Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  Just because Beau did something stupid tonight, and just because he’s not ready to show more of his vulnerability to me, doesn’t mean I have to kick him to the curb. I’ll simply file the information away for later consideration, and if enough causes for concern start to stack up, maybe I’ll worry about it later.

  I peek through the cracked-open door to my blue-and-cream bedroom, trying to get the drop on my moody ghost for once, but he’s not in attendance this evening. This is the room Amelia and I shared as children, the curtains and thick quilt made by our grandmother, and even with my parade of ghostly visitors of late, the place envelops me with a peace I haven’t been able to find anywhere else in the world.

  Strange thoughts stroll through my mind while I slip into shorts and a tank top, then stand in front of the bathroom mirror and brush my teeth. I contemplate my own green gaze, a hand-me-down from Anne Bonny, and wonder where the ghosts go when they’re not hanging out with me. Whether Anne and Glinda have crossed over into some other plane of existence, whether there’s a heaven like Grams and Gramps pinned all their hopes on, or whether people just go poof.

  As hard as the academic in me wants to argue for the latter, my feelings on the whole afterlife thing have changed since I returned to Heron Creek. How could they not?

  My mouth is clean now and my hair is tied back in a long ponytail, the end of which brushes the skin between my shoulder blades and reminds me to get a haircut. It’s weird to think about going to Hadley Renee at old Sonny and Shears, to sit in that chair and not cringe at the thought of what kind of hack job Glinda would come up with this time, but I suppose everyone in Heron Creek’s probably feeling the same way.

  It only has a little to do with the fact that Beau took Hadley out a couple of times when he first moved to town. I shouldn’t hold that against her—I’ve seen her around with a handsome guy she seems pretty nuts about, and anyway, Beau’s never given me the slightest reason to doubt his interest in me and only me.

  I’m facing the window when the smell hits me. It’s earthy—not unpleasant even with its strong undercurrents of unwashed male—and my ghost’s native garb goes along with the scents wafting about my room. Luckily, I talked Amelia into leaving the air conditioner off in the house, so my windows are open, admitting a salty, cool-enough evening breeze and ushering the worst of the ghost’s odor back out into the night.

  “Hello, how do you do?” I nod his direction and turn to crawl under the lightweight sheet, leaving the quilt at the bottom of the bed. None of my ghosts talk to me, but this one has never even tried to communicate in other ways. Tonight is no different, and I study him as he slumps onto his butt in the darkest corner of the room, looking at me with vague irritation.

  The Native American getup is his least favorite. I’m basing this assumption on the fact that it’s the outfit he’s least likely to model for me. His casual wear, which I believe is English, is what he dons most often, though he does enjoy a spiffier English uniform on occasion, and shows off some Spanish flair sometimes for good measure. Tonight he’s wearing supple, tan leather that gives off that pungent, unmistakable scent and matching moccasins. His dark, shaggy hair is twined into a single braid. There are dark smudges on his cheekbones that could be makeup or dirt.

  Despite the clothes, he’s not Native American. I would bet my life on that. But all assumptions are off when it comes to guessing European lineage. Even if I decide he’s English, which is my official guess because of how pale and generally dour he seems, it doesn’t explain why he changes clothes so often. Anne always showed up in her pirate garb and Glinda in the bloody nightgown she had on the night she was murdered, basically for being the town busybody.

  Let that be a lesson to you, Gracie.

  The voice in my head sounds like an amalgamation of Anne Bonny and Gramps, which is oddly pleasing.

  “Anything you want to tell me?” I direct the question at him, not expecting an answer. “The others were super fond of pointing, and even though it annoyed the living shit out of me, I have to admit it got the job done.”

  The ghost stares at me another moment before giving a mournful shrug. He traces a nonexistent pattern on the cream-colored walls like a child in time-out who’s determined not to beg for release.

