by Lyla Payne
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In the meantime, please check out Secrets Don’t Make Friends, a thriller about roommates who find themselves in an unlikely alliance after they deal (poorly) with a dead body in their midst.
There’s a sneak peek into Not Quite Mine on the following page, so flip and check it out!
Not Quite Mine
(A Lowcountry Mystery)
Chapter One
“Are you sure you don’t want to just let this go?” Beau asks, his big hands on my hips as he tugs me against him for another kiss.
My lips linger on his, enjoying the salty, toothpaste-y taste of his mouth and the warmth of his arms around me. We’ve had a whole, wonderful weekend without any interruptions but now it’s Monday. He needs to get to work and I can’t ignore the trembling seed of guilt in my belly any longer.
I pull away with a sigh, smiling into his handsome face. “I probably should let it go, but I feel badly for getting Travis fired. The least I can do is try to explain before he splits town.”
“I suppose the man deserves an apology, if nothing else.” He kisses the tip of my nose, then helps me into the coat he pulled from the closet before distracting us both. “But don’t forget that he could have avoided all of this by simply telling you the truth from the start.”
“Maybe.” I kiss him one last time and grab my purse off the floor, then twist the knob on his front door. The chill of the late-November wind washes over me, cooling the blood he heated with his skillful lips and hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I promised Amelia we could spend the evening together, just the two of us. It had been too long, and even though she’s doing so much better, I’m struggling to shake the fear of the past months and let her be.
My constant calls and texts started to annoy her a week ago, but I can’t help it.
“I love you, Gracie Anne.”
“Love you, too, Mr. Mayor.” I shoot him one last smile over my shoulder, then climb into my Honda.
Beau gives me a wave as I back out of the driveway, then point my car toward the house Travis rented on the other side of town. It’s early, but I need to see him before it’s time to report to the library and besides, he’s never struck me as the sort of person who indulges in sleeping late.
Then again, if we’re really related, he’s probably prone to depression when faced with the spitballs life throws at us, so maybe he’s wallowing. No one has seen him since he resigned almost a week ago, now. Amelia had gone by the day before Thanksgiving to check on him but he either hadn’t been home or had refused to answer the door.
I stop at Westie’s and get us both a cafe au lait and a couple of croissants. It’s the closest thing to donuts they have, and he is a cop. Maybe the delicious smell of pastries will convince him to stop hiding. Bearing gifts is the best way to show up when one is planning to grovel and apologize. Everyone knows that.
Beau is more annoyed than I am over Travis being in town all this time and failing to tell either Amelia or me that he came because he thought he was my half-brother. I understand the fear of being denied something you badly want—acceptance, friendship, family. Grams and Gramps had been constants in my life, but everyone else had come and gone and sure, come back. But I get it.
The house is on the “wrong” side of the tracks. That’s how we grew up referring to the area even though there are no actual railroad tracks near Heron Creek. Leo’s family lived nearby when we were kids, and I suppose maybe they still do—I sneak a glance toward the faded blue, single-story home a ways down the block. It’s size still confounds me. How all of those girls crammed into that place eludes me, still, but now it would just be his mother, I suppose.
Enough stalling, Gracie. Face the music.
I balance the coffees and bag of croissants in one hand and raise the other to knock on his front door. The rippled glass window came straight from the seventies and I can’t help but wonder why he chose to live here. The police department doesn’t pay six figures, but the money is decent for Will, so it must be a little better for the detective brought in from out of town. He could have chosen someplace nicer, or closer, and the fact that he didn’t makes me wonder if he doesn’t think he deserves those things.
Sadness pulls at my heart. Travis may or may not be related to me, but that doesn’t make too much of a difference in how I feel about betraying him with Clete.
Silence hangs over the early morning. The sun has barely peered over the river and a misty fog hovers over the pitted street, casting the day with an eerie feeling. Shuffling on the other side of the door convinces me he is home, and I screw up my determination. If Travis thinks he can out-stubborn me, he hasn’t gotten to know me well enough since coming to town.
“Travis, I know you’re in there. All that’s going to happen if you keep pretending your not is that I’m going to drink your coffee and eat your pastry. You might be mad, but making me fat is a little long-term as far as revenge goals, don’t you think?”
I would also be late for work, but since he’s no longer employed, I don’t bring that up.
A sigh works its way free when my words have no effect on the man hiding inside, and I spin around and sit, opening the bag to make good on my threats. The concrete is cold, the chill seeping right through my dress pants and transferring to my butt, but the coffee helps.
The sound of the door creaking open freezes the croissant halfway to my mouth, but then I shove it in, trying to act like I expected him to come out the whole time.
Travis sits next to me and holds out a hand. I press the second coffee into his palm without a word, then eat the rest of my pastry. He takes a couple of sips, the reaches into the paper bag between us for the second treat.
“So you are motivated by donuts. Interesting.”
He snorts. For some reason, I expected him to be more angry but he’s just…beaten. And that makes me angry.
“Are you just going to take this lying down, or…?” I demand.
