Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  I verified the tour guide’s information about Dr. Ladd, including the name of his fiancée—just a first name, unfortunately—the guy who killed him, and a few others who would have been considered friends. It’s somewhere to start, and I’m feeling okay about the number of threads there are to track down, even though nothing in the research gave me a real idea of what unfinished business the man might have.

  He lived for days after the duel as gangrene ate away at his blown-apart knee, so if his business was something simple, it stands to reason that he would have taken care of it once his death became an inevitability. Whatever it is, whatever he wants, must not have been something easily accomplished. Or perhaps he didn’t trust the people around him those last days. He couldn’t have known them all that well, the sisters who ran the boarding house at the time.

  Hmm.

  After I run into a few dead ends I switch tactics, Googling the Caruso family of Charleston. There’s not much to find. Some peripheral members have been arrested for petty things, one suspected associate for murder. That guy was convicted. No names of the men who supposedly run the family, so I can’t learn who supposedly tried to bribe Beau this way.

  There are other ways.

  My neck aches and I stretch it, pulling my phone out of my purse to check the time since I keep forgetting to change the batteries in the clock on the wall and it finally died. It’s poetic how time literally stops in this room that’s stuffed to the brim with documented history.

  At least, I think so. I’m sure Mr. Freedman, my boss, would think differently, if he ever came out of his office, and Mrs. LaBadie certainly would have, too. They’re not much for poetry.

  The thought of the old voodoo woman sends little tingles of awareness up my arms and down the back of my neck, as though thinking about a conjure woman could, well, conjure her in the here and now. It makes me extra aware that it’s getting dark outside and that I’m alone in this giant building that she probably still has keys to, and even if I’m not the one she’s really after at the moment, I’m ready to get the hell out of Dodge.

  I return the document boxes I pulled—none of which contain anything about Joseph Ladd during his time in the southeast—to their rightful slots and log off the computer. My purse bangs against my hip on the way out the front door, and the ding of a text message on my phone makes me jump about six feet into the air.

  Come on, Gracie. You literally share your room with ghosts and the mere thought of a crabby old lady spooks you out of your skin? Sheesh.

  All of the lectures I overheard Aunt Karen give Millie about not texting or talking on her phone while walking alone at night shame me into leaving the device in my bag until I’m in the car. It’s not as though Heron Creek is a dangerous place. I’m from Iowa, and I think it’s a ridiculously safe place … at least for people who aren’t my cousin. Or me. Not that there’s any real way to run from an old curse.

  I slide behind the wheel of my beat-up Honda. It smells disgusting but familiar—there’s no hint of wisteria that would signal the Whistling Doctor, none of Anne Bonny’s choking brine or the earthy, sweaty smell of Henry Woodward. The scent of hair salon chemicals has become almost a distant memory since Glinda left me once and for all last week.

  I pull out my phone and see that the text message is from Beau. The desire to see him swells up from my middle, diffuses into my blood with such potency that there would be no point in denying how worried I’ve been over this whole weekend break. Beau’s not like other guys, at least not ones I’ve known in recent years, because even though we sort of parted ways on a weird note the other night, and even though he’s got a lot on his plate, he’s still made time to talk to me.

  God, I miss you, Graciela. Has it really only been two days?

  I smile, shaking my head at his adorableness. I’ll wait until I get home to respond so I can think of something clever and sexy, but not too clingy, to say. It’s going to take some serious finesse to pull that off and Westies is open until nine, so I pull in and park, intent on getting a cup of tea for the road.

  The sight of Will—ex-boyfriend to me, husband to Melanie—at a table by the window, one hand fisted in his longish sandy curls and the other stabbing at a laptop that’s so old it has to be government issued, changes my course without my consent. I find myself standing at the edge of his table, a chai tea latte in my left hand and a coconut green tea for Amelia in my right.

  “Busy?” I ask, wondering what’s keeping him away from home at almost 9:00 p.m. This place is about to close and it’s the business open the latest that doesn’t serve alcohol. Heron Creek only has three of those, anyway.

  He startles, his foggy gaze snapping up to my face and struggling to compute my sudden appearance for a few seconds before relaxing into a smile. “Oh, hey, Gracie. A little, but I’m about to pack it in for the night. Have a seat.”

  I sit in the chair he nudges out from the table with his toe, setting the two steaming cups on the table between us and wondering how awkward this chat is going to be. The two of us haven’t been alone together in several weeks. Mel was all upset after the last time I was with her husband solo, and I know the two of them are having money problems. For obvious reasons, I’m not the person Will wants to talk to about things like that, and Mel would rather we not converse about anything more personal than the weather.

  It’s hard to come up with a conversation starter while those thoughts roll around in my head like marbles forged from my insecurity and confusion.

  “What are you doing?” is the piece of brilliance that eventually finds its way out of my face.

  “It’s the end of quarter accounting for the wildlife office. Just double-checking figures before turning them in tomorrow.” He shrugs. “We’re bleeding money like crazy.”

  The unspoken consequence of those words is that Will could lose his job if the state government starts cutting back its spending. Protecting local plant and wildlife isn’t exactly a priority these days, from what I can tell.

