Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “Yeah, but you didn’t find evidence that there might be documents hidden in the home.” A crackle of electricity is threaded through his words. He wants to be sure I’m full of shit, but the desperate tinge to his voice says he’s not.

  It occurs to me now that the only thing I really know about him is that he’s obsessed with history and willing to do about anything to be the first or only one to know certain things. And that at least one person—the man in the cell—thinks he’s a loser. But I mean, what kind of sane adult works as a tour guide for their only job?

  He’s a tough nut to crack, that’s for sure. “Look, Brian. If you get the Rosses to let us into the house, I’ll find something, I swear.”

  It’s too big of a dangling carrot for a history buff—and a Charleston buff—like Brian to resist, and we both know it.

  “We’ll both go?”

  “Sure. You know the place better than I do, and the Rosses trust you.” A pause for dramatic effect. “And you’re going to want to be there when I find what I’m looking for.”

  “I’ll call them. What time can you meet us?”

  “I’d say an hour or so, but it’s hard to be sure. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done talking to the police.”

  I hang up before Brian can say anything about that.

  It doesn’t take long at the police station. They ask me where I was between the hours of 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. this morning, I say in bed with my boyfriend, who happens to be the mayor of Heron Creek. They ask if there are any other witnesses, given Beau’s current precarious status as far as trustworthiness, and I tell them that Brick’s in town staying with him, too.

  That backed them off. They know the Draytons, and they know Brick, who’s a local criminal defense lawyer, and even though their wrinkled noses and pinched lips betray their feelings for Beau’s unpleasant brother, they obviously respect him. Or they respect his ability to put their asses in slings if they mess with me.

  Of course, they don’t know how Brick feels about me personally and I don’t see any advantage to letting them in on the secret.

  Brian’s waiting for me on the street outside the Thomas Rose House when I arrive, and he’s pacing a little and looking over his shoulder as though this is some kind of clandestine meeting between criminals. Which, as far as I know, only applies to one of us.

  The excited expectation on his face, the raw hope that’s frantic enough to make me uncomfortable, sets my nerves on edge. If he did break into the house last night, he’s willing to go pretty far in his quest for a historical scoop. It leaves me wondering how well he’s going to take it when I refuse to show him whatever Dr. Ladd wants me to find. If it’s even there.

  Not to be mean, but I’m the one who puts up with the ghosts, and he’s not the only one who needs a research project in order to stay academically relevant. If there’s new historical information out there that people would be interested in—that doesn’t have to do with shady shit like voodoo curses—I’m keeping it for myself. If that makes me an asshole, well, it won’t be the first time. People don’t get doctorates in anything without learning to protect their research.

  Brian is a prime example, though most of us aren’t so obvious about it.

  “Hey. How was your interrogation?” he asks.

  “It was more of an interview, really,” I inform him, hitching my messenger bag up higher on my shoulder. The tools are heavy. “No trouble.”

  “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think you broke into the house.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “Too much disturbance. Someone who appreciates history and restoration would have been more careful.”

  I don’t know how I feel about the two of us having the same train of thought. It doesn’t seem to point to anything positive as far as my mental health, that’s for sure. “Good point. Did you talk to the Rosses?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Ross is going to meet us at nine.” He glances at his watch. “So, five minutes ago.”

  “I’m guessing she’s a punctual person.”

  “You’d be right.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Unlike the other night, lights burn on the house’s main floor. The restoration of the old place was done so well it’s easy to squint, breathe in deep, and imagine what it would have looked like all those years ago. Of course, the door is in the wrong place, but most people would never notice a thing like that.

  Mrs. Ross swings open the new front door. She startles when her gaze rakes my face, and I try not to wince.

  It’s the woman from the garden. I should have guessed.

  “You’re the archivist who wants access to the house?”

  I spread my hands, hoping in vain that this woman has a sense of humor in there. If so, I suspect it’s buried. Deep. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Pushy little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose so. And thanks for calling me little.”

  She appraises me for several moments, and it’s easy to see she’s dying to order me off her porch, but Brian steps in at the last second. “I checked her out. Top of her class at the University of Iowa. She’s the curator of the archives in Heron Creek, which are impressive for a town of its size.”

  I raise an eyebrow. He checked me out?

  “Well, I promised Brian, so you can have ten minutes to poke around.” She runs a hand over her gray-brown hair, tucking flailing strands into her bun, which looks as though she threw it up in the middle of the night when the police called. With one more appraising glance my direction she stands aside, motioning us in. “I’d tell you not to damage anything but as you can see, we’ve still got cleaning up to do. The police don’t want anything touched in case they have more questions.”

  The place is a mess. The pristine downstairs rooms from the other night are a study in disorder—drawers emptied, crap strewn all over the cypress floors that are either original or quite a good replica. It’s depressing but it does buoy my case with the cops, because like Brian said, whoever did this had no idea what they were after. Not to mention that no one looking for hidden historical documents would be pawing through furniture that’s only here for looks and educational purposes.

