Not Quite Mine

by Lyla Payne

  “It’ll be a good way to dip a toe in the water, maybe. At least you won’t have to go through a campaign and have people dragging your whole life through the papers.”

  “You mean the way Victoria did at dinner the other night?”

  Leo drains the rest of his beer and stands up. “You want another one?”

  “Sure.”

  He disappears into the house and then returns, handing me a cold bottle before flopping back in his chair. Leo’s blue eyes rake my face, and I see something in them I’m not sure I’ve seen before—uncertainty. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I didn’t know she was going to go after you, but she’s…”

  “Saucy?” I suggest when he seems at a loss.

  My attempt at lightheartedness falls flat.

  “No. She’s…I don’t know. Direct, I guess.”

  “Leo, look. I think she really likes you, and for whatever reason, she saw me as a threat to what you two have going here. It’s not that I don’t get it. Beau’s had his moments, too.”

  His eyes turn hopeful. “Really? I would never have known.”

  “Well, he’s a politician. He’s quite good at it, too. If he weren’t, you would know he’s as insecure as the next person sometimes. It’s normal.”

  “Maybe, but I hated how she treated you. Like you were nuts or something. When we got home I told her I believe you, and if you say there are ghosts wandering around asking for help, then that’s the truth.”

  Hot tears prick my eyes at Leo’s stalwart defense. His friendship has become as solid and unquestioning in the past six months as Mel’s and Will’s have proven over decades, and it means the world that he would stand up for me with Victoria.

  But Lindsay’s face is in the back of my mind, and her insistence that Leo really likes Victoria whispers in my ears. Leo deserves to be happy, and he’s had his fair share of troubles. The reason I made nice with his new girlfriend in the bathroom at FIG is because I care about him, and that hasn’t changed.

  “Thanks. But I think she and I figured things out. It’ll be okay.”

  “That’s what she said, but I wanted to hear it from you.”

  The subtle implication that my happiness means the most makes my heart throb. Still, there’s a twist of confusion in my stomach. I want him to care about our friendship as much as I do, but I don’t want to be the thing that stops him from finally connecting with someone. Do I?

  “It’s the truth. I think she likes you. And who can blame her?” I bat my eyelashes at him.

  “Don’t try that innocent malarky, Bugs. It ain’t working on me.” Leo makes a sour face that quickly turns serious as he looks into my eyes. “But thank you. For trying.”

  “Anything for you.”

  I know he hears the sincerity in my voice. We sip our beers and contemplate…well, I don’t know exactly what Leo’s contemplating, but I’m thinking about how funny it is that we’ve gotten so close after being archenemies as kids.

  “What are you two doing, sitting and staring at each other in silence?” Lindsay kicks off her shoes on the concrete floor, jarring me out of the moment.

  She flops on the other end of the love seat with a beer of her own and raises her eyebrows at me in a way that suggests I should remember what we talked about last night. I shrug, unwilling to let her into our little twosome, so she turns her gaze on her brother. “Well? By all means, I can sit here and make us all feel awkward for as long as it takes.”

  “We weren’t doing anything.” Leo shoots me a small smile that’s private enough to drive his sister crazy. Which is probably the point. “Gracie came by to see you, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  Lindsay’s presence, along with the reminder of the reason for my visit, boils nerves in my stomach. It’s like Ellen’s lurking outside in the dark, sharing them with me. I squint through the glass windows but see nothing. Which doesn’t mean she’s not out there.

  “Yeah. I had a question. Did you tell Autumn that I came around looking for her last night?”

  Lindsay frowns. “Yeah. When she called in sick again today I mentioned it and gave her your number. She didn’t call?”

  I shake my head, my lips pinched together. The chances of Lindsay being behind the mice and the brick and the warnings in general doesn’t make sense, and neither does Daria. Which leaves me with only two suspects—Autumn and Trent. “No, she didn’t.”

  “What’s this all about?” Leo demands, tired of being left out of the loop.

  “Someone has been trying to scare me off finding out what happened to Ellen Hargrove. You know, the brick and the text.” Leo nods, but Lindsay looks slightly confused. I guess she’s too busy working and taking care of Marcella to indulge in the town gossip because literally everyone knew about our front window before I even got to work the next morning. “Well, tonight, Amelia came home to find a bunch of dead mice in the kitchen and a note that said ‘Last warning’ on the counter.”

  I leave out the part about it being written in blood. It’s a superfluous and disgusting detail, and besides, Leo already looks pissed enough without it.

  “What? Gracie, you should have called the police!”

  “Will knows what’s going on, so I don’t see any reason to make him file more reports that he can’t explain.” I shrug. “I promised to go to him once I have a solid lead, though, which I might.”

  Lindsay startles at the meaningful look I shoot her direction. “Me?”

  “Well, only a few people other than my friends know I’m still investigating Ellen’s disappearance at this point—you, Autumn, and your brother Trent.”

  The mention of his name is like a shockwave that passes through the two of them, zapping them with painful reminders, or maybe just confusion, as if they haven’t heard his name in a long, long time. I flinch at the realization that I just said Lindsay isn’t one of my friends, but she doesn’t seem put out about it.

