Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s nice that I don’t have to work for the next two days, because as much as I’d like to go back to my general wallowing, there are more pressing matters at hand. Not to mention that my Aunt Karen is still in town and still keen on waking me up at the ass-crack of dawn.

  She’s perched on the edge of my bed, her form the only thing blocking out the sunlight since she threw open the curtains. There’s not anything in the world more unpleasant than her voice at the best of times. At sunrise? It’s grounds for murder.

  In the back of my mind a nightmare clings. I shake my head to dislodge the memory of the relentless black insects that pursued me off the edge of a bridge. Their pinchers and teeth ripped into my skin, tore away chunks of hair as I fell. Strands cling to my fingers and I shove them under the pillow, trying to force my breathing deeper so Aunt Karen will go away.

  “Could you please open your eyes, Graciela? I know you’re awake; you’re panting like you just ran a marathon. We need to talk.” She sniffs. “I had hoped to speak with you last night, but you didn’t get in until the wee hours. And thanks to William Gayle rummaging around in the garage, I didn’t get much sleep, either.”

  I open one eye, appraising her. My aunt is a lot of things, but stupid has never been one of them. The other family curse. “He was helping me out. I needed a ride.”

  “Yes, I suspected as much. I’m not even going to ask where you were or why you needed to be helped. I am going to hope that whatever you’ve done will not besmirch this family’s good name any further and thank you for not involving my daughter, for once.”

  “Oh, thank the good lord.” I groan, rolling onto my back and stretching. Jail cells are notoriously bad on the back. The joint is hard on the joints. Ha. “Is there a reason you’re waking me up at”—I check my watch—“Jesus, seven fifteen? Ugh.”

  “Yes. I’m worried about Amelia.”

  “We all are. That’s why I called you, remember?”

  Her lips press together, her hands already tightly folded in her lap. “She’s not getting better. Not coming out of this. If she doesn’t make some major changes, the Middletons are going to have a case for custody. She listens to me but it’s like everything goes in one ear and out the other.”

  It crosses my mind to ask her when she stopped rooting for the Middletons and their money but the strain in her green eyes, so like her daughter’s, stops me.

  “She thinks she’s unfit,” I murmur, my throat burning. “That maybe she doesn’t deserve her son after everything that’s happened.”

  Millie’s never said as much to me, but I have to wonder if she blames herself for not knowing about the curse. Maybe she thinks her wanting to have children so badly is why this is happening to her son.

  “That’s ridiculous, and it’s time she stopped moping about and admitted it.” Aunt Karen pushes ahead, which is good because I’m about to throttle her. My aunt either has no idea what her daughter has been through these past months or is being obtuse about it on purpose. Both options are possible. “We’re going to have one of those newfangled intervention things today— you, me, those friends of yours. The Gayles. Talk her into counseling.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? No sassy comeback? You’re not going to fight me?”

  I shake my head, even though if someone had pulled this on me during the worst of my depression I would have scratched their eyes out like a rabid raccoon protecting its garbage cans. “No. She needs to hear it from people other than you and me because that’s not working. We should invite Detective Travis, too.”

  “The townie cop?” She wrinkles her nose. “What on earth for?”

  I shrug, rubbing my eyes and swinging my feet out from under the covers. The floors are cool against the balls of my feet. “He likes her and he seems to, you know, get it. He cares. He should be there.”

  I’m the last person to fangirl Travis, but if his hanging around makes my aunt’s skin crawl, then his sniffing around Amelia just got a whole lot more palatable.

  “It’s not as though I can stop you from inviting whomever you wish.” She stands, too, and clomps over to the doorway. “I’m thinking around two. I’ll get a tea together.”

  I manage not to groan. Tea and throwing the one person I love more than anyone else right under the bus in the one place where she feels safe. Sounds like a perfect combination.

  My phone dings with a text message as I struggle out of the shower an hour later. It’s Beau, and while my heart is happy to hear from him, my head reminds me about what happened last night—both that he ignored my call and that I’m going to have to tell him about it.