  It doesn’t convince me I’m right about Brian. He has a manic sense of anxiety about him, and he wants to leave his mark on this town so badly that I could see him losing his shit.

  “Yikes,” I breathe, stepping into the parlor and wincing at a pair of scratches on the piano. “What did they take?”

  “We’re still doing inventory, so it’s hard to say. Nothing significant, at least not that we’ve found.” Mrs. Ross peers at me. “What did you want to see, specifically?”

  “I was hoping I could see the room where Dr. Ladd died.”

  “Of course. I’m rather tired, though; it’s been a long day. Brian can show you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I follow the soft squish of Brian’s sneakers up the wooden staircase and down the hallway, not paying attention until we pass the room Dr. Ladd led me into the other night.

  “Wait.” I stop, jerking my thumb to the right. “Isn’t this it?”

  “No. That was where the sisters stayed. His is the one at the end of the hall with the best view.”

  Interesting. He didn’t hide whatever he wants me to find in his room. Because he’d known it would be searched? Because he’d assumed his landladies would find whatever he left all those years ago and take whatever action he wants from me now?

  “Hmm. This is the room where I want to look.”

  Brian follows me inside and I flip on the light, glad at least that we don’t have to use the glow from my phone. I shove the bed out of the way like I did the other night and stare down at the strange configuration of oak boards in the center of all the cypress. I feel the warmth of a body at my shoulder and drop my bag to the floor, rummaging through it for the pry bar from my grandfather’s garage.

  “Why are the boards different?”

  “That’s what we’re
about to find out,” I tell him, palming the sturdy metal tool.

  His eyes get big, and his voice lowers to a whisper. “You can’t tear up the floor!”

  “I’m going to put it back,” I hiss, opening my bag to show him the similar nails and Gramps’ old hammer. “Stop being such a square and go watch for Mrs. Ross.”

  That dark look of suspicion falls over his face like a curtain, the same one that made me realize he’s not the safe, dumpy tour guide he pretends to be, and it’s obvious he’s about to argue. Right then, like the bitchiest angel in heaven, the sound of Mrs. Ross’ voice interrupts him.

  “Are you two okay? I could put on some tea.”

  “Go,” I snap, kneeling down on the floor.

  He fidgets, every muscle in his body tense as he looks from the boards to the door and back again before stomping his foot like a pissed-off toddler and stalking out of the room. He’s so frustrated I can almost see it lingering behind him in a cloud, fouling the air.

  I wrinkle my nose, then turn my attention back to the floor. We don’t have long—no more than five minutes, based on Brian’s current state of mind—but the nails are old and the board pries up easy enough. I issue a silent thank-you to the mother and grandparents who never told me I needed to ask for help just because a little elbow grease is required, and scuttle around the long plank, yanking out the rest of the nails in the process.

  Once it’s free I wipe my hands on my shorts, wincing at the sting in my cut from the other night, and grab my phone. The flashlight app reveals nothing but an empty space between joists, more boards running underneath the ceiling for downstairs. It takes a few sweeps back and forth before I spot the small roll of … parchment? Animal skin?

  My fingers graze it, finally snagging a moldy piece of string wrapped around the middle. It comes free of the floor the same moment the sound of Brian’s heavy clomping hits my ears from the hallway. I manage to hook the strap of my messenger bag and drop in the rolled-up whatever it is, saying a quick prayer that it doesn’t disintegrate before I can get it stored properly.

  I scramble to my feet, tripping over the edge of the board and turning my ankle. “Son of a biscuit eater, that hurt.”

  “She’s gone to make us some tea. What did you find?” Brian’s face is red, almost frenzied, and if he managed to fool Mrs. Ross, she must be far duller than she seems. The guy with this face could have torn up the house last night.

  I swallow, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing. It’s empty.”

  His frantic gaze falls to the floor, then jerks back to mine. “You only pulled up one board.”

  “Yeah, but you can see the whole space.” I try a shrug. It feels wrong. “I guess maybe someone already found it.”

  The silence goes on too long, Brian’s hands squeezing into fists so tight his knuckles turn white. “Or maybe you’re full of baloney.”

  “I don’t eat it, actually. Who knows what’s in that stuff.” The joke feels stiff on my tongue. There’s something brewing between us, rolling in like smoke around a Disney villain and turning me cold from the legs up. The scratches from the tall grasses by the dock earlier tonight start to sting, and I realize I’m sweating. “Anyway, better luck next time.”

  “You said you see ghosts. You said there would be something there. You knew which room and I still didn’t believe you, but then the boards …”

  “Yoo-hoo, the tea is ready! There just isn’t that much up there to see, y’all.” Mrs. Ross sounds grumpy.

  It’s time to go.

  I spend a little time sipping tea with Mrs. Ross because she’s connected to the historical and preservation societies in town. If I’m going to get back in the academia game, like Will suggested the other night, having people like her in my back pocket will be an invaluable asset. Heron Creek might be little but we’re so close to Charleston, and Beaufort, and all the well-preserved plantation homes in between that living in a small town doesn’t have to be a death knell.

