Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery)

by Lyla Payne

  “So you’re saying you need my help.”

  “I’m saying you should be a little more concerned. Because that timeframe I gave you? Bullshit. The cameras were doctored, and the robbery could have taken place at any time.” He levels me with a gaze that sinks my stomach. “Get serious, Miss Harper. If this were a different town, if your boyfriend were a different man, if I were a different detective, you’d be in danger of going down for this. I suggest we work together to find out why.”

  I nod, trying to swallow. My tongue and throat feel as though they’re coated in sawdust because this is one more ball that Travis is forcing to stay in the air. And I don’t even know how to juggle.

  “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

  He takes a deep breath, sweat shining on his forehead as though he just climbed Everest. “The truth this time…was your father involved?”

  I consider my answer before letting it fly. My father, with his somewhat enviable talent for getting spirits to cow to his whims instead of the other way around, is certainly capable. He’s got the rap sheet to prove it.

  Still, I shake my head. “No. He would know that the evidence would lead back to me, and I don’t believe he would want that to happen.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “I’m not. I just met him so I’m going on instinct.” I pause, biting my lip. “I think…you should take a look into Clete Raynard.”

  His eyebrows go up. “The moonshiner?”

  “That’s him.” My eyes roll heavenward, asking for divine protection. This part is going to go over like a lead balloon. “He may have insinuated that he has a beef with you, or is hell-bent on either getting you to back off their activities. Or replacing you. He wasn’t specific.”

  Travis’s big, storm-gray eyes bug out. His palms press into the desk, as though maybe the contact is all that’s stopping him from throttling me. “When were you going to tell me this?”

  “Obviously never.”

  “Graciela…”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to get involved. But I think he’s stealing the drugs from the hospital, along with whatever was taken from the bank safe, and is using the whole ghost angle because he thinks it gives him something to hold over my head.” I shrug. “He wants to be able to pull the strings of everyone in town, as if we’re all a bunch of puppets.”

  “And he doesn’t have a way to control me so he’s resorting to threats,” Travis muses.

  “Something like that. I don’t know. But it’s a place to start.” I pause, considering. “Unless you want to learn how to dance.”

  “I don’t think so.” He chews on the serious part of my suggestion with as much thought as Clete has ever given gnawing on a lip full of tobacco. Then he nods, a gleam in his eye that means he’s on the case. I hope.

  “Thank you, Graciela. We’ve been running up against brick walls with this one, and with the body showing up at your place yesterday, things have gotten a little busy.”

  “Where’s Will?” I ask because it sounds as though the Heron Creek PD needs more hands—a sad state of affairs, indeed.

  “He’s out on the autopsy.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Why do you think I sent him?” Travis smiles, a real one this time.

  “So are you going to tell me what you know about Mrs. LaBadie’s death?”

  “You and Amelia will be briefed, along with William and Melanie, since you were involved in the previous case against the woman. We honestly don’t know any more at this point. Have the state police contacted you?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet, but we’ve been out of the house all day.”

  “Yes, Amelia told me she had a meeting with her attorney. How did that go?”

  “She’s a ballbuster, so that’s good. It’ll be nice to watch someone tear Brick a new one for a change.”

  “Thanks for the mental image.”

  I shrug. “It’s true. I don’t know, though. She says we need more than Amelia’s sweet face and terrible story—we need something to cast doubt on the Middletons’ fitness as guardians.”

  “Hmm.” This time, the gleam in his eyes seems to say that he’s guessed where this is going. “Please don’t make me arrest you again, Graciela. I’m starting to like this job.”

  That earns him a snort, and I pat his arm. “Beau’s more bark than bite. Don’t worry.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You have more tools at your disposal than I do.”

  “Why, Detective Travis! Was that an inappropriate reference?”

  “You’ll never know.” His smile fades. “Take care of yourself. And your family. This has a rotten stink to it…all of it. I don’t know what’s going on in this town, but I’m worried.”