  Hey, gorgeous. Sorry I missed you last night. Passed out right after dinner.

  Asleep is a pretty good excuse. I guess. Even if he is a light sleeper.

  Shut up, I hiss at the devil on my right shoulder.

  It’s okay. Maybe we could get together later. Missing you.

  Definitely. I’ll text you later with the best time, but we’ll make time for just the two of us, okay? I miss you, too.

  I dry off and finish getting ready, unsurprised to find Henry Woodward supervising the later stages of the process. He turns up his nose at my first two outfit choices, so I make a point not to look his direction when I pick a third.

  Why I even changed the first two is beyond me. First of all, I’m going to a betrayal of my cousin, not tea with the queen. Second, based on Henry’s getups, I don’t know what makes him think he has the right to an opinion on fashion.

  I tell him as much, earning a wounded expression that looks a lot like his regular one, and stomp downstairs feeling the slightest bit bad for hurting the feelings of a ghost.

  Amelia is so not the only person in this house who needs an intervention.

  “That didn’t go exactly as I imagined,” Detective Travis comments as I usher him out of the house and onto the front porch later that afternoon. He shrugs into a suit jacket, even though it’s way too warm to be wearing such a thing and no cop in Heron Creek has ever adhered to a dress code.

  “I know what you mean.” Worry tightens my throat and I swallow several times. A lump stays put.

  Amelia simply listened to everyone’s piece, her eyes downcast and her hands lightly kneading the bump of her belly. When we all finished, she looked up, locked eyes with Melanie, and nodded. She said she’d go to counseling, that she agreed with all of us, then retired to her room.

  It took the wind out of our sails, and while it had been the outcome everyone wanted, there’s something about a battle that’s expected to be hard turning out to be easy that can infect a room with a peculiar discomfort. There’s quite a bit of cold tea for Aunt Karen to dispose of in the kitchen, is what it boils down to.

  Mel and Will are inside helping her clean up, but Travis had been ready to clear out as soon as Millie took her leave from the room.

  “Thank you for letting me know about this. I promised Amelia the other day that I would be here if she needed me. I meant in the capacity of a pair of ears, but I’m happy to be included and happy that she’s agreed to talk to someone.”

  “You’re welcome.” I bite my lip, knowing there’s never going to be an appropriate time to ask for his help. “And I was wondering …”

  “Ah, here we go.” He gives me a smile, the crooked one that reminds me that, despite being a jackass, there’s something attractive about him. Maybe because he’s a jackass.

  “What do you mean, here we go?”

  “I mean that you, Miss Harper, are not a girl who misses opportunities. I am grateful to you and you need a favor. Go ahead and ask it.”

  For a brief moment, I wonder if he knows about what happened last night. Maybe he’s friends with Dunleavy or there’s some sort of cop gossip network. He’s watching me too carefully to already know what’s coming, I decide. “I was wondering if I could ask for your help on a … with something I heard.”

  “Something you heard?”

  I
almost said on a case I’m working, which is ridiculous. Too many detective novels. Clients cannot be dead, Gracie.

  “It’s about Beau’s case. I got a … a tip that someone at the DA’s office is affiliated with the Caruso family and is taking bribes and forcing verdicts to go certain ways, but that it isn’t Beau. I just don’t know how to prove it.”

  Concern trips over his heavy features, and a strange chill infects the warm Heron Creek afternoon. I wonder what Mrs. Walters is thinking, the law being at our house twice in one week. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not pleasant.

  “Did this source of yours happen to give you a name?”

  “The prosecutor who was the lead on Lindsay Boone’s case. Wellington.”

  “The Caruso family is no joke, Miss Harper. They’re ruthless killers, and they protect their business and their family with brutal force.” He stares me down. “You cannot go asking questions without backup, you understand?”

  “First of all, you sound exactly like someone’s overly stern father. Second, of course I know that. That’s why I’m taking a chance and asking for your help.”

