Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “Is that so?” My heart beats faster at the mental image of Beau’s tongue between my legs, one not conjured from imagination but experience. I’m about to start panting when he stands up, setting me on my feet.

  “I am crazy about you, Graciela. I mean really losing it.” He swallows, hands intertwined with mine. “Thank you for not running for the hills over this whole thing. I promise I’ll prove to you that I’m a good man.”

  I step closer to him, my lust cooled by the strain in his voice, by the tightening of the lines around his eyes. “I have never, not once since we met, doubted your heart, Beauregard Drayton. Now, take me to bed or lose me forever.”

  That startles a laugh out of him, and the relief between us lets me breathe easily once again.

  “Show me the way home, honey.”

  We’re both snickering at our cheesy Top Gun wordplay as we let ourselves into the house. I pause for a moment in the dark foyer, letting the house breathe around me. It feels quiet, still, and convinces me that Millie is either still passed out on the couch or has retired to the second upstairs bedroom. Either way, we’re clear to romp without being interrupted, so I drag Beau toward the stairs.

  “What, no kitchen this time?” he murmurs into the back of my neck after snatching me to his chest.

  “No way. This is my kitchen and that means I’d have to clean it up.”

  “I see how it is.”

  He follows me up to my bedroom, and by the time we get there, our moods have grown serious. It’s a little unnerving the way Beau looks at me as though he thinks I might disappear, the way he takes such care stripping off my clothes, running cool fingertips across every inch of my overheated skin as though trying to memorize it. We don’t speak, but this is the strongest connection I’ve felt to him in the bedroom—or out of it, for that matter. The combination of the post-storm breeze and his touch, the feel of his rough skin against mine, pushes me toward a sensory overload that I can barely handle in the best possible way.

  I don’t worry about either of my ghosts being pervy voyeurs since, with the exception of Anne Bonny, none of my spirits have ever shown themselves to anyone but me. I don’t worry about anything but focusing on this man who, by his own admission moments ago, needs me. Needs me, a woman who is barely held together with scraps of tape and pieces of string, a bundle of mistakes and wrong turns and so many I-don’t-knows that I’ve lost count.

  Something about that feels important.

  When he kisses me, I stop thinking. I feel the growing urgency in his lips, taste his particular sweetness on his tongue, revel in the now-practiced movements as he settles his hips between my thighs and our bodies join, greeting like old friends. Lazy at first, but then moving faster, as though their time together is growing short.

  The sound of my name on Beau’s lips, the wondrous, rapt expression on his face as we watch each other surf back to reality on lingering waves of pleasure, twitches my mouth up into a dazed smile.

  I reach to push his hair off his forehead. “You really are quite good at that, Mayor Beau.”

  “Well, you know it’s a priority to keep my constituents happy.”

  And just like that, the mention of his job lets the real world into our bubble. It belly crawls under the door, drops off the wind like little paratroopers hitching rides on invisible water droplets, wriggles under the sheets and into our lungs and hearts.

  Beau rolls off me and I get up to use the bathroom, slipping into his button-down shirt and a clean pair of underwear before climbing back into bed. Wearing Beau’s shirts, wrapping myself in his smell, is one of my favorite things about dating him, even if he has expressed the opinion on more than one occasion that he prefers me naked.

  He’s staring at the ceiling as I cuddle up next to him, propping my head on my hand and resting the other on his chest. “What are you thinking about?”

  “How lucky I am that you moved back to Heron Creek.” He turns his head to the side so he can see my face. “The dating here was absolutely dismal.”

  “You must have weird taste in women. Is that normal for you?” I think of Hadley Renee, the only other girl—according to rumor—to earn a second date.

  She’s is the opposite of me—blond, perky, seemingly normal. Really, really pretty.

  “Maybe. You’re not most women, Graciela, so I think it would be unwise of me to compare you to any others I’ve known in my life.”

