

  He nods back but doesn’t appear as pleasant or as dull as Big Ern. Not that I expect him to win a Nobel Prize anytime soon. More like he’s not going to do anyone’s bidding without asking a few questions of his own.

  “Okay, well, I’mma leave you two alone,” Big Ern grunts. “I’ve got some business to take care of ’fore it gets dark.” His beady, dull eyes land on my face. “You get outta here ’fore dark, too, you hear?”

  I nod. I have no intention of being here any longer than I have to be, and if I don’t check in
with Amelia before noon she’s going to send out the cavalry, anyway.

  Big Ern takes his leave, managing to clomp off the porch without breaking his neck, and disappears from the clearing while Cooter and I watch through the swarm of flies taking the open sliding doors as an invitation.

  “Well, whatcha looking for?” Cooter rolls the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, raising one eyebrow and looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. As though I’m a spider he’s watching as I desperately try to swim in the toilet before he flushes me.

  “I’m not sure.” I glance around, but the snarl of trash and junk and filth is hopeless without Glinda here to point, and in my limited experience with ghosts, she’s not going to show up with anyone besides me in the room.

  But Cooter’s alive, he can talk, and I’m not ready to give up without at least taking a stab at getting a little information of my own.

  “So, you used to work for Glinda? How often was she out here?”

  His light eyes narrow. “She weren’t never out here, not that I know of. I worked for Merle, and when he died I ran for that woman, but in truth, I been spying for Clete since the old man died. I did all the runnin’, all the bill collectin,’ and she and I communicated with notes in tin cans, left in secret spots closer to town. Ain’t laid eyes on her in years.”

  That explains why no one in town ever suspected Glinda’s second job, but if Glinda never came out here, why does she want me to come out here? It sounds as though Cooter did all the day-to-day while Glinda, what? Supplied the materials? Held onto the land?

  “Why’d you work for her and Merle instead of Clete or just starting your own business?”

  His lips twist in a display of disgust. “You don’t know much, do ya? Clete says yer out of yer element and no danger to any of us, and maybe he’s right. You need land to be in the game out here, stupid girl, and ain’t no one sellin’.”

  “Got it.” I wander toward the living room, figuring absolutely anywhere is better than the bug-infested kitchen, especially since I have no idea what I’m looking for. My muscles tense, every sense on high alert at the sound of his shuffling steps behind me, and I slide my car keys down in between my fingers in case I need to defend myself.

  It turns out to be baseless paranoia, earned by twenty-five years of being a woman. Cooter stops at the threshold, assessing the mess of the living room. “Shithole, ain’t it? If you don’t know what yer lookin’ for, I sure don’t know how yer gonna find it.”

  I squat next to a pile of dusty books and papers, pulling one off the top and putting it to the side, then digging a little deeper. They’re texts that deal with conspiracy theories—mostly government and aliens—and are so crusty they must have been in the same place since Merle died.

  “Word is you’re friends with that nice William Gayle? The government surveyor kid?” Cooter’s face is a blank slate when I look up, leaving me unsure of how to respond.

  Most of all it’s hard to tell whether he’s being facetious calling Will a nice kid. Or whether he knows what that word means and how to execute it.

  This isn’t why I came out here, but I take a deep breath and plunge in, anyway. The devil you know is safer than the devil you don’t, and all that. “Yeah, we grew up together.”

  I just never thought my first love would turn out to be a devil at all.

  “You know him pretty well?”

  The scrawny, smelly man shrugs, his eyes wandering to the window. “He’s always traipsing around with his official business, pissing people off or whatever. But he ain’t ratted us out yet. That’s something.”

  “That’s something,” I echo. It’s not enough. I already know all of that, I just don’t know why or how much deeper his involvement might go. “He and Clete don’t seem to get along.”

  “Clete don’t get along with anyone he ain’t known for the better part of his life, to be honest. It’s interesting that he hasn’t killed the boy yet, but that’s probably got more to do with him having a family back in town that knows where he goes and the kind of people he runs into. Mr. Gayle disappears, there’s gonna be some people asking questions, you know?”

  He’s smarter, more perceptive than Big Ern, like I’d thought. It’s surprising that he’s a lackey, really, except for the whole pesky not-owning-land issue.

  “That makes sense.” My response sounds dry and a tad on the snarky side. At least I know there’s a plausible explanation for Will still being alive that doesn’t have anything to do with him going all Darth Vader. “Do you think I could have a few minutes alone?”