  He looks at me for another several seconds, seeming to mull the situation over, then tips his head to one side. “I’ll do a little digging. Talk to a few contacts in Charleston. Give me a few days.”

  “We need to work fast. Beau’s trial starts next week.”

  “I understand.”

  I know he’s only doing this for Amelia, for a reason maybe he doesn’t even fully get yet, but gratitude washes through me all the same. It meshes with relief that sets my knees trembling. For all my snooping and bravado up to this point, I do not want to get dead. Maybe I should have been more afraid of the moonshiners last month, but there’s something comical about them. For whatever reason, we get each other.

  But the mob? Drug dealers? That’s way out of my depth, as everyone keeps pointing out, and every fiber of every vessel in my body knows that Travis is right: Trying to find answers on my own is only going to lead to trouble. The dead kind.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts down the walk to his police car, whistling.

  It reminds me of Dr. Ladd and I try not to feel too guilty about my epic failure last night. He hasn’t been around since he disappeared at the Thomas Rose House, but I’ve barely been alone. I’m sure he’ll be back and maybe next time he’ll give me a list of necessary tools before dragging me on a shady mission.

  “Oh, and Miss Harper?”

  “Yeah?” I ask, resisting the urge to tell him to call me Gracie, for the love of Pete.

  “Next time you get arrested, you could mention my name. Despite what you think, I do have friends.” He winks and chuckles, climbing into his car and pulling away before I can come up with any sort of response.

  I’m spending the evening at Beau’s for the first time in what seems like forever, which has really only been a handful of days, and he’s banished Brick to the guest suite and the office. We’re eating lasagna that one of the neighbors brought by, along with a salad and some garlic bread, and it reminds me of the night we first had sex. It was right here in this kitchen, on the table, and it gives me a weird sort of satisfaction to know that Beau’s brother has been eating on the same spot for the past couple of weeks.

  “Tell me what you’ve been up to, Gracie Anne. Please. Tell me something that doesn’t have anything to do with this godforsaken case.” He’s sitting on the stool next to me at his kitchen island, his chin in his palm and exhaustion making him look at least ten years older.

  It’s hard to keep from asking him a million and one things about the case, and even harder not to blurt out what Clete told me the other night and ask what he knows about this Wellington character. Melanie’s right: No one would be a better source of information than Beau.

  But I can’t bring him down right now. I can’t talk about the case if he doesn’t want to, can’t stomach handing him even a tiny bit of shining hope if there’s nothing to it. I decided before coming over that I’m going to wait and see what Travis finds before bringing Beau into the loop.

  It doesn’t seem as though he’s caught wind of my visit to the prison to see Lindsay or my own brief incarceration in Charleston, both of which would do the opposite of support the idea of a nice, relaxing evening together. The only thing I can think of that’s not totally depressing is figuring out more information about my ghosts.

  “Amelia helped me figure out who the guy is in my bedroom. He’s Henry Woodward.” I lean forward and smooth Beau’s hair back off his forehead, planting a kiss there because I can’t help it. I miss touching him, miss being with him. Most of all, I miss laughing with him.

  “How is Amelia?”

  I shrug, conscious of the depressing nature of that discussion. “We had a sort of intervention. She’s going to start seeing Dr. Farmer on Monday.”

  He nods, swallowing a small bite of lasagna. He’s wasting away, but there’s no way to comment on it without sounding like his nagging mother. “So, should I know the name Henry Woodward?”

  I polish off my second slice of garlic bread and manage to stop from grabbing a third, then shake my head. “I didn’t, but his life story is pretty unbelievable.”

  It’s so incredible, in fact, that it takes me through the rest of dinner and half of the cleanup to repeat everything Brian told us after the tour—the trip across the ocean, the Indians, the Spanish, the pirates. It strikes me again how amazing it is. And how it doesn’t seem possible that the pouty, despondent ghost in my room could have ever been such a fierce survivor.

