Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6)

by Lyla Payne

  “I’m glad you’re glad to see me,” I whisper.

  His hands rub gentle circles on my back, then drop to my waist and squeeze. I look up and he looks down, and then our lips are touching and I forget where I am and about the dead people all over town.

  The kiss is sweet with the slightest tinge of heat, and over much too fast. A sigh escapes as our mouths part, and Beau chuckles, rumbling straight into my chest.

  “Me too, Gracie Anne. I hope the next time you surprise me I’ll be alone.”

  He releases everything except one of my hands and starts toward the kitchen. I struggle to get my mind off the tingles that his comment set off, along with triggering the memory of the last time I came over unannounced and we’d taken care of business right there in the foyer.

  Birdie’s at the table, eyes trained at her phone as she scrolls through what looks like her email. Her head snaps up when we enter, like a cat making sure no one is going to step on her tail.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Beau asks.

  I start to shake my head at his offer, then change my mind. “A soda? Anything that’s not diet.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” Birdie comments, and this time she decides to grace me with a rare smile. “Sit down.”

  I slide into the chair and set the journals on the table between us. “I’m sorry again for spilling the beans like I did at your mother’s house the other day. I just…I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

  She eyes the bags of little books, one manicured eyebrow lifted. “Understandable, now that I see you’ve looted Mother’s attic.”

  “It was necessary.” Beau sets a glass of dark cola in front of me, then takes the chair to my right, his back to the bay window.

  “Thanks.”

  “Why was it necessary? Beauregard, you could have copied anything Gracie needed. Or asked me.” She frowns. “It’s not safe to take them out like this.”

  “Gracie’s an archivist, Birdie. She’ll take care of them.”

  “I will. I would never hurt anything this precious. Charlotta just about broke my heart.”

  “Why?”

  Beau’s question catches me off guard. It’s so odd that he never thought to read them, but I know family history isn’t everyone’s thing.

  “Listen, little brother, I need to get home. Read the journals on your own time like you should have years ago.” Birdie rolls her eyes, then settles them on me. “So now you know about our family’s dirty little secret. What questions are left?”

  Birdie doesn’t know about the curse, not unless Beau told her and I can’t imagine he did. For one, it would mean admitting he thinks it’s possible, and two, Birdie would probably try to commit us both. I can’t imagine a scenario in which a woman with her no-nonsense approach to life would ever, even for a moment, entertain the possibility of voodoo and ghosts and magic.

  Which means, she doesn’t know that my interest runs beyond simple curiosity, or even professional curiosity, if she’s willing to give me that much credit. The question is, how much to tell her.

  “I don’t find the secret to be that dirty,” I start, feeling my way along. “And I’m curious what happened after the journals stopped. I know that Charlotta’s son eventually left the plantation but was denied the Drayton name, but not how he grew up. Or what happened to Mama Lottie.”

  “That woman…” Birdie shudders. “She hated our family, and why? No one ever knew.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from telling her the reason, unsurprised that there’s nothing in their family documents that explains it—if Charles III or Sarah Martha had guessed at Lottie’s origins, they wouldn’t have written it down, not even in a personal diary. Families like theirs learn early that there’s no such thing as privacy when the eyes of the nation glance at you on a regular basis. It’s one of the things that makes Charlotta’s journals so exceptional.

  Beau’s gaze is heavy on the side of my face, his unasked question clear in my mind. I shake my head, both as a response to Birdie’s rhetorical question and his silent one. Now is not the time.

  “As far as the boy, James, of course he didn’t bear the Drayton name. His father wasn’t a Drayton.”

  “He wouldn’t have had a last name, though, right? Because Mama Lottie was a slave.” I pause. “Didn’t most slaves actually take their owners’ names after they were freed?”

  Birdie nods. “Sure. She didn’t, though, because she hated us. When James left, he was about thirteen and decided on the name Fournier.”

  All of the blood drains from my head. Beau sucks in a sharp breath, and Birdie looks at us both like we’ve lost our minds.

  “What?” she asks.

  “That’s, um…that’s my father’s last name,” I croak, horror slowing my thoughts.

  Birdie makes a face. “Well that’s awkward.”

  “Oh my god…”

  “You guys.” Birdie shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with her new role as comforter in this situation. “There must be thousands of people with that last name in this country, and more in France or wherever. I’m sure you’re not related.”

  “But my father said…he said to look into a woman named Carlotta if I wanted to learn about our family’s legacy.”

  That stumps her. “Well, if you guys are related, I’m sure it’s so far back that it hardly matters.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Beau asks, though when I dare to peek at him, there is color coming back into his face.

  I can’t explain it, but I don’t think it’s true. I mean, it could be true that Mama Lottie’s true family is tied up with mine, but that doesn’t mean Beau and I are related, especially not since her contribution to the Drayton family tree branched off long before his birth.

  Still… Ew.

  “How could you not tell me that?” I demand, turning on Beau now.

  He holds his hands up, the expression on his face incredulous. “Do you seriously think I knew?”