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, well, it is what it is. What are you doing out so late?”

  That makes me smile, because only in Heron Creek would the brink of 9:00 p.m. be considered late. “I’ve been at the library doing some research and kind of lost track of time.”

  “Research on what?” He raises his eyebrows, the familiar suspicion in his gaze giving my stomach a hard twist as he leans across the table. “Another ghost?”

  He’s lowered his voice but I still glance around, anxious that someone might have overheard. There are enough rumors about me swirling around as it is. The last thing I need is someone to hear one of my few friends spill the beans about what’s actually going on with me.

  The weirdest thing, anyway.

  We’re the only customers left in the shop. The woman who owns Westies isn’t even here, and the two teenagers behind the counter aren’t paying any attention to the two of us as they hurry through their closing routine, probably eager to get home and play video games or Snap with each other or whatever.

  I look back at Will, heaving an exasperated sigh. “First of all, could you say that any louder? And second, since when are you into playing the coconspirator, Mr. That’s Against the Rules, Gracie?”

  “I’m just asking what you’re researching. If it involves breaking any major federal laws, by all means refrain from telling me,” he comments, draining the rest of whatever drink has settled in his giant ceramic mug.

  The mention of the law brings Beau and his current predicament to the forefront of my mind, but if it does the same for Will, he doesn’t mention it. It leaves me wondering if he doesn’t care, doesn’t want to share his opinion, or simply doesn’t want to talk about other men with me.

  I don’t blame him if it’s the latter. I don’t particularly want to talk about women with my first love, either, but the fact that he married one of my best friends kind of stomps that wish into oblivion.

  “Well, if you must know, yes. Millie and I
went on a ghost tour in Charleston yesterday and I picked up a stray.”

  “That’s like a dog lover going to a shelter, Gracie. I would stay away from those things if I were you.” He peers at me closer, in the way he does that always makes me feel as transparent as Dr. Ladd. “Unless you don’t want to stop living with one foot in the dead world.”

  I ignore the comment, too iffy on how I feel about the whole thing to discuss it aloud. “Anyway, I didn’t really find anything. I just started looking. I kind of love this part—the digging.”

  What I’d really love is to get into the Thomas Rose House and snoop around, find out if Joseph left anything behind even if it’s well hidden, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Stupid rules.

  “You’re good at it. Always were.” He pauses, shutting his laptop and stacking papers on top of it, looking a little unsure of himself. “I mean … don’t take this the wrong way, because maybe it’s none of my business, but are you happy? At the library?”

  The question hits a soft spot. I’ve never stopped longing for the academic career I dreamed of for years, even though the rest of me is content to just plod along at the moment. I wince and try to play it off with a shrug. “It’s good. I mean, this is Heron Creek. There aren’t a whole lot of options.”

  “You have a doctorate. As I understand it, just because you’re not employed by a university doesn’t mean you’re not able to choose a project, do the research, and submit it to academic journals or whatever. You can continue in your field, be an important voice, even if you decide to stay here.”

  He pauses, letting the unasked question of whether or not I’m planning to stay here now that Gramps is gone hang in the air. With Amelia and the baby and my relationship with Beau, there’s not one single part of me that wants to leave, and that only has a little to do with the fact that I have no idea where I would go.

  Still, the lure of publishing, of establishing a name for myself even in local circles, holds a sparkling appeal. I can’t believe it took Will bringing it up to make me consider it—I’ve been too caught up in the problems of the dead to think about my own damn life.

  “That’s something to think about, Will. Thanks for looking out for me.”

  The smile he gives me this time is sad, turned down around the edges and burning the back of my throat. “I’ll always look out for you, Gracie. We’re friends.”

  Friends.

  Will and I are friends. It seems like we’ve always been friends, even if we didn’t meet until we were seven years old, and even though things have been awkward since I returned to town. It’s never occurred to me that we might not be friends. I knew I was over him, over the romantic feelings and the lust and the butterflies that had dominated my summers for years and years, before ever setting foot back in this town.

  Even so, I’m not sure I’m over the loss of him. The feeling that I screwed up, that I don’t know how to accept goodness and light when it’s right in front of me, that my own fears or issues or whatever caused me to make the wrong decision, step down the wrong path all those years ago.

  It’s not that I’m jealous of Will and Melanie. I’m not. It’s not that I want Will back in my life in that way, either. I don’t. It’s hard for me to define the sense of failure, the sense of loss and sorrow that combines with my love for this man who is packing up his things across the table from me, and tonight is not the first time I wonder if things will ever be less complicated between us.

  Our eyes meet, and in his gaze I see at least a little bit of the confusion and ache for simplicity of the past that’s tugging my heart into my stomach. We both stand up, and he pulls me into a brief hug, his breath moving strands of hair above my ear. I cling to his waist, squeezing him hard, and believing—because the other options are too hard to contemplate—that we’ll figure it out.

  It’s not until I’m in the car on the way home that I think to feel guilty over spilling my guts to Will when Beau’s the one I should be letting into my innermost thoughts. He’s got his own problems, though, and mine pale in comparison.