“The crack about cops and donuts?” He shrugs. “I’ve heard them all. You’re going to have to try harder.”
I roll my eyes and brush the leftover croissant flakes from my fingers. “Not the jab. Clete.”
“What about him?”
“He’s blackmailing you into quitting your job,” I say, slowly, trying not to shake him for being obtuse.
Travis turns to me, his lips pressed into a line and hurt swirling in his storm-gray eyes. “And how would he be able to blackmail me, Graciela?”
The accusation hits me like a slap across the cheek, even though he never raised his voice. I wince, and set my coffee down on the step. “I’m sorry, Travis.”
“That’s what you came here to say? That your sorry?”
I nod. “Yes. Clete’s been after me for a while to help him get dirt on you but I couldn’t really find anything and besides, he wasn’t coming through on his end of things so I kind of felt okay about letting it go.”
“Imagine that, a bootlegging criminal not holding up his end of the bargain.”
“Yes, well, when Amelia disappeared, I needed his help again. I still didn’t have anything, but then you came over and you told me…what you told me. The next he came by I was panicked and in a hurry to get out of the house, and it just kind of came out.”
“Let me get this straight. I have to move, again, because it just kind of came out?”
“I’m really not very good at keeping secrets,” I confess, hoping to lighten the mood. What’s done is done, no use crying over spilt milk and all of that.
Travis’s shoulders slump, the defeated air magnified. The seed of guilt burrows deeper.
“I’m sorry, okay? It’s been a crazy couple of months but things
are settling down, now. If you want to talk about Felicia, or your parents version of your adoption or whatever, I have time.”
“Well, aren’t I the lucky guy,” he snaps, but there’s no gumption behind it.
“I can’t turn back time, Travis. All I can do is try to help you do what you came here for now.”
“I can’t stay, Graciela. Not all of us have the luxury of family money.”
It sounds like a slam on Beau, but I let it slide. This time. “Do you want my help or not?”
“I don’t know what you have planned, but I’ve been on the wrong side of your help a few times.”
“We’ve already talked about why you can’t convince me that you are Felicia’s son. It doesn’t have anything to do with any idealistic visions of my mother, either. There’s no doubt in my mind that, if your parents say she’s the one who delivered you and who’s name is on your birth certificate, that’s exactly what happened.”
His brow furrows in confusion. “But you don’t think she’s my mother.”
“No. I’m not even ready to say we’re related but if we are, it has to be through my father.”
“Frank Fouriner. The infamous bank robber.”
“The one and only,” I mutter, picking up my cup and swallowing more of the life-giving liquid. I’ve only encountered one cafe au lait that rivals , and sadly, I haven’t been back to Cade du Monde in New Orleans in several years. It’s past time for a visit, to be honest.
Then again, there’s not a doubt in my mind that city is crawling with ghosts. Based on the history of New Orleans, they’re likely not as charming or genteel as ours here in South Carolina.
Maybe I could put of that visit a while longer.
“Now that I’m no longer the head of the law in this town, you can go ahead and admit you’ve been in contact with the guy,” Travis says dryly. “Have you asked him?”
“I’ve asked him about you but he’s rather keen on avoiding the subject.” I sigh, peering through the small hole in the plastic cup lid. Empty. “He’s not going to tell me anything unless he wants to and at the moment, he definitely doesn’t.”
“What makes you think that he had the kind of hold over your mother that would allow him to convince her to pretend a baby is hers, when it must have belonged to another woman?”
I shake my head. “You didn’t know my mother, Travis. She was about the farthest thing possible from a traditional woman, and I can’t see jealousy being her thing. Felicia had some peculiar ideas about love.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.
“It means nothing surprises me when it comes to her.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. The new sun is bright in the cloudless morning, burning away the fog and blinding me in the process. I squint, trying to ignore the whisper of an idea from the recesses of my mind. I spend the next several heartbeats looking for ways around the suggestion but come up with nothing.
The truth is that I’m curious as to my mother’s involvement with a strange baby, too. So, while what I’m about to say will assuage my guilt, it could also sate my curiosity. Two birds, one stone, so maybe a slightly invasive medical procedure could be worth it.
“I’ll do a DNA kit with you, if you want.”
Travis startles so hard the lid pops off his coffee. Some of it sloshes onto his hand but it can’t be that hot anymore. He raises one eyebrow my direction, ignoring the mess. “It won’t tell us how we’re related, just if we are. If you really believe it’s not Felicia, we’ll still need to talk to Frank.”
“It’s a start. If we know we’re related, it might give me some leverage with Frank.”
“I’m not sure your father is the type to give in to leverage,” Travis comments, an expression of distaste on his face.
“Hey, be careful. He might be your father, too.” I get up after checking the time on my phone. Ten minutes to get to the library. After skipping more than a week with Amelia’s disappearance and the fact that Leigh Ann killed my job in three hours per day, being late seems unwise. “I’m going to let you figure out how we get these kits or whatever since you don’t have a job… Too soon?”