  “And I’m sure there have been a few,” I tease, smiling at him to make it clear I don’t actually want to discuss such an awful thing. People who insist on having conversations about exes are masochists, in my opinion. I know Beau must have a million questions about Will and me, but he seems to sense my unwillingness to go there. It’s not as though he couldn’t find out the gory details from half the people in town if he was so inclined.

  He looks toward the ceiling again, his gaze suggesting that his thoughts are far away from my past or his, and maybe this room altogether.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Beauregard Drayton. I know what I’ve been through isn’t the same as what’s going on in your life, but I promise that life keeps going even when you think you’re going to be stuck in the shit forever. You’ll get out of it.”

  “Yeah, but how hard is it going to be to clean off my boots?” Beau sucks in a deep breath and blows it out. Outside the window, clouds move out of the way long enough to let silvery moonlight into the room. It casts a glow over the bed and puts his rough features in sharp relief with the lingering shadows. The pain that’s there, that he’s been hiding, takes my breath away.

  Before either of us speaks, a distinct thud from downstairs kicks my heart into my rib cage. I freeze and Beau does, too.

  “Did you hear that?” I whisper.

  He nods, sitting up. I do the same, and a moment later, he’s back in his pants and we’re both peering out into the hallway. It’s dark, the way we left it, and I hold my breath until the sound comes again, maybe from the bottom of the stairs. It’s a bang this time, and my mind goes straight to the front door.

  “I think we left the front door open,” I whisper. “Did we?”

  We were pretty distracted on our way inside, but the door? It’s possible, and a month ago maybe even something I would do. Now, after everything with Mrs. LaBadie, it’s not likely.

  He shakes his head, lips pressed together in a line. “No. I locked it. I’m sure.”

  At least one of us was thinking straight.

  Fear pierces me, cold and straight through my middle. “Amelia.”

  Beau’s two steps ahead of me but I’m right on his heels. A quick check of her room finds it empty and we creep down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to check both directions, but find the same silent house we walked through an hour ago.

  The front door is open, the wind sucking it toward the threshold and then pushing it back into the doorstop in a rhythmic motion. We found the source of the thud and bang, at least. I motion toward the living room, wanting to see whether Millie’s still asleep on the couch, and Beau nods, following me that direction.

  He doesn’t shut the door and neither do I, leaving me to wonder whether he actually did the first time or if we’re freaking ourselves out for nothing.

  Amelia’s not on the couch, either. My fear grows, pulsing inside me like a clawing, frozen monster. Sweat slicks my palms and I feel sick, wondering what more could possibly happen to us in this town. In this house.

  Beau flips on the living-room light, leaving me squinting in the glare. There’s trepidation on his face, drawing lines around his lips and eyes and aging him. .

  “We should go take a look outside,” I fret, walking toward the front door. It blows open again, smashing into the foyer wall; there’s no way my cousin is sleeping through the noise even if she’s somewhere in the house. She’s a notoriously light sleeper and has been even more so since … all of it.

  Beau’s behind me, not arguing even though the hard expression on his face makes me think he
’d rather have a weapon in hand if he’s going out into the darkness. It’s hard to blame him, but my grandma was the one who liked guns and Aunt Karen got rid of them all after Grams died. I’ve never held a weapon in my life, and the last time Amelia had her hands on a gun she killed her husband. Suffice to say, there are none in the house and Beau’s smart enough not to ask.

  It occurs to me that I’ve never asked him about his stance on weapons in the hands of the masses, but since he’s a conservative politician from south of the Mason-Dixon line, maybe it’s not worth the wasted words.

  After everything that’s happened, I’m reconsidering my Northern liberal stance on the matter.

  The air on the front porch is fresh and clean. The humidity hasn’t returned, which makes me think that perhaps autumn has strolled into Heron Creek without so much as a how-do-you-do, not that any of us would send it packing on account of bad manners. I don’t see anything suspicious outside. The porch swing sways slightly and an owl hoots in the distance. Beau’s car sits in front of mine in the driveway and the streetlights, few and far between, deposit puddles of yellow onto the asphalt. All normal.