  I miss him, this man I’ve known only a little over three months, a truth that both frightens and warms me. The sight of his car in the driveway of my grandparents’ house and the outline of his bulky frame gliding in and out of the shadows on the porch as he pushes back and forth on the swing lift my spirits higher than they’ve been in days—weeks—and all my guilt goes away.

  Chapter Nine

  Beau unfolds his long legs and meets me at the edge of the porch, sweeping me up into a bear hug that lifts me right off my feet. His strong arms hold me against his chest and the sweet, musky scent of him surrounds me, blocking out the smell of wet cement and the night-blooming jasmine my grandma planted on the south side of the porch.

  He sets me back on my feet and brings his mouth to mine, taking his time forcing the breath from my lungs and the bones from my legs as he kisses me into oblivion. I kiss him back, my arms tight around his neck as my body reacts to his nearness after too many days away. I’m ready to defile my childhood front porch by the time he pulls back, leading me over to the swing and pulling me down onto his lap.

  I can’t resist touching him, running fingers through his wavy chestnut hair as though not yet convinced that he’s not a figment of my imagination. “What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t answer my text and I couldn’t wait to talk to you. I’ve missed you, Graciela.” He smiles, more hesitant than usual. Than ever. “And I’m so sorry about not standing up for you the other night. As soon as you left it was like you’d taken all of my chutzpah with you—I need you there with me to fight this thing. You remind me of what’s important.”

  The sincerity of his apology takes me by surprise, and so does the force of emotion that hits with the sentiment. He needs me. Beau needs me, when all this time it’s been me needing him.

  I put my palms on his cheeks, forcing his eyes to stay glued to mine. It’s hard to take down the walls, to let him see how important he is and how close to my heart, but I manage. “I want to be here for you, but you have to let me. Let me see the ugly stuff along with the smiles and the jokes and the body I can’t keep my hands off.”

  He shows me his dimples as his hands tighten on my hips. I roll my eyes, secretly pleased at how my nearness, my words, can pry such an easy reaction from him. My body responds to his touch, my blood stirring from warm to hot, but this moment means more than the physical desire that comes so easily—unstoppably—to us.

  My lips touch his, sweet and soft. There’s an admission stirring in my middle—in my soul, if that’s a thing—but I’m not ready to make it. I see it in Beau’s green-gold gaze, in the sudden thickness in the air between us, and pull back the slightest bit in the hopes that he won’t say it yet, either.

  “I brought you something,” he says instead, reaching into his pocket. His fingers emerge clutching a soft cloth bag from the only jewelry shop in town—it’s not one that sells anything expensive, thank the lord.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because when a man needs to apologize, it’s best to come toting gifts.”

  “Someone’s mama taught him well.”

  That makes him laugh, the warm, familiar one that deposits tingles in random places on my body—in my fingertips, the pads of my feet, my breasts, and between my thighs. I focus on the present, at least for now, letting my desire build. We’ve never had make-up sex before, but I’m rather looking forward to it.

  He proffers the gift and I take it, the velvetiness of the package pleasing to the touch. It’s tied with little satin drawstrings that come loose with an easy tug; I turn it upside down and let the piece fall into my palm. A gasp escapes my throat when I move it into the light of the porch lamp and the white gold glints wildly.

  “Oh my stars … It’s beautiful.”

  The moonstone locket is a pretty shade of pearlescent purples, creams, and pinks and hangs from a delicate chain that I’ll have to be super careful with to keep i
ntact. There’s a design on the front that’s reminiscent of interlocking hearts—though that’s not what it is, exactly—in the same thin gold.

  “I love it.”

  “Open it up.”

  I follow his instructions, not knowing what to expect since, in the three months we’ve been together, Beau and I haven’t taken a single photograph of ourselves together. Instead of anything that cheesy, I find pictures of my grandmother and grandfather on opposite sides, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s from a wedding photograph.

  Tears fill my eyes as sorrow and pride swirl into my heart. I miss them so much. I look down at Grams’ picture, seeing again just how strong our resemblance is, and how much she looks like Anne Bonny. It takes my breath away. There’s something about seeing it, the proof of our shared genes, that makes me feel tougher.

  But I also feel the weight, the expectation, on my shoulders.

  “Where did you get these?”

  Beau’s expression turns guilty, like a little boy caught playing in the dirt or eating a forbidden cookie. It makes me want to kiss him, but then again, most things do.

  “Okay, you caught me. I’ve had Nolan working on this for a few weeks. I borrowed the picture from Amelia right after Martin died to have a copy made that we could cut up.”

  He takes the locket from my hands and goes to clasp it around my neck but I pull away, covering his hand with mine and thrilling at the dirty thoughts that a simple touch can light up in my head. I slip the piece of jewelry back into its little pouch and put my arms around Beau’s neck, giving him a good kiss this time.

  We lean into each other, his hands roaming my back and my fingers toying with the top buttons on his crisp, mint green shirt. I work one open, then another, rubbing his warm chest as his touch slips under the hem of my tank top.

  “I think we should take this inside so I can properly forgive you.”

  “Mmm,” he mumbles against my mouth. “I’m thinking of doing a little extra, just to ensure you really understand how … sorry I am.”