  “You’re not alone. And I’m doing my best.”

  “As am I. Let’s just hope it’s good enough.”

  I meet Mel at Debbie’s for a late lunch, feeling a wash of relief at seeing her face on the other side of the booth. She’s pregnant, red-cheeked, and looks too serious with her hair pulled back in a knot to match her pencil skirt and white blouse, but there’s so much comfort in her presence that I want to pull it over me and use it like a shield.

  “Hey,” she says, looking up from a menu that hasn’t changed since we were ten. Or been wiped down. “Are you going to get the club sandwich or the club sandwich?”

  “Ha. I’m thinking about the club sandwich. But maybe on a croissant instead of white toast.”

  “You’ve always been such a wild woman, Gracie.” Her smile wavers as she takes in my face. “How did it go with Travis?”

  “Okay. He’s on my side, I think.” I reconsider. “Or Amelia’s side, anyway.”

  “He’s not going to make your life harder?”

  I shake my head. “No. He wants to know if I thought Frank was involved, and I told him I didn’t think so. I did mention that maybe he should look into Clete, though.”

  Her sharp intake of breath matches my own feelings on pointing Travis in that direction. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? He’s going to know it was you.”

  “I know. It’s probably a terrible idea, but what the hell? We all need a way to turn the power tables on Clete, especially now that Will’s on the force. How long will it be before that old coot decides that Will’s going to keep doing him favors?”

  “We do need to do something about him,” she agrees. It’s so matter of fact, like the two of us totally have a shot taking down a guy who’s been skirting the law since before he could drive a car.

  The waitress comes over and takes our orders—a club sandwich on a croissant for me, a Reuben for Mel—and retreats. The Reubens here are supposed to be wonderful, but the smell of sauerkraut makes my stomach try to run for the hills.

  Once she’s gone, we shy away from the Travis conversation since there’s really nothing new to report in either investigation at this point, and I fill her in on the visit to the lawyer’s office today.

  Her slender eyebrows go up at my description of Phoebe Rice, and she sips from a giant sweet tea. “And she made a point to mention how close she and Beau were or are or whatever? Girl, you’re a better woman than me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s clearly after him.”

  “She did call me ‘interesting.’”

  “Yeah. And no matter what your seventh grade teachers tried to tell you, that’s not a compliment when it’s coming from a woman you don’t know.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do, alienate her? She’s a really good lawyer and, more importantly, the only one willing to take the case.”

  “Let’s just hope her bill doesn’t request unlimited access to your boyfriend.”

  “Hey, I thought you didn’t even really like Beau. All of a sudden you’re rooting for him to stay in my life?”

  Mel considers, toying with her straw. “It’s not that I didn’t like him. It was that whole Lindsay Boone business. The way he’s handled all that has been impressive,
and he’s so sweet with you, Gracie, and I don’t know… I guess this whole curse thing has me feeling down. You deserve a good guy, and Beau doesn’t deserve a voodoo hex any more than you and Amelia do.”

  My chest hurts. The pain is all over, glowing across my skin, but there’s no good answer. We don’t all get to be happy, not unless there’s another way to break the curse that none of us have figured out over the past six months. Even Odette doesn’t seem confident in our ability to beat it on our own. Though it is possible she just wants more free oysters.

  “Amelia seems better since LaBadie showed up dead,” Mel continues, watching me with perceptive brown eyes.

  She sees my conflict, my hurt, but pushes me forward toward the decision we all know must be made. Mel doesn’t shy away from things because they’re hard.

  “She does. She said she’s slept like a baby the past two nights. No nightmares. She hasn’t set off the alarm we had installed, either, so that means no sleepwalking.” The pain expands, pulsing in my veins like a heartbeat. “I know we have to go to Mama Lottie for help, agree to her terms. I’m just not ready to give Beau up yet.”