  “Fine. I don’t understand why you feel the need to come here and sit with me if you’re not even going to ask for anything, though. It’s kind of creepy.” I pause, waiting in vain for him to look back toward me. When he doesn’t, I sigh, settling into the down pillow and wiggling until I’m comfortable. “You do you, Ghost Man. But I’d like to sleep without you watching me, so I’m going to do my damnedest to figure out just what in tarnation you want with or without your help, sir.”

  Chapter Five

  I’m in an alley I’ve never seen before in my life. The cobblestone streets make me think of Charleston, but the alley is too wide, the smell of the ocean spray too strong, and the houses peering at me through dark tiny windows too shabby to have a place in the meticulously restored Southern city.

  My heart pounds against my ribs, potent fear tripping over my blood in a race through my veins. I’m not sure how I know but something is following me, chasing me. It’s not one of my ghosts. As weird as they are, as often as they might startle me, they don’t scare me.

  I’m walking as fast as I can toward the far end of the alley where it opens to a ramp and a dock. Relief floods me as I reach the end, gushing straight to my lungs as I gulp in the air coming off the ocean.

  Ocean, not a bay, so not Charleston. Not Heron Creek.

  Where am I?

  A shuffling noise at my back grabs my attention and I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat at the sight of a twisted, dark-skinned figure limping out of the alley.

  Mrs. LaBadie.

  The evil woman who had doubled as my boss at the library and as a member of the community—in order to preserve a centuries-old curse on Anne Bonny—grins at me with rotted teeth. The colorful beads at the ends of her braids clack together as she shuffles toward me.

  I back up as far as I can go; the heels of my bare feet hit the splintered edges of the pier. Mrs. LaBadie advances. She raises her arm, palm facing me, and even though she’s feet away I feel it across my throat. I open my mouth to scream and she unfurls her other palm, loosing a handful of squirming, shadowy insects that make a beeline for my mouth. They writhe past my lips and over my tongue, turning slick and oily as they slide down my throat, closing it off.

  She steps forward, right in front of me now, and uses one gnarled finger to poke me in the sternum. Her breath is stale and rancid as it brushes my cheeks, twists through my eyelashes, and enters my nostrils. “Cursed is cursed, Bonny girl. You’re never free.”

  With that, she gives me the slightest shove, knocking me back into the cold, dark water, my airway still blocked by the dark sludge. I can’t breathe, and the things in my stomach are like a bunch of lead weights, the combination making it impossible for me to claw my way to the receding surface no matter how hard I struggle.

  My feet hit the sandy bottom, the ocean a bruise of blacks and deep blues around me, unforgiving and brutal. I’m going to die.

  Cursed is cursed, Bonny girl.

  It takes me most of the day to even begin to shake off the lingering unease from that stupid dream, which had me gasping for air and in such a fit that I had to get up and wash my sheets because of the sweat.

  It was sweat, I tell myself for the five hundredth time since waking up clawing at my own throat. Sweat, not seawater, no matter how salty it smelled. All it means is that I seriously need to cut back on the ramen noodles.

  I’m on my tenth replay of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off,” which still isn’t really helping, when Millie walks over to my desk, her purse slung over her shoulder, as she points at her watch. “Time to close up shop. We can make it to Charleston in time for a drink and maybe some dinner before the tour if we leave now.”

  “Okay.” I turn off my iPod and s
hove it into my purse, then give my back a good stretch.

  “What’s the matter with you today? I thought you were cool with leaving for the weekend, but if you think Beau will need you for something we don’t have to go right now. Your ghost will wait.”

  “No. I definitely don’t think Beau will need me for anything, and I’m more than ready to get that grouchy peeper out of my bedroom.” The library keys jangle merrily in my hand, and I try to convince myself that this job will keep me happy for the rest of my life. If my apparitions and their vague requests have taught me anything, it’s that I miss the research side of archival studies. There’s nothing quite like getting lost in the past and letting it remind you of what it means to be a human being in the first place.

  We get into Amelia’s BMW SUV, a much more comfortable choice for the thirty-minute drive, although if I were her I’d be nervous about leaving it in downtown Charleston. It’s a place I always feel safe, personally, but any town that hosts that many tourists is home to at least as many pickpockets and petty thieves. Piracy is the second oldest profession in the world. As long as there are people who have things, there are people who will find ways to steal them.