Travis just shakes his head and puts the lid back on his coffee. I hand over my trash and then trudge back to my car, unable to stop chuckling under my breath. Maybe having a little brother wouldn’t be so terrible, after all.
I decide there’s time to stop back at Westie’s and grab Amelia some tea—and another cafe au lait for me—as long as the line isn’t too bad. The street has been quiet since the weather turned cold and chased Leo off the street with his guitar, and no matter how much shit I give him for sucking, I sort of miss running into him. Damn winter. It steals my heat, then my friends, and ends with my will to live.
Inside, I stop short at a commotion in the corner, immobilized by the sight of Daria holding court. There are five old ladies gathered around her and not one of them is commenting on her bright fuchsia hair.
“Your dog bit me!” She hollers at Old Mrs. Blount. The woman has short, blue hair that looks like it recently received a perm, glasses so thick they look like coke bottles, and no hearing aids—which means she’s probably blissfully unaware of being berated by my strange friend, the medium.
“She doesn’t have a dog,” Laurel points out, her red-orange hair looking quite normal compared to Daria’s.
We really need a new hairdresser in this town.
“She does, too. A ratty hound with brown spots and pointy-ass teeth.”
“You mean Buster,” Dorothy chimes in. “But he’s dead.”
Mrs. Blount is stirring milk into her tea and ignoring the commotion. The other two women sit quietly, looks of glee on their wrinkled faces at the excitement.
Sue and Honey were friends of my Grams, and the fact that they’re lesbians is also the worst kept secret in Heron Creek. This is the south, where people really talk about things like that, but for some reason no one seems to pay them any mind. I think it’s because they’re old, though I can’t say what that has to do with the issue.
Daria rolls her eyes. “Of course he’s dead, but that doesn’t mean he can’t bite people, now—”
The fact that she’s about to tell the whole coffee shop that she sees ghosts, hunts them even, propels me into action. Which is dumb, considering everyone in here already thinks the same thing about me, but still…no need in parading our crazy right out where everyone can see.
“Daria!” I call, skirting tables and moving quickly to her side. “What are you doing here?”
Everyone already knows we’re friends, so there’s no point in pretending on that front. Not that I could have, since she must be in Heron Creek looking for me. Again.
She spins around, jabbing her right foot out like she’s kicking, well, a dog, and waves. “Hey, Graciela. I came looking for you but the library ain’t open yet.”
“Yeah, I’m on my way there to open.” I paused at the counter, thankful that Daria’s antics had distracted people from forming a line, and ordered Amelia’s tea and my coffee to go. “What’s up?”
I try and fail to stop staring at the spot on the floor in search of Mrs. Blount’s dead hound dog. I don’t see anything, but it wouldn’t be the first time the two of us have been in the same room but see and hear different things.
“I wanted to cash in that favor you owe me.”
Please hurry up with those drinks, I think toward Belle silently. She’s going to say something about demons or ghost-hunting and the whole town will be exaggerating the story before lunch, like some geriatric game of telephone.
“Here you go, Graciela.” Belle hands over my two paper cups like she read my mind. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”
“Thanks.” I raise my eyebrows at Daria, trying not to let her see how badly I want to get her out of here. It would be a surefire way to make her start talking in her outside voice. “You want to walk with me?”
The table of old ladies are staring at us,
except for Mrs. Blount, who’s holding a piece of lemon pound cake down toward the floor—exactly as she might offer a table scrap to a dog. I ignore her and give the women a smile that hopefully passes as normal.
“Ladies. Nice to see you.”
“We’re so glad your cousin is home safe,” Laurel says. “Terrible thing. No one can believe it.”
“Poor Stella, too, dyin’ like that on her kitchen floor.” Dorothy makes a face, like it’s all too much to think about. “I mean, no one can believe she’d do such a thing, kidnappin’ Amelia. She must’ve had one of them strokes or something.”
“Maybe,” I agree, not wanting to talk about it. I hadn’t given much thought to how the rest of the town would react to Mrs. Walters’s role in Amelia’s kidnapping and the old lady’s subsequent death.
I don’t really want to think about it, now. However awful the old bag was to me during her life, no one deserved to get used by Mama Lottie and to die like that, alone.
“Well, we’re all just going to have to move on,” Sue says, reaching out to pat my hand. “Her grandson should be in town later today to sort out her estate.”
“That’s true, I heard that he’s some kind of writer. Writes them sex novels,” Dorothy claims. It’s hard to tell from her face whether the prospect of having a romance novelist in our midst makes her excited or horrified.
Either way, she definitely finds it more interesting that had become of her poor friend Stella Walters.
“No, they’re not sex novels. They’re love stories or something,” her sister Laurel corrects.
“I head they were chop-em-ups,” Honey insists.
“Yeah, let’s go.” Daria says, giving the invisible dog one final death glare.
We leave before there’s any sort of definitive consensus on what sort of books Mrs. Walters’s grandson writes. Knowing the rumor mill in Heron Creek, I won’t even believe he writes books at all until he tells me so himself, and if he’s anything like her, hopefully I’ll never have the chance to ask.