  Mel’s hand covers mine, holding on tight in silence for a few minutes until our plates of sandwiches, chips, and pickles arrive. “Let’s talk about something else. Aside from the lawyer’s questionable ethics as far as your relationship goes, how do you think she’s feeling about Amelia’s case?”

  I swallow half my sandwich before answering. As hard as Mel tries, there aren’t any positive subjects to land on, today. “Not good. The first thing she said was that we need Amelia to look healthy and happy and completely fine with everything that’s happened.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means she has to stop seeing what Phoebe referred to as ‘that quack therapist in Heron Creek,’ for starters.”

  Mel flinches. “That’s too bad. Amelia tries to act like it’s no big deal, but that guy’s a godsend. She lives for those hours in his office.”

  “I know. For what it’s worth, I think the lawyer is right. No matter how many people say they understand mental illness and how many people it affects, the truth is that the majority would call it a weakness.” I take another bite, wash it down with my water. “They’ll use it against her. Call her unfit, wonder if she’ll hurt herself or Jack.”

  Mel shakes her head, putting away the rest of her sandwich. It’s unbelievable how fast she ate it, and the longing in her expression as she stares down at the crumbs strikes me as comical.

  “Do you want the last quarter of my sandwich?”

  “Are you sure?” she asks, her fingers already closing around my food. Then it’s down the hatch and I’m hiding my grin behind a handful of chips. “What’s her plan, then? Anything besides cutting Amelia off from her lifeline?”

  “Yes.” I try to come up with a way to frame Phoebe’s comment about needing dirt without making it sound like I’m about to go all cat burglar on a United States senator’s house. But this is Mel. If Travis saw straight through me, she’s going to do the same in half the time. “She thinks we need some dirt on the Middletons.”

  “Yeah, that would be nice.” Her gaze narrows. “And just how to do you plan on getting said dirt?”

  “Who says I’m getting it?”

  “Come on, Graciela. I’ve known you since we were seven years old and you’ve never stopped wanting to be Nancy Drew. You’ve been compiling a rap sheet for about as long, and now you’ve even got your own Ned Nickerson, except with a working penis. Plus, you’ve got contacts all over town. You’re going to try.”

  “Fine, I’m going to try. And she wasn’t specific as to what—evidence that they were abusive parents to Jake, bad business dealings, really anything that proves their moral fiber isn’t stitched as tight as they want the world to believe.”

  “Hmm. Are you going to eat your pickle?”

  “Have at it.”

  She snatches that, too, and we’re silent as she eats and the wheels turn in my head. The truth is that short of cat burgling or figuring out how to send ghosts on mission à la Frank Fournier, I don’t have any ideas on how to snoop on the Middletons. I feel sure that they do have plenty to hide, because all families do. Not to mention their only son turned out to be a physically and emotionally abusive twat and that sort of shitbag rarely comes out of a stable, loving home.

  “Did you know the Middletons are Harrington’s clients?” Mel asks, slowly, as she uses a finger to pick the leftover chip pieces off her plate.

  “No.” It takes me a moment to switch gears, to follow her train of thought, but then my head starts to shake with so much vehemence my brain protests. “You’re not getting involved with this, Mel. My shenanigans already cost Will his job and you guys are just getting back on your feet after all that. You can’t risk it. There’s another way.”

  She cocks her head, giving me a look. “What way?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find it.”

  “Hmm.”

  We pay the bill, splitting it down the middle, and agree to have some girl time after she and Will get back from church on Sunday. The sun is warm, the air faint with the smell of burning leaves, once we’re out on the sidewalk ready to go our separate ways for the evening.

  “Gracie, Will’s happier now. He loves his job at the police department, but that’s not even the point. The point is that you and Amelia are like family to us. That means you’re more important than jobs or finances or comforts. I know what it feels like to be a mom, to have a little human growing inside you and be overwhelmed by love.” Mel swallows, fire burning brightly in her gaze. “We’re not going to let those people take Jack away, not if we can help. We’re all going to do what we have to do, no matter what it costs us. Got it?”