  “I guess maybe you didn’t close the—” I break off with a gasp, catching sight of a figure moving around the side of the house. “There’s someone there.”

  “Stay behind me.” Beau strides to his car, opens the passenger door, and digs a .22 out of his glove box. Question answered.

  He leaves the safety on and holds the weapon pointed at the ground. Both his having it and his obvious focus on not accidentally killing someone with it make me feel a little better.

  Nothing can slow the beat of my heart and my breath is coming in such loud, wheezing gasps that it’s no wonder whoever is lurking about took off running. It crosses my mind now that perhaps I’m the only one who can see the figure and that’s why it escaped Beau’s attention, but I brush it off. I’ve seen ghosts walk through just about any barrier under the sun, so there’s no reason one of my new ones would feel the need to start opening doors in the middle of the night, even if he is pissed off about being kept out of my room by Beau’s presence.

  We creep through the soggy yard. Beau had the sense to slip on his shoes, but my feet are bare and now filthy, and a little bit chilly to boot. There’s nothing to see as we round the edge of the house and stare in the direction of the dock and the river. Then a slip of white catches my eye again and I point. “There. Do you, um, see it?”

  “Yes.” There’s a slight smile on his face, as though he’s guessed the reason for my question, but it’s gone in an instant as he squints into the moonlit darkness. “I think it’s Amelia.”

  “Amelia? Why would she be wandering around out here? And why would she leave the door open?”

  We’re moving toward her as the questions fall from my lips, useless things that almost evaporate before they hit my ears. It is Millie, but she doesn’t pause when I call her name.

  “Millie!” I try again once we’ve almost caught up with her. She stumbles slightly, one knee hitting the soft ground just before her feet trade the grass for the wooden dock.

  I reach out, my fingers closing around her arm in an attempt to get her to turn around, but when she spins it’s almost as though she has no will of her own. Her green eyes stare through me, her small frame swaying slightly. She’s pale and unresponsive, even when Beau snaps his fingers right in front of her face.

  “I think she’s sleepwalking,” he says softly.

  “Sleepwalking? She’s never done that before.” I watch her, suspicion gathering in the back of my throat. “Why would a person just start doing that out of the blue?”

  “Stress? I don’t know, Graciela, I’m not a doctor. But she’s obviously not herself.”

  Other reasons line up and take their turn marching through my mind. Darker reasons, ones suggested by my hours of research into things such as voodoo and zombies and mind control. What if it’s the curse? What if Mrs. LaBadie is doing this to her?

  The memory of my dream the other night collides with the words Odette uttered on the street. Suggestions that voodoo curses couldn’t be easily shed or avoided, and maybe carried out in moments such as these.

  A deepening dread grips my spine but I don’t voice any of those things. They’re crazy, even for things that come out of my mouth. My eyes flit between my oddly not-there cousin and the twenty or thirty more steps it would take to send her straight into the river.

  All the moisture has left my lips and tongue, and it takes several tries to wet them enough to talk. “What do we do? Wake her up?”

  “I think we should just get her back to bed.” He lifts his chin, gauging the distance back to the house, then scoops my cousin up against his chest. “It’ll be a miracle if she made it this far without scratching up her feet.”

  I glance down at my own bare feet and he follows my gaze, making an exasperated noise in his throat. I shake my head, giving him a distracted smile. “It’s fine. I don’t expect you to carry both of us, no matter how big your hero complex.”

  “I do not have a hero complex. What are you even doing running around in my dress shirt and no shoes? Mrs. Walters is probably taking pictures right this moment.”

  It’s true that I am the proud owner of the nosiest neighbor in the history of the South. And there’s some stiff competition. “The next thing you know I’ll be the one on trial, for public indecency and corrupting a perfectly good mayor.”

  “That second one isn’t a crime.” He grunts, stepping toward the house with his burden.

  I follow carefully, trying not to step on any puddles or broken glass the local teenagers might have left scattered about, and we all make it to the safety of the porch unharmed. Or further unharmed, I think, watching Amelia’s head loll against his shoulder. Her eyes have settled closed again and her breathing hasn’t changed—the long, even sighs of a girl in a deep sleep. Chills skitter down my spine, leaving deposits of fear and worry in their wake.