  “You think Trent left dead mice in your house?” Leo asks, his face pinched as if the name tastes bad. “Why?”

  “Well, someone doesn’t want me to find out what happened to Ellen, that much is obvious. But no. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s Trent.”

  They’re both waiting on me to tell them why, maybe for any news about their brother at all, but it’s not my place to tell them about the baby. He trusted me with his emotional reaction, with his memories, and I’m not going to betray that to two people who Trent has chosen to exclude from his life.

  “I agree with you, obviously.” Leo jerks a thumb toward his sister. “Right, Linds?”

  She nods slowly. “Trent loved Ellen. They had a kind of tragic, fated thing going on, but I never doubted he cared about her. Not that either of us were around toward the end.”

  Lindsay would have been in prison for a few years already when Ellen went missing. I’m not sure when their father died, not exactly, but Leo and his brother had stopped talking before she disappeared, too. Which means there’s no reason to give credence to their opinions of their brother’s relationship with Ellen.

  Except that they mirror my own.

  “You think it’s Autumn,” Lindsay guesses, her lips pursed in thought. “Leaving the warnings.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s you.” I study her, trying to gauge her reaction but getting nowhere.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Why would this Autumn chick not want you to find out what happened to Ellen?” Leo asks.

  “That’s what I intend to find out,” I tell him without taking my eyes off Lindsay. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “No, but I can find out easy enough at work. They keep all of the server contact information on the corkboard in the back so we can find our own replacements and stuff.”

  “You work tomorrow?”

  “Yep, the lunch shift.”

  “Perfect. The library closes early. I’ll call you afterward?”

  “I want to go with you when you confront her.” Lindsay’s eyes a
re hard, like sapphires, and I recognize the look of a Boone who has dug in their heels.

  “Okay,” I say, partially because there’s no point in trying to move her, but mostly because I didn’t really want to go alone, anyway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Amelia and I spend our Saturday morning cleaning up the mess from the day before, but in reality, this is a small library in a small town and it doesn’t take all that long. I’m settled behind my desk getting ready to brainstorm some potential new programs that could bring people in more regularly when Mel sweeps in through the front doors, Grant in tow.

  “Hey, Gracie,” she says, a little out of breath. “I have an hour, and I thought you might be able to get me started in the archives. I want to check out those back issues of the paper we talked about.”

  “Sure.” I look down at Grant, prepared by now for the pang in my chest at how much he looks like his father. Today his light blond curls are windblown and he’s got a smear of something that might be spaghetti sauce on his right cheek. I smile. “How are you, young man?”

  He responds by hiding behind his mother’s leg, his shyness another thing that came straight from Will. In fact, as far as I’ve been able to tell, Grant got very few traits from his mother at all.

  “Amelia here?” Mel asks, her fingers brushing the top of his head. I nod. “I was hoping she might do an impromptu story time so I could work.”

  “I’m sure she will. If she’s not stealing a nap somewhere.”

  “Grace, stop telling people I nap on the job.” My cousin appears, a smile on her face that belies her tone. It’s all for Grant, who beams up at her. “I might doze now and then, but that’s not the same thing.”

  “Of course not.” I roll my eyes at Mel, then dodge Amelia’s swat. “Grant wants to hang out with you for a little bit.”

  “Is that true?” Millie bends down so she’s eye level with the three-year-old, who nods solemnly. “Well, how lucky am I? Come on.”

  She holds out her hand, which Grant takes without a moment’s hesitation, then heads off toward the children’s area in the back. An untrained observer might think we’re taking advantage of my cousin’s good nature and love for children, but the truth is, she would have offered. The kids are her favorite part of the job here, and I know she’s hoping I can figure out something that will encourage parents to drag them in here more than once a week.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Mel links her arm through mine as we walk toward the archives. The door is no longer locked like it was when Mrs. LaBadie was in charge, but I know digging into research archives can be daunting to people who haven’t done it before, so I put Mel in a chair and explain the shelving system.

  “The computer here has logs of everything that’s in here—newspaper editions, wills, letters, family trees—but you kind of have to know what you’re looking for to start.” I sit in front of the ancient desktop and start typing. “I’m going to search the newspapers around the time of the woman’s death to start, okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking there will at least be an obituary.”

  The computer whirrs and clicks, unnatural sounds had the machine been manufactured in the current decade, and it eventually beeps at me with results. I write down the numbers and show Mel how they correspond with the boxes lining the shelves, then help her pull out the right ones.

  “We have lots of papers to go through. You want to stay, or do you have work to do?” she asks, already half-absorbed in the hundred-year-old issue of the Creek Sun lying in front of her.

  I smile at her hands, covered in the gloves I insist everyone wear when handling these original documents. The oils on our fingers are like Ebola viruses to disintegrating paper.

  “No, I can stay.” I sit at the center table across from her, put gloves on my own hands, and tug an edition of the paper that’s six months behind hers in front of me. This will give me something to take my mind off going to see Autumn this afternoon and what exactly I’m going to accuse her of—I still don’t know why she wouldn’t want me looking in to what happened to Ellen, and I don’t know why she might have lied about Ellen coming to stay with her either.