  “He couldn’t have known,” Birdie says, coming to his defense. “After James, almost all members of his family line are women. There are no Fourniers left, since they all married. Only people like my mother and me, who followed the line from the beginning, really remember the name he took when he left.”

  “Name he took,” I repeat slowly. “Why did he choose it?”

  Please, God, let him have plucked it from thin air.

  But she’d said no Fourniers ever came from his line, only girls who married and took different names. It’s why the man we met in Savannah didn’t tip me off. His last name was Raven, and now that I think about it, he’d said the same thing, about the family name—that nearly all of James and Charlotta’s descendants had been women.

  My father couldn’t come from Mama Lottie’s direct line, if there aren’t any Fourniers left, like Birdie says. Oh sweet baby Jesus, thank you.

  It doesn’t mean Frank and Mama Lottie—Carlotta—aren’t entwined further back, but that wouldn’t affect Beau and I being blood relations. Even so, I think I’ll double check with Frank before the mayor and I take this reconciliation into the bedroom.

  She frowns. “He claimed it was his grandmother’s family name, way back, but of course, that doesn’t make sense. That would have been an African name, right? If they were slaves?”

  My mouth is too dry to talk. I gulp half of the soda, close my eyes, then open them to face the truth. “It could have been true. Mama Lottie claimed that she was born in the North, free, and was kidnapped before being sold to your family.”

  Birdie’s face goes white now. “That’s awful. But how could we have known that?”

  “The fact that she could read and write, that her vocabulary was impeccable—all of that should have tipped them off.” I shrug. “She thought they should have asked more questions.”

  “She tried to kill five people because their parents didn’t ask enough questions?” Birdie’s putting everything together now, and I see the moment the real question spa
rks in her eyes. “How do you know all of this, anyway? It’s not in the journals or any of the archives at the Hall.”

  Here we go… At least this gives me something to focus on other than the heart attack hearing the name Fournier just caused me. “She told me herself. When I saw her.”

  Her eyes widen for the briefest of moments before she snorts, folding her arms over her chest and slumping back in the chair. “Oh, right. The ghost thing. Well, at least you’re not the first one to see Mama Lottie at Drayton Hall.”

  In that moment, all I want to do is get out of here. Amelia is still missing and Mama Lottie has her. We can’t break either curse until I find Mama Lottie again and tell her what I know, and I can’t waste any more time.

  Still, Birdie knows things I need to know. Things that could help that happen.

  “So, James Jr. left Drayton Hall to, what? Go to school?”

  She nods. “He was too dark to stay around here, and Charlotta’s father left money for him in the will. He went up north, then abroad for a few years before returning to the Savannah area, where his descendants still live. What’s left of them.”

  “The Ravens,” I murmur. “We’ve met.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Charlotta raised him, then?”

  “Yes. They allowed it, although he wasn’t kept in the main house and remained a secret from all but the staff who attended the birth. She loved him dearly. They kept in touch until her death, and, little known fact, he was named as a partial owner of the Hall after she died.”

  “What?” Mr. Raven hadn’t told me that.

  “His descendants fell on hard times years later and sold out to my family, but yes.”

  Sold out to her family. Knowing the Draytons, it’s likely that some form of coercion was involved.

  “What about Mama Lottie?” I ask, choosing not to voice my thoughts.

  “No one knows. She disappeared soon after her son’s death. We don’t even think she knew Charlotta bore his child the same night or that she’d ever been pregnant.” Birdie’s eyes shine, and it’s the first moment I can see the story of the illfated young lovers affecting her the way it did me. “It’s hard to believe she would have poisoned them like that, had she known she might kill her own grandson.”

  I have a million other questions for Birdie, like how can she read Charlotta’s account and still be so skeptical about things that can’t be explained, but now is not the time.

  I steel myself for what I have to ask next. “I need to go to Drayton Hall with Daria, and I would sincerely love to not be arrested in the process. Can either or both of you help me with that?”

  They exchange glances, full of silent back-and-forth, disagreements and acquiescence the way only two people who have known each other their entire lives can manage.

  In the end, it’s Beau who wins, and he nods. “We can handle our mother.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why?” Birdie asks, her head tipped to one side.

  “There’s no time, but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you after.” I grab my phone out of my purse, unable to wait another second. “I’m going to call my father, then I’m headed to Daria’s.”

  I step out into the hallway, following it toward Beau’s den in search of some privacy. My fingers tremble as they punch in Frank’s number, praying that he’ll sense my distress and pick up this time.

  “Graciela, I am not going anywhere near that ghost again, I done told you.” His voice slurs, rough at the edges as though he’s really angry with me for calling.

  My sweaty hand grips the phone so hard I nearly drop it. “Are we related to her? Is that why you want no part of it?”

  He’s silent for so long my stomach falls all the way to my heels. It’s true.

  “Way back. Way back, we are—the common ancestor is a woman named Carlotta. Just Carlotta, as she came to this country as a slave and worked on a plantation for many years before managing to escape on a ship to France.”

  “Oh god. So I am related to Beau.” The horror in my voice makes it sound like I’m drowning. I am drowning.

  “What? Graciela, for heaven’s sake, do you think I’d let my daughter bang her relation and stand by laughing? No.”

