Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “So, I guess you want something that’s under those boards, huh?” I whisper, straightening up to look him in the face.

  Like all of my frustrating spirits, Dr. Ladd has disappeared.

  I huff, blowing the accidental almost-bangs Hadley Renee hacked off out of my face. “Well, that’s just fantastic.”

  I almost decide to leave, then figure I’ve gotten this far and he’s just going to bug the shit out of me until I come back, anyway.

  The bedding feels surprisingly soft against my shoulder, and I brace my palms on the thick wooden frame to avoid shoving the mattress onto the floor instead of moving the whole bed. It protests as I urge it a foot, then another, toward the opposite wall. A layer of sweat covers my forehead by the time I get the massive bed off the boards in question.

  Splinters snag the thick skin on my knees, making me wince as I slide toward the center of the oak boards and use the light on my phone to search the edges of the planks. The lack of sanding and the fact that the stain doesn’t match the other boards forces me to rethink the assumption that the renovation crew has already made it into this room. Perhaps the thought of his room being torn up, of someone else finding whatever’s under this floor, is what so excited Dr. Ladd about the fact that I could see him.

  All the planks are nailed down; there’s no way I’m prying this up with my fingers. I silently curse the old doctor for not informing me that a pry bar would be a handy tool for this excursion. Determination floods my veins, partially because coming back again means another chance at getting caught. I’m risking eternal shame for my boyfriend and family the way it is, and the potential of getting away with it without getting caught moves me back down the stairs toward the part of the house that leads out to the garden.

  I think I remember seeing a shed on the back of the property, and it turns out I’m right. I’ll be extra smug if there turn out to be tools inside.

  The building is nearly hidden by carefully planted and manicured foliage, with a padlock on the door. Dammit. Trust me to run into the sort of nonsense that makes people protect a toolshed with more care than a historic landmark.

  A window on the east side of the shed, its sill at about chest height, catches my attention. Because nothing about tonight makes sense, it’s too filthy to see through, but unlocked. I push it open and hoist myself up, scissors kicking a few times. The memory of breaking into the library through the bathroom window during my first month back in Heron Creek—and busting my face—skitters through my mind and I cling to the sill, intending to straddle it and then let myself down lightly.

  The plan doesn’t work out quite as anticipated since my balance is upset by a brief moment of vertigo, but at least I manage to land on my feet inside the shed. The hard impact does twist my ankle, though, and I lurch to the side, hands out to catch myself. My right palm connects with something sharp on the wall and the pain pulls a grunt from my chest that’s louder than makes me comfortable—and when I let go of whatever instrument of torture just sliced up my hand, a whole rack of tools crashes over like dominos.

  I am so bad at this.

  I cradle my hand to my chest as it stings and throbs, then hold it up in the moonlight to inspect the damage. Blood pumps from the two-inch-long gash, but in my nonmedical doctor’s opinion, it needs a tight bind, not stitches. Given that it’s my dominant hand that’s wounded I’m not sure how prying up floorboards is going to happen, now, and there’s a good chance the racket I just stirred up is going to encourage at least one nosy neighbor to call the police, it might be time to beat it.

  At least, for someone with a brain bigger than her nostril.

  “Shit on a stick,” I curse under my breath, looking around for something to wrap around my hand. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and, aided by the silvery moonlight, I scan the space, which is filled with about every kind of gardening implement known to man. The specks of blood on something spiky and dirty convince me it’s the responsible party for the slice on my hand. It’s lying on top of a pile of shovels and spades I knocked to the ground. I give it a kick on my way toward a messy workbench at the back that’s covered with more tools than I can identify even after growing up doing chores in Gramps’s garden, but I notice two things that draw me that direction: a five-gallon bucket of rags and an assortment of prying tools hanging with a half-dozen saws on a Peg-Board above the bench.

  I tie a rag tightly around my palm and am trying to ignore the throbbing ache long enough to coax a small pry bar off the wall when the door to the shed bursts open to the tune of cocking pistols, and two or three flashlights blind me.

  “Charleston Police Department, stay where you are and put your hands in the air.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Charleston police station, at least the one where they take me, is way bigger than Heron Creek’s. Not nicer, really, but roomier. On the downside, it’s also more crowded. I’m sharing my bare-bones cell—two benches, one sink, one toilet—with seven other people. Four college boys who haven’t stopped leering at me for five seconds, even though they’re so drunk they can’t hit the toilet or hold their eyes all the way open; two women who—I’m sorry to stereotype—must be hookers; and a mysterious middle-aged man in a suit and tie. He’s slumped in the farthest corner with his head tipped back against the concrete, pretending to be asleep.

  Pretending because I’ve been here half an hour waiting to make my phone call and have caught him peeking at his surroundings a couple of times.

  He’s by far the most interesting person in here. Other than me, of course. He’s also my only potential ally should the college guys turn out to be your run-of-the-mill frat-boy rapists. I really do need to find a self-defense class to take. The supernatural world and my haphazard investigations are one thing, but they sort of make it easy to forget that the actual world is even scarier on occasion.