  Mel’s story is more up my alley—it’s old, over and done, and there’s no way solving it is going to ruin anyone’s life in the present day. Or drag dead rodents into our kitchen.

  The first paper contains a few stories about Heron Creek that distract me, but there’s nothing about a Rebecca Davis. The second and third ones are the same, and I find myself reading about how they decided to build the new police station when Mel’s sharp intake of breath pulls my attention from the paper.

  “What?”

  “Look at this.” She turns the paper around and there, on the front page, is a story with the headline, Mrs. Davis Falls to Her Death. The subheading reads, Husband Urges Investigation into Local Doctor, which is more intriguing to me than the first part.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Here, I’ll read it aloud.” She clears her throat. “Rebecca Davis, the young wife of Councilman Geoffrey Davis, died late Friday night after a fall down the front staircase in their home. Accounting to the councilman, he arrived home from a late meeting to find her already expired. There was nothing Dr. Collins could do, but later, the councilman suggested the doctor had done enough. When we asked him to expand on his thoughts, the bereaved husband suggested that his wife, and other susceptible women in town, had been under the influence of opium prescribed by Dr. Collins to ease their anxieties.”

  “Huh,” is all I manage to say with the wheels turning in my head. “That sounds…odd.”

  “Maybe. And it doesn’t explain why Rebecca would be so mad, does it?”

  “I mean, it could be that her husband was telling the truth and she’s mad because no one ever prosecuted the doctor. Maybe he hurt other people.”

  “Maybe… Let’s keep reading and see if there’s anything else about the case.”

  She sets the first paper aside and pulls at the next one. I grab the one after that, and this time I’m the one who comes up with something.

  “Look.” I push the paper onto the table between us, the story again on the front page. “Local Doctor Hits Back. Dr. Collins, in response to Councilman Davis’s accusations about his role in his late wife’s death, has alleged that the woman had long been suffering physical and emotional abuse at the hands of her husband. The doctor claims that he prescribed the opium due to the lingering effects of a bad beating and Mrs. Davis’s ensuing depression. The councilman categorically denies these accusations.”

  “Jesus.” Mel sits back in her chair, a stunned expression on her pixie face. “Let’s keep looking.”

  We do exactly that, poring over every small update on the case until her hour is up and she has to go take Grant to a doctor’s appointment. He’s getting shots so he can attend preschool now that he’s potty-trained.

  The gist of the story, as best as we can piece it together, is that the accusations continued to fly back and forth—the doctor accusing the husband of abuse, the councilman accusing the doctor of not only overprescribing opium but seducing his wife while she was in an altered state. It’s juicy, even by today’s standards, and we haven’t found any sort of resolution by the time Mel stands up, stretches, and runs off to find her kid.

  I’m stacking the papers to put them away when an editorial titled We All Know the Truth catches my eye—written by a Eunice Walters, who I’d bet my eye teeth is our Mrs. Walters’s mother.

  The state of affairs in this town over the tragic death of Becca Davis has become laughable to those of us who know the truth. And I would hazard to say that includes all of us. Councilman Davis has mistreated his poor wife since the day he brought her into that house, and because of his position in town, we’ve allowed him to disparage the good name of Dr. Collins, who has served us all faithfully for the better part of his life. Let us stop this nonsense now. If the law will not hold the councilman accountable then we must wait f
or God, but in the meantime, let Becca rest in peace knowing that not one of us denies the truth of what killed her.

  Ouch. I quickly make a copy of the editorial and rush out into the main room, dropping it into Mel’s purse as she runs back to the front desk, dragging a reluctant Grant behind her.

  “Thank you, Gracie!” Exhilaration makes her dark eyes sparkle with happiness. “I love this. It’s so interesting tracking down old mysteries like this. Do you think Rebecca wants everyone to know the truth about her husband?”

  “I think she’s still pissed off at her husband, but if you read the editorial I copied and stuck in your bag, you’ll see that the people who knew her had no doubts about what happened. Maybe we’ll just read it to her or something.” I shrug. “That’s Daria’s area of expertise.”

  “Would you talk to Will for me?” The question tumbles out in a jumble of words and letters, half of them in the wrong order and on top of one another. Her face flames red. “I know that sounds, like, so junior high, but he doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t, and I don’t know how to make him understand.”

  “And I do?”

  “Well, you get it. And you get Will, and me, and I don’t know. Will you try?”

  I can’t say no to Mel, not when she’s got her sincere face on and so much hope and happiness popping off her that it’s banging into me. It’s not that I don’t still think this entire thing is a questionable idea. I kind of do, but I can’t tell her that.

  “Fine. I’ll talk to him, but no promises.”

  Mel squeals and drags me into a hug. “Thank you, Gracie! I love you!”

  “What the heck is going on here?” Amelia asks, coming out of the bathroom and tossing a paper towel into the trash on her way toward us. “And how am I missing out on the hugs?”