  Beau asks all the right questions, some I haven’t even thought of, and the conversation feels normal, as though there’s not a trial hanging over our heads and about fifteen lies stacked up in between us.

  He slings an arm around my shoulders, leaning into me and pressing a kiss to my temple. “You want to go into the den? We could watch a movie or the ball game?”

  “Sure.”

  I’m as hot for the guy as ever, and my nether regions are staging a protest after over a month of plentiful attention, but sex is probably one of the last things on his mind. Beau looks as though he’s struggling to not fall asleep standing up.

  He turns the Braves-Cubs game on and I ignore the brief pang of sorrow over Gramps not being here to grouse about the balls and strikes along with us. Beau’s side is solid and warm, perfect for snuggling, and when I’m up against him I can close my eyes and let all the stress of the past two days melt off of me like snow next to a crackling fire.

  “I’ve missed you, Gracie Anne.” The admission rumbles from his chest and straight into mine, squeezing my heart.

  I tighten my hold on him, looking up into his eyes and accepting a lingering kiss on the mouth that leaves me wanting more. “Things will get back to normal soon enough.”

  His arm pulls me closer. “I hope you’re right.”

  “You know the other ghost? The one I picked up in Charleston?” I just want to talk to him, to try to keep up this sweetness between us.

  Beau chuckles and I feel like a hero. “You know, most people pick up some pralines or a sweetgrass trinket.”

  “Hey, the bits of history I squirrel away just tend to be a bit more alive. Which is a weird thing to say about ghosts, but it’s kind of true. They feel like people, to me. Friends.”

  “Tell me what you’ve figured out.”

  I put my cheek down on his shoulder and pick at invisible balls of lint on his faded gray college T-shirt. “He’s pretty hung up on his ex. You’ve heard of the Whistling Doctor?”

  He pauses for a split second, then snaps his fingers. “Philadelphia Alley?”

  “Yes.” Beau charmed me for many reasons when we met, but one of them was his quick knowledge of local history. Total turn-on for a history nerd.

  “That story was always sad to me.”

  “Me, too.” I shake off the melancholy that follows Dr. Ladd around, determined
to stay chipper for the evening, and turn the conversation back to Beau. We can’t go much further into the Dr. Ladd conversation without me having to purposefully leave things out. “How have people been with you? You know, since you’ve been coming into town for lunch and going in to the office and everything?”

  “The response has really been a salve on my heart, and I have you to thank for that. There have always been people in this town, and in Charleston, who distrust politicians and have blamed me for Lindsay Boone’s predicament, but by and large, the people of Heron Creek have made their loyalties known. And God, I love them for it.”

  The click of expensive shoes on the hardwood in the hallway freezes every muscle in my body. I don’t want to sit up, don’t want to leave the circle of warmth and affection we’ve carved out in the midst of the chaos, but I have to be ready for Brick. The last time we met face-to-face I let him know he’s not going to push me around, and I’ll be damned if I’ve changed my mind.

  He bursts into the den, his face bright red and his blue eyes snapping with fury. He points a finger at me. “You got arrested? Now? Is it seriously too much to ask that you keep your nose clean while my brother’s career is on the line? Do you want to wreck his entire future?”

  “Brick, I am not going to ask you to respect my girlfriend one more time. I can find a new lawyer in less than an hour, one that is significantly less of a pain in my ass.” With that, Beau swivels to me, the betrayal and hurt in his golden eyes clawing at my heart. “You weren’t going to tell me about this?”

  “I was going to tell you.” I glare at Brick, resisting the urge to flip him the bird like a super mature person. “I was,” I insist, looking back at my sweet but rather rigid boyfriend. “I didn’t want to ruin tonight, that’s all. I wanted things to be relaxing, and the last thing you need is more stress.”

  “What happened?” he asks, sitting back away from me, his arms crossed. The sudden distance leaves me cold.

  “It’s really no big deal.”

  “Breaking and entering a historic property is no big deal?” Brick snaps, his eyes bugging out. “Who are you?”