  “Graciela Harper?” A bored, rather good-looking police officer who’s probably younger than my twenty-five years loiters in front of the cell, eyes trained on a clipboard.

  “Yes?” I stand up, trying not to look too hopeful.

  “You ready for your phone call?”

  After congratulating myself on my barely restrained Duh or About fucking time, I simply nod and let him lead me down a narrow hallway back into the room where they processed me—fingerprints, mug shot, the whole nine yards. It’s been a while since I’ve walked through that time-honored tradition, since getting busted in a dinky backwater is slightly different than this.

  I mean, no one even offered me a wet wipe to clean off my hand, for heaven’s sake. What kind of classless arrest is this?

  “You have five minutes,” the cop, whose badge proclaims him Officer Dunleavy, informs me. His dark skin accentuates brown eyes so light they’re almost gold, and they soften when he takes in my face. Which I can only assume is not happy and smeared with fingerprint ink and mascara. “You can have more than one phone call. If the first person doesn’t answer, I mean.”

  His uncomfortable manner at being nice twitches a smile from my lips. “Don’t worry, Officer. I promise not to call my book club so we can continue our discussion of the new Gillian Flynn novel.”

  The response startles a real smile from him, which accentuates his handsome features, and he walks several paces away while shaking his head. The privacy is nice, but even with all this time to think I still haven’t really decided who to call. Amelia would be the obvious choice, if Aunt Karen weren’t sure to answer the phone. Even if, by some miracle, she didn’t, there’s no way she’s going to let my cousin out of the house at this time of night. Not in her current state.

  If this had happened two weeks ago, Leo would have been my guy. He understands my inclination to flout the rules—in this case actual laws, I suppose—and he wouldn’t give me any of the sanctimonious bullshit I’ll most certainly hear from any of my other options.

  A sigh bubbles past my lips, sadder than I want it to sound. There’s a good chance Leo won’t answer a ca
ll from me, but even if he did, I can’t see him driving twenty or so minutes out of his way to fork over hard-earned cash to bail me out. Not at this point.

  That leaves me two choices: Bite the bullet and call my boyfriend, or take the somewhat easier route and dial my ex-boyfriend. With Officer Dunleavy probably already rethinking his snap decision to be nice since it’s taking me forever to pick a number, I go with Beau. Mostly because all I can think of is how guilty I’ve felt these past several days over doubting him, over my lingering … not feelings for Will, but my instinct to trust him with things I’d rather keep from Beau.

  It’s going to suck to tell him about tonight, whenever it happens. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid.

  The aches in my bones insist it’s too late to call anyone, but my watch claims it’s not even eleven. Beau’s a bit of an early-to-bed type, but the purple wedges under his eyes and the chalky skin he’s been sporting recently tell me he’s been keeping late hours trying to find a way to win his court case.

  I sigh, still reluctant, but I suppose there’s probably not a convenient time to call from prison.

  I screw up some courage and go to dial his number with shaking fingers, then realize I don’t know it by heart. Since the advent of cell phones and their contact lists, I can’t recall the last number that I committed to memory.

  “Um …” I swivel, my face hot at having to ask the nice officer for more help. “I don’t know the number by heart. Could you grab my cell phone?”

  He fishes it out of his pocket, snug in an evidence bag, with an understanding smirk. “No one knows numbers anymore. Here.”

  “Thanks.” I scroll through, find the number, then transfer it to the landline keypad. It takes all of my willpower to hand my phone back, which is more than a little disturbing. When did that little hunk of metal and plastic start to feel like an actual part of me?

  My heart climbs into my throat as Beau’s phone rings once, then again. I urge myself not to be that pathetic person who breaks down and weeps, especially because, shit, this really isn’t that big of a deal. So they caught me in the shed. I haven’t said a word, telling them only that I wanted my phone call and that I’d be speaking to a lawyer before talking about what I was doing on the Thomas Rose House property.

  Don’t say anything should be standard operating procedure. So simple, but too many people forget it—or are too blasted to exercise it, like the dumb-ass frat guys who are all going to face some belligerence and minor assault charges along with their drunk and disorderlies—but it’s also giving me time to come up with a good story.

  The phone rings a third time. A fourth.

  My gut wobbles. Is he ignoring my call?

  I force my mind back to my predicament. Unless any of the cameras got a good look at me—doubtful—I can deny being in the house. It’s not a big enough deal for them to spend the money on forensic analysis; there’s nothing missing and no vandalism. Maybe I could just say that my car broke down, the gate was open, and I thought no one would mind if I borrowed a couple of tools from the shed to fix it and then return them.

  The story is decent, but any chance of it making me feel better flees when Beau’s voice mail clicks on, his outgoing message turning my blood warm, then cold, because I’m hearing it instead of his actual voice.

  I hang up, leaving my hand on the button to keep the line disconnected while I get my shit together. I will not cry in the police station. I will not cry in the police station.

  This time, my fingers move on their own. Mel and Will bought Will’s childhood home from his parents when they retired down to Beaufort, and that number? I doubt I’ll ever forget it. You don’t lose the memory of calling a boy you like for the first time in your life, or seeing his number on your caller ID the morning after your first kiss.