  Beau ferries her up to bed, and we both stand there for a moment as though she’s our kid and we’re mesmerized watching her sleep. I pull the covers up to her chin and then jerk my head toward the door. Once we’re back in the hallway, I let my shoulders drop from where they’ve been hunched around my ears. The muddy footprints on the carpet, up and down the steps, will be proof in the light of day.

  Proof that will convince Amelia she almost walked straight into the river. Proof that will convince me that this whole thing wasn’t a dream.

  “You okay?” Concern winks in Beau’s ever-changing eyes and one warm hand reaches out to brush some dirt off my cheek.

  I nod, leaning into his touch. “I think so. But I’m going to sleep in her room tonight just to be sure.”

  “It probably wouldn’t hurt for me to get a good night’s sleep in my own bed, considering what’s happening in the morning.”

  There he goes again, trying to brush off the arraignment like an everyday occurrence. As though his life isn’t falling apart.

  “I’ll be there. Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “No. Brick’s going to take me and we have to be there early.” His gaze locks on mine. “But I need you there, Graciela.”

  He needs me.

  “You can count on me.”

  It’s strange, because even just a few weeks ago the thought of having anyone else depending on me would have made me consider taking off into the wilderness barefoot of my own accord. Gramps, then Millie, then the ghosts that keep showing up … But this feels different. It’s right, being there for Beau. Being leaned on, being needed.

  I don’t mind as much as I thought I might.

  Chapter Ten

  Amelia doesn’t have any answers regarding her sleepwalking. I shook her awake at nine, since she hadn’t opened her eyes yet on her own, and forced her out of bed to look at the evidence ground into our carpet. She seemed more concerned that I hadn’t cleaned the carpet than that she’d taken up sleepwalking, and refused to even discuss the fac
t that it might be something more than a simple change in sleep patterns.

  “It was just a weird dream, Grace, for heaven’s sake. A very vivid one that apparently got me up and moving, but nothing more.”

  The fact that she and I are both having extremely realistic, potentially deadly dreams does nothing to comfort me but she will hear no talk about voodoo curses. I try a different tactic.

  “If you don’t make a doctor’s appointment, so help me I’ll …” I threatened.

  “You’ll what? Drag me?”

  Anger made me rash, but in truth, my worries outweighed my own discomfort by a mile. “You need to figure out what’s going on. You could have died last night. He could have died.”

  Her hands went to her belly. “We’re fine. We’re going to be fine.”

  “You keep saying that, but it’s like you think it’s going to magically happen.”

  “You’re the only one of us who believes in stupid shit like magic, Grace,” she snapped. “Now why don’t you run along to your little court hearing and leave me alone.”

  She slammed the bedroom door in my face, the remark about believing in magic stinging. Amelia believed in the curse … at least, I thought she did. Sure, there were other ways to explain what happened with Jake, and we knew Mrs. LaBadie—a real, flesh-and-blood human—had given her the root tea to try to induce early labor, but what about the rest of it? The fact that no male in our family had lived past the age of thirteen, not ever? Most had died much younger than that, even, and Millie herself had a slew of miscarriages before almost losing this one, too.

  She believes in ghosts. After seeing and smelling Anne Bonny for herself, it would be hard not to, but a curse isn’t something that can be seen.

  My mind is on my own troubles as I drive to the county courthouse, but once I step through those big, official doors, all of my focus cascades to Beau. I spent quite a bit of time in trouble with the law as a child, and the whole Glinda-hung-out-with-moonshiners situation last month took me in close for another brush, but this is all new to me. Indictments. Arraignments. In the face of dingy linoleum floors, stale air-conditioning, rows of wooden benches that strangely resemble pews, and an honest-to-goodness judicial bench and jury box, I’m wishing I’d spent more time researching legal proceedings than digging into the not-so-mysterious deaths of two long-gone Englishmen.