  Cursed is cursed, Bonny girl.

  “So, if it’s not Beau, what’s up? You’ve been jumpy all day, and way too quiet.”

  I start to frown, then realize I’m already frowning. Not only that, but I taste blood and realize I’ve worried away a chunk of skin on my lower lip. “It’s nothing. Bad dreams last night, so I didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

  To my ears, the excuse—which is actually true—sounds nonchalant. The last thing my cousin needs is a reminder that a vicious killer is waiting to sink gnarled old claws into her kid. The dream was just a dream, no matter how real it felt, no matter how I smelled when I woke up. And dreams can’t hurt people.

  “Well, since the guest room is the one thing you like at my parent’s house, maybe tonight will be better.” She lets my reasoning for not being myself today slide, even though the slight purse of her lips says she knows I didn’t tell her the whole truth.

  “I hope so.” That, at least, is the whole truth. I’d be fine living the rest of my life without another dream like that. Or without seeing Mrs. LaBadie again, in the flesh or otherwise. “We’re doing the nine o’clock tour, right? I like them better in the dark.”

  “Of course. The early evening ones are for the scaredy-cats.”

  We lock up and hit the road. We pass most of the drive down the coast in silence, the windows open to admit the curling, salt-laden breeze. My hair is going to be a tangled mess, but there’s no one in Charleston to impress and driving with the windows down is one of my favorite indulgences. It makes Millie nervous, because she’s afraid of a bee getting sucked into the car, but she doesn’t fight me on it this time. Another reason for concern.

  My jar full of worries about my cousin is going to fill up far faster than the one containing the little doubts over Beau and me.

  Traffic clogs the road as we pull off the freeway and onto Meeting Street. Two or even three light cycles aren’t enough to get through some intersections. It’s Friday night, it still feels like summer, and even though schools are in session, the tourists haven’t stopped coming. If memory serves, there’s not a major lull until November.

  We make it over Calhoun Street and into downtown, finally, sliding past FIG—the absolute best place to eat in a town of amazing restaurants—and the more popular but not as tasty as Hyman’s.

  “Sheesh, is their line always halfway down the block?” Amelia murmurs, her eyes back on the road.

  “I think so. The tourists love it even though the whole restaurant is, like, a scam to sell the homemade soap in the shop Hyman’s next door.”

  That makes her smile, if faintly, and she navigates the narrow streets like the expert she is, even with cars lining each side. We park in the lot next to the Andrew Pinckney Inn. We climb out of the SUV into the muggy evening and stretch our legs, still at a crossroads as far as where to have dinner.

  Amelia, snob that she is, votes for Husk or McCrady’s—they share an amazing chef, but are both pricey as hell—while I’m lobbying for Poogan’s Porch or even Pearlz, though it’s too early in the season for really stellar oysters.

  I peer at her over my giant sunglasses, squinting into the setting sun. “Can we compromise, please? It’s not the money as much as me not wanting to sit through five minicourses of food. I want some damn grits, Millie.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re a heathen.”

  “How about Lowcountry Bistro? It’s close, it’s reasonable, and you know their cheddar bacon grit cakes are about the best thing north of Broad.”

  “That’s true. I’ll allow it.”

  “Well, if that isn’t the easiest argument I’ve ever won with you in my life, I don’t know what is.”

  “Just accept your good luck and move on.”

  We stroll over to Market Street, dodging tourists wandering through the market stalls and store owners hawking fragrant samples of pralines and fudge, nodding to the wrinkled black women weaving sweetgrass baskets on every corner. I’ve always found them charming, but now, knowing that they’re mostly descendants of the Caribbean Gullah culture—a local twist on voodoo—their presence prickles my palms with anxiety. It’s as though Mrs. LaBadie could take refuge among them, commandeer them, somehow, and spy on us through their kind, milky eyes.