  “But…” I trail off, my head starting to hurt as I try to picture the branches on our family trees.

  “Beau is not related to Mama Lottie, honey. He’s not descended from Charlotta’s line, so that means he’s got none of Mama Lottie’s blood—or ours, either—Charlotta would have been his great great great etcetera aunt, not his grandmother.”

  I try to hold back my sobs of relief and fail miserably. The last thing I needed was to lose Beau in the midst of everything else, and hearing that I don’t have to is enough to batter the last of my bravado.

  Frank laughs while I cry, making me want to reach through the phone and throttle him.

  “Jesus H, you must really love that boy, huh? Well, fear not. One single branch of our family tree wandered near his a hundred years ago, but they ain’t never touched. Not for y’all.”

  I cry until the tears turn to sniffles, then hiccups, and Frank doesn’t hang up, which surprises me. “Thank you for answering. Although you could have done it a week ago.”

  “I knew you needed me this time.”

  “How? Henry hasn’t been around.”

  “Henry.” The word turns down at the ends, as though saying it depresses my father. “Once you finish dealin’ with old Lottie’s ghost, don’t forget about him, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree, dubious about my chances to help him being very good if he doesn’t come back. Dubious about my chances of helping him anyway, since he still won’t tell me what he wants. “When will I see you again? After this is over?”

  Now that we’ve started down the line of my own paternal family tree, the archivist in me is dying to track it. If the woman who started it has no last name, it’s all going to be easier with Frank’s help. He says nothing, and I search my subconscious for the reason why.

  “What if I promise not to mention Dylan Travis?” I hold my breath.

  It doesn’t take long to get my answer.

  “Talk to you later, sweets,” is the last thing I hear before he hangs up.

  It’s not Mama Lottie that made him avoid me at all. It’s Travis.

  “Well?” Beau’s standing in the doorway to the den, arms folded over his chest.

  I was so wrapped up in the conversation with my father that I hadn’t even heard him come in. The look on his face, crushed and desolate, mirrors what I felt moments ago. I have the power to fix it, and a grin so big my cheeks ache stretches my lips. “We’re not related.”

  “Oh thank god.” Beau takes two steps and collapses on the couch. “That would have been… I can’t think of any worse news, to be honest. For so many reasons.”

  “Did Birdie leave?”

  He nods. I sit next to him, feeling a little weak in the knees myself. It reminds me of when we were first dating and he thought his brother might be involved in something terrible—me comforting him. It feels as right now as it did then. “Mama Lottie and my father’s family are related, way back to the early eighteen hundreds. But he’s not descended from her and neither are you. The way he explained it, our trees grew close a hundred years ago but never touched.”

  “I think I’m in love with your dad.”

  A laugh bubbles up from my middle. “So I’ve got competition.”

  His hazel eyes grow serious. My face heats under his scrutiny, catching fire when his fingers brush strands of hair back over my shoulder. “I can’t imagine a world where you would.”

  A devilish smirk tugs at my lips. “You mean, except one where I’m your long-lost cousin.”

  He groans, pulling away and sitting back against the cushions. “You just had to go there, didn’t you?”

  “What can I say, I can’t help myself.”

  Beau looks at me with a devilish expression of his own, and it’s not hard
to guess he’s about to make some sort of comment or suggestion hot enough to melt my panties clean off. I beat him to the punch, shoving the conversation in the direction it needs to go.

  Not, for the love of everything holy, the direction I want it to go.

  “How soon do you think you can convince your mom to let me go out there?”

  “Oh, we’re not going to convince her. I’m coming with you.”

  “Beau, you don’t have to do that.” Even as the words come out of my mouth, I’m flooded with relief. Sure, Daria will be there, but it’s not the same. She makes me feel powerful; Beau makes me feel safe. “It could make things worse. Her seeing someone from your family.”

  “Gracie, that woman is a menace. To herself and everyone else. Did she really try to poison my ancestors?”

  “Yes. When she found out her son was planning to run off with Charlotta.”

  “Why didn’t it work?”

  “You should read Charlotta’s journal. She can tell it better, and maybe you’ll be more inclined to believe it coming from her.”

  That makes him frown, even though I didn’t mean anything by it, not really.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like I don’t believe you,” he says. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that most of the stuff you’ve encountered is hard to admit exists, that’s all.”

  I put a hand over his. “You think I don’t know that? I’m figuring all of this out, too. I’d never seen a ghost before I came back to Heron Creek, and now they’re everywhere.”

  “You’re a natural. You’re a natural at everything you do, Gracie Anne. It makes me jealous sometimes.”

  “You’re silly.” I can’t help but smile at him, and I think for the first time in a long time that it will all work out. “But I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

  “Good. Now let’s go find that cousin of yours.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We swing by and pick up Daria, who’s available even though it’s past eleven p.m. by the time we arrive and she’s usually out communing with ghouls by then. I suppose that’s what she’s going to be doing with me, too, but it’s odd she had the evening free. If I weren’t afraid of jinxing everything, I’d say it feels like the stars are aligning for us to finally send Mama Lottie off to wherever she belongs.