  Brian says he’s going to stay to help her clean up the kitchen, and it’s not until I’m free of his mistrustful gaze that my lungs fill all the way up with air. I gulp it down, cool and salty, as I hurry down the streets toward the police station and Amelia’s car. I resist the urge to look behind me a half a dozen times, the hairs are raised on the back of my neck as if a family of possums is staring at me from the shadows. It’s nothing other than my own guilt over lying to Brian, I know, but he doesn’t help his case any with that attitude.

  It’s late, after ten, and it’s been a long evening of fretting and running around town. I’m curious as hell about the scroll in my bag—it’s too thin to be more than one page. A letter, maybe? But my archivist training forces me to leave it where it is until I can get to the library and use the proper equipment for handling such fragile historic documents. Just the oils from my bare fingers could ruin the darn thing, and I didn’t go through all these shenanigans to have that happen.

  The engine of Millie’s SUV turns over without any additional urging, an odd change from the Honda but one I’m thankful for. It also reminds me to put an alarm in my phone to call the mechanic before work in the morning. With that done and visions of my sweet, soft bed dancing in my head, I pull onto Meeting Street and head back toward the highway. My iPhone is plugged into the radio, Matchbox Twenty playing softly so that no one can overhear and accuse me of liking lame music, when a text comes through. A quick glance down tells me it’s from Beau, probably saying good night, but he’s going to have to wait fifteen more minutes for a response because I’m not taking any chances with Millie’s car.

  I try to avoid distractions while behind the wheel since I’m not very good at driving.

  I’m in the middle of congratulating myself on navigating so well tonight when something slams into the back of the car. The squeal of metal on metal and the smell of burning rubber fill the air as I stomp on the brakes and turn the wheel in an attempt to keep the car from fishtailing into the guardrail. The headlights in my rearview are too bright, blinding me when I try to make out the make and model.

  The tailgater slams me again and the SUV lurches hard to the right.

  The second whack sends Millie’s rear bumper slamming into the metal railing at the side of the road. The front end of the car jerks, slamming my temple into the window with a crack before the car spins around. It wobbles to a stop, rocking back and forth on its axis.

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the throbbing pain in my head, reaching up to find sticky blood in my hair. Steam belches out from under the hood and the smell of the tires chokes me.

  Then, through the steam and my nausea and the windshield, I notice another car has pulled to the side of the road and a figure, which is nothing but blackness in the glare of my headlights, marches toward me.

  Instinct kicks into gear and I reach for my messenger bag, remembering there are tools inside that could be used as weapons. I have no idea who’s coming or whether I can attack someone with a hammer when push comes to shove, but no time like the present to figure things out.

  My bag isn’t on the seat where I slung it when I climbed into the car. I move to reach for it on the floorboard but my sternum smacks painfully into the seat belt. By the time I get it released and dive for the tools, the mystery man has flung open the passenger door and snatched my bag for himself.

  And he’s not a mystery anymore.

  “Brian?” I gasp. “What the actual fuck, dude? You could have killed me!”

  The tour guide-turned-attempted-murderer is so pale I have to wonder for a moment if he’s become a ghost in the past half an hour, and his hands shake violently as he dumps the contents of my bag out on the seat.

  “Hey!” I reach for the scroll, wondering at my own sanity at going for a scrap of animal skin instead of the heavy pry bar or hammer, especially when I hear the cock of a gun. My muscles freeze for a slow count of ten, which is how long it takes me to gather the courage to look up … straight into the muzzle of a .22 pistol.

 
; It’s nothing fancy, nothing like the weapons those moonshiners toted out in the woods, but I assume it’s full of bullets, and it’s pointed at my face so it’s doing to the trick, if the trick is to make me want to poop my pants.

  “What are you doing?”

  The gun shakes, jerking up and down as he screws up his courage. “I’m taking what you lied about in the house. I know you found something.”

  He looks down, sees my fingers frozen, twitching, above the rolled-up property of Dr. Ladd. His eyes widen but the gun stays more or less pointed my direction. I can’t do anything but pray as he snatches it up.

  “But seriously, what’s the plan, here? Do you think I’m just going to let you steal that from me and never say a word about it? Are you going to shoot me, Brian?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Why are you even doing this?”

  “First of all, I don’t think this is technically stealing since it’s not yours.”

  “And running me off the road isn’t technically a crime because, what? You live in Fantasyland?” Anger sparks, lighting a fire under my fear. It’s working, mostly because this is doofus Brian. He’s erratic, and obviously unbalanced, obsessed with proving to his drunken father that he’s not a loser, but the guy isn’t a criminal. He’s not a killer. “Why do you want that so badly? You don’t even know what it is.”

  “Because I’ve been a joke my entire life. A failure.” He spits out the last word, a quote from the jail cell and the man in the suit. In the blink of an eye he sets his jaw, a challenge in his dark gaze. “I finished last in my class at USC when I got my MA in History. I never got a university job even though I’m not stupid. I’ve just got a learning disability.”