  I breathe a little easier inside the Lowcountry Bistro. The hostess whisks us upstairs to a small table for two out on the balcony, and before long a blessed mason jar of strawberry flavored Firefly Moonshine sweats on my paper coaster. A vat of sweet tea does the same on Amelia’s. For the first time in a few days, the knot of tension between my shoulder blades loosens.

  “You know, Clete would not approve of this froufrou moonshine,” I say, remembering last month when he forced me to drink some of his liquid lighter fluid to seal our accord. It had burned all the way down, and on the trip out, too. “You should have tasted the unholy mess he forced down my gullet. I think it’s the reason I have to take antacids every night now.”

  “I still can’t believe you got tangled up with those guys. I mean, I can, but …” My cousin shakes her head and holds up her glass. “Here’s to the hope those hillbillies won’t one day decide to kill us in our sleep.”

  The waiter has the misfortune of walking up at that moment, but he does us the courtesy of a simple raised eyebrow. “Now that’s what I call a toast.”

  “It’s a toast for the ages, is what it is. Passed down from our forefathers, who desired nothing more than to be safe from the Native Americans and their scalping knives.” I nod, striving for a serious expression. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, well. Learn something new every day, my great-grandfather used to say.” The waiter gives his head a slight shake, as though trying to rattle some sense into place. “Are you ladies ready to order?”

  I close my menu. “Yes. We’ll start with the fried green tomatoes, then I’m going to have the chicken and waffles.”

  I go with that because their famous cheesy grits come with the fried green tomato app. Two birds, one stone and all that.

  He nods, turning toward Amelia. “And for you?”

  “I’ll have the shrimp and grits.”

  “Lovely.” He gathers our menus. “I’ll have those fried green tomatoes right out, and make sure to put the hostess downstairs on high alert for backwoods assassins.”

  Millie shakes her head at me as he wanders off, taking a long pull from her drink. “Now people in Charleston think you’re weird, and politically incorrect to boot. Well done.”

  “We all have our gifts,” I reply with a smile, sucking down some of my moonshine and thinking about Clete and Big Ern. It’s weird, but I kind of miss them. They are the only people—aside from Beau and Leo—that haven’t insinuated there’s something wrong with me for not having all my shit together at this point in my life. I gue
ss moonshiners aren’t really the best guidepost for “doing life right,” but what the hell. They seem happy.

  And also rich, and perhaps homicidal, but we all have our issues.

  “I’ve decided staying on their good side is a brilliant plan,” I continue. “Given my new sleuthing career, they might come in handy if I ever need information on the less savory sector.”

  That makes her snort. “The less savory sector in Heron Creek? I think that population is two, and we’re sitting at this very table.”

  “We might be able to count Beau among us in a few days.” It really hits me when it comes out of my mouth, what all of this might mean for him and his aspirations, and I can tell by the sympathetic wrinkle between Millie’s eyebrows that she hears it. “I can’t believe this is happening to him.”

  She tilts her head, looking thoughtful. “Is it bad to say that I think it might be good for him?”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “It’s just, well, ever since I moved back to town, it’s seemed like most people like him, but there’s this group who are always whispering. Insinuating that he’s not as great of a guy as people think, but they’ll never say it to his face.” She pauses, leaving me to wonder who exactly she’s been talking to. Melanie, most likely. They have this little pregnant-lady club that I have zero intention of joining anytime soon. “This is his chance to get it all out in the open, defend himself properly, and put it behind him. If it didn’t come up now, it surely would have in any kind of bigger election. Might as well deal with it sooner rather than later.”

  I have to admit I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. In a way it makes sense, but it doesn’t make my heart stop aching for Beau. I don’t know for sure what happened with Leo’s sister all those years ago, but I do know that Beau would never ruin someone’s life on purpose. Not unless he thought it was the right thing to do per State laws.

  “Leo’s pretty smug about it,” I say as a different server sets a steaming plate of fried tomatoes and cheesy grits on the table between us. We both attack them as if we haven’t eaten in weeks, despite the fact that we had lunch together at Westies earlier today.