  Suspicion tightens the muscles in his face, growing stronger by the second, but after a quick glance around this hellhole, he grunts and shrugs. “Guess there ain’t nothing worth stealing, but I’m going to be right outside, so don’t get any ideas about running off to snoop.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where in the hell I’d run off to, but I decide that getting him out of here takes priority over smart-assing a guy who makes me more than a tad nervous.

  He leaves after giving the place another once-over. If he’s hoping to memorize what’s in the place or where exactly every last piece of trash is resting to ascertain later whether I’ve moved it, he’s either some kind of savant or shit out of luck.

  He steps out onto the back deck and lights a cigarette that smells like Clete’s—part clove, I think—before plopping down on the top step and staring out into the woods. It would be pushing my luck to shut the door, probably, so if Glinda does show up, I’ll have to keep my voice down. There’s a good chance Clete and the rest of them have already had a good laugh over me and my ghost-talking. Why give them any more ammunition?

  She’s not here now, though, which is frustrating.

  Instead of digging through literal crap, I walk down the hallway toward what I suspect are bedrooms. The walls are unadorned, no photographs of family or even random prints of the wilderness. There’s a bathroom that appears to be functional, based on the dripping faucet, but I’d rather pee in the woods than take my chances among the rusty cracks and unidentified sticky-looking spots on the floor.

  Across the hallway is a room set up like an office, with sagging bookcases along one wall and a folding table and chairs covered in papers. There’s no computer. If this place has electricity I’ll eat my favorite Kentucky Derby hat.

  At the end of the hall, I find a bedroom that doesn’t appear to have been used for some time. There’s a mattress on the floor covered with tangled sheets and a dark blue comforter. If I flopped on it I bet dust would fly out everywhere. There’s nothing else. No dresser, no nightstand, nothing.

  I walk to the closet—one of those mid-century jobs that has sliding doors made of mirrors—and find a few articles of clothing on the hangers and shelves. They’re all jeans and shorts and Tshirts and flannels, things Glinda would have died before wearing, so I can only assume they belonged to her late husband. In fact, there’s nothing in this entire cabin to suggest the moonshiners aren’t 100 percent correct about Glinda ever coming out here.

  The lady herself—or at least, a creepy see-through version—appears in the mirrored doors when I slide them shut, making me jump out of my skin. I’ve been getting better with not letting her and the mystery man sneak up on me, but with Cooter outside, I’m on edge.

  “Finally,” I hiss. “What in tarnation are we doing out here?”

  When she raises a finger, I’m not surprised. I’ve been wandering around by myself for about fifteen minutes, though, so for once it’s hard to complain about the silent pointing.

  We end up facing a door off the dining room that’s painted the same color as the wall. It had escaped my notice when Big Ern escorted me inside, probably because it’s exactly opposite of the kitchen, which stole my attention because of the bugs. And the smell.

  I grab the knob and twist, excitement dying in my stomach when I find it locked. Fuck a duck. Why can’t anything just be easy? Glinda shows me the door, I walk int
o the secret room and find whatever it is she’s after with a big arrow pointing toward it.

  Even Anne led me to a big X that literally marked the spot.

  I whirl around to see if my ghost will point me toward a key but find her gone. When I head toward the back porch to ask Cooter what he knows, the sight of a cop in a tan uniform, complete with big sheriff’s hat and a gun belt strapped to his hip, stops me in my tracks.

  He’s got one booted foot up on the steps, and he’s chatting with Cooter as though they’re old friends. It’s not hard to hear their conversation, which at the moment has something to do with whether or not the bass have been biting, but who knows how long he’s been here or what he wants.

  For some reason my first instinct is to stay out of sight, but I’m not doing anything wrong. Besides, the more people I meet who know about this world and how it works, the better off I’ll be, so I paste a smile on my face and step over the threshold.

  The man looks up, unable to completely hide the dismay that crisscrosses his features before it’s on display for me. I must be a dirt-streaked, sweaty mess, but somehow I doubt that’s what’s bothering him about my appearance.

  “Coot, you didn’t tell me you had company.” The mystery man says with a smile that leaves no doubt he’s more than a little upset at my presence.

  “Ain’t my house, ain’t my company. I’m just babysitting.”

  “I’m Sheriff Patton,” he says, walking up the steps and standing close enough to shake my hand.

  My eyebrows go up. This is South Carolina, so it’s possible there’s more than one Jasper wandering around Berkeley County, but add in the fact that this guy’s wearing a sheriff’s uniform and there’s a pretty good chance this is Beau’s friend.

  Recognition lights his eyes while I’m still trying to decide whether or not to lie about who I am, making the choice for me. It wouldn’t have done much good, anyway, but I groan inside with the knowledge that Beau’s going to find out there’s something else I didn’t share with him.