  Like my memory, Will doesn’t fail me.

  “Hello?”

  Except that he no longer has caller ID, apparently.

  I clear my throat, dreading this entire conversation. I’m going to have to come clean with him and Mel. “Hey.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  A wet laugh shudders out of me. Everything, apparently. “Well, here’s the thing. Do you remember where I hid the coffee can with the bail money in my grandparents’ second garage?”

  “Oh, Gracie. Detective Travis got you again? What’d you do this time?”

  “Oh my God, again?” Mel’s reproachful tone echoes in the background, as though they’re sitting in the kitchen. The thought of them hanging out there together, at this time of night, is so perfectly normal and nice.

  Unlike, say, my life at the moment.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “I’m sort of in Charleston.”

  “You’re in jail. In Charleston.”

  “Yeah …” I pause, hearing the questions he’s not asking just as he heard that something was wrong in a single word from me. “I tried calling Beau but he didn’t answer. Amelia’s not up for … much of anything. Leo hates me.”

  “We don’t have to be your last resort, Gracie. I mean, if you would stop breaking the law, then you wouldn’t need any of us to bail you out in the middle of the night—”

  A crackle and muffled exchange of words force me to pull the phone way from my ear and then Mel’s on the line. “Gracie? Are you okay?”

  Her motherly, worried tone brings a hard-fought smile to my face. My tears are closer to spilling over than ever. “I’m fine, Mel.”

  “Sorry about Will. You know how he enjoys the moral high ground.” The annoyance in her voice goes straight to my heart. “Where are you?”

  I give her the address of the precinct off the card Officer Dunleavy handed me, feeling better. “Thanks.”

  “Of course. We’ll just have to call my mother to watch Grant.”

  Guilt pricks at my conscience. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’ll be fun to wake him up from a dead sleep for once. See how he likes it.” She pauses. “Plus, it’ll piss off Mom.”

  “Always glad to be of service in that arena, obviously.”

  Mel snorts. “We’ll see you in about forty minutes. Don’t take any plugged nickels.”

  We hang up, the entire phone call having taken less than five minutes but the whole world looking a little different to me, now. My boyfriend ignored a call from me when I needed him. Ignored a call at 11:00 p.m., timing that should have suggested that I really needed him, even if only to hear his voice.

  Dunleavy takes me back to the cell, ushering me inside and locking the door behind me. I thank him and he gives me a small smile, and I think that at least there are decent people on the side of the law in some cities in this country. A thought, trailing in the wake of my Beau breakdown, turns me back to the bars before he goes away.

  “Excuse me, Officer?”

  He stops, facing me and cocking an eyebrow. “Need to call that book club after all?”

  “No …” I glance at my cellmates, Lindsay’s words and fear sticking with me like bad Thai food. The frat guys are passed out, drooling on one another. The hookers are arguing about The Bachelor. The other guy is still pretending to sleep. “I was wondering what you could tell me about a guy named Chandler Wellington.”

  Officer Dunleavy looks lost for a moment, then recognition clicks in his eyes. “The DA? What, are you worried he’s going to get your case? I don’t think this petty crap will go to trial, do you?”

  “No, I … I was wondering about him as a person. Like, is he honest?”

  Those golden eyes narrow now, raking my face as though they can peel off my skin and get a good look at my thoughts. At the reason I’m asking. “I suppose you’re going to clam up if I ask why you need to know such a thing.”

  I shrug. “You’re as smart as you are handsome, Officer.”

  He shakes his head, looking bemused at my clumsy flattering. “I’ve never heard anything bad about Mr. Wellington. He’s good at his job, if that means getting lots of convictions.”

  There’s someth
ing in his voice that suggests there’s more to what he’s saying. I decide to poke at him because there’s nothing else to do until Mel gets here, anyway, and step forward, dropping my voice. “I heard that he might be friends with Robert Caruso, is all. And you know, that’s pretty good gossip, which is like currency where I’m from.”

  “Heron Creek, right? Pretty little place.”

  “You know it?”

  “Sure. I’m a fisherman. You’ve got some great little holes.”

  I manage to bite back another ill-timed that’s what she said and get back to my original question. “Do you know anything about the Carusos?”

  “I know they’re bad news, Miss Harper. Everyone does. Not the kind of gossip you want to trade in—best to find something else.”

  In that moment the back of my neck starts to tingle and I shoot a glance behind me, finding curious stares from the hookers. My mouth goes dry and I look back at Dunleavy, giving him my best attempt at a casual smile.

  “Okay, well, thanks anyway. I didn’t figure they’d be out drinking with the DA on the weekends but I thought if anyone would know more, it’d be the good guys.”

  He gives me a half smile, as though he knows I’m feeding him a line, then glances behind me. “Rumors. Nothing more, even if they have persisted. Good night, Miss Harper.”

  I sit back down on the bench, as far away from the piss-scented frat boys as possible. The prostitutes return to ignoring me in favor of a scintillating discussion on reality television. My mind turns over the officer’s final statement. It seems as though he was confirming that there are, in fact, rumors of a friendship between Wellington and the Carusos, but maybe I’m imagining it.