  I nod. Mel nods. We part ways, neither sure what exactly we’re going to lose in this fight for my cousin’s life, for Jack’s, but my gut says it’s not going to be a short list.

  Chapter Six

  Beau’s big hand lays flat on my bare belly, raising gooseflesh even though we’ve tangled the sheets twice since we woke up at some unholy hour. Amelia might be sleeping better since Mrs. LaBadie died—or Mama Lottie killed her—but my nights grow shorter and shorter.

  At least Beau was with me when I woke up at five this morning, and he is quite good at providing distractions of many kinds. Now it’s after seven, and we both need to get moving. Yet neither of us has budged an inch, even though our skin sweats under the covers and my bladder is complaining.

  “What’s wrong, Gracie Anne?”

  The question startles me. We’ve been quiet for a while, my thoughts entirely somewhere else. “What?”

  “There’s something on your mind.” His fingers brush my skin, sweeping softly over the surface. “Are you still thinking about what Brick said last week? About us?”

  I drop my head to the side until it presses into the pillow, the prickly end of a down feather scratching my cheek. His hazel eyes are soft, loving, and they feel as though they’re caressing my insides with the same care his fingers give my outside. The fact that he cares about me is written in bold, scrawling ink over his face, his expression, and it fills my lungs. I reach out a hand and cup his cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Don’t avoid the question.”

  I sigh. “I guess I’m still thinking about it. It’s hard to believe this is going to last sometimes. It’s too good.”

  “Relationships can’t be too good, and anyway, we’ve got more than our share of troubles. Starting with the fact that we’ve got to shoehorn time together around so many stressful situations and ending with the rift between our families, but I don’t want you to worry.”

  “How can I not? I’ve got a wonderful boyfriend. It’s pretty natural to worry about messing it up and losing him.”

  “You’re not going to lose me.”

  “Well, I don’t think Phoebe Rice would cry any rivers if I did,” I say, purposely changing the subject bef
ore I start confessing all the things that are really weighing on my mind.

  It’s been a week since Mama Lottie made her offer. A week since Mrs. LaBadie turned up in the river behind our house, and I haven’t been back to Drayton Hall to give her an answer. Daria’s texted me twice, more and more anxious to get this over and done with, but it’s too hard. I’m not ready.

  At the moment, my distraction works. Embarrassment slides across Beau’s handsome, strong features and he flinches. “What did she say?”

  “She called me ‘interesting.’”

  “You are interesting.”

  “And insinuated that she’d be willing to do anything Beauregard Drayton asked.” I waggle my eyebrows, telling him I’m not seriously questioning him.

  “You’re terrible.”

  “Spill, Mr. Mayor. Just how good of friends are the two of you?”

  He sighs and sits up, giving me a glorious view of the tanned, corded muscles in his back. The hours he spends running shirtless along the river are definitely well spent. “We’re friends friends. Ran with the same group all the way through law school. I think she wanted more.”

  I roll out of bed, grabbing for my shorts and T-shirt on the floor. “You think? Come on, handsome. You’re perceptive enough to know when a woman’s hot for you.”

  “That’s true. I knew I needed to double buckle my belt the day I met you on the street.”

  “Oh, good night nurse.” Despite everything, I laugh. My whole life changed that day, between meeting Beau and the note from Mrs. LaBadie on my car, so the fact that the memory brings a smile to my face proves just how much I have to lose.

  We’re all going to do what we have to do, no matter what it costs us.

  Mel’s words sober me, and I turn away and head toward the bathroom before Beau notices. He’s still stuck on the conversation about Phoebe, though.

  “We hooked up once. Like a drunk, stumble-home-from-the-bar, end-up-staring-at-each-other-awkwardly-in-the-morning hookup.” His shame makes me frown.