Not Quite Fixed

by Lyla Payne

  The truth is, it’s possible that Leo does know more than he’s said. Maybe even more than he’s aware he knows. If he’s been on the defensive since Harlan’s death, then he probably hasn’t taken the time to really sit and think about what it might be.

  Not to mention that it’s totally fair to not want to go over every single detail of the time and place you found your father dead.

  It’s becoming clear now, though perhaps it should have been from the beginning, that I’m going to have to talk to Leo in order to figure this one out. For better or worse, it seems as if he’ll have information about his father’s death that no one else would have access to.

  The silent admission fills me with dread. For more reasons than one.

  “How long had Leo and your dad been working together?” I ask, still hoping to learn something more from Trent.

  “About six months,” he replies, his tone still cold. “It was Leo’s idea. He loves old houses and always tagged along with our dad on jobs. They cooked up the idea of flipping houses together. Leo was going to get his general contractor’s license and my dad would do the carpentry after hours. He was working himself to the bone.”

  “Your dad or Leo?” I ask, giving up on not being belligerent.

  “Both,” he admits, giving the word rough, grudging corners. “Leo really loves doing it, so much so that he’d lose track of time. Work through dinner.”

  “Is that why your mom was so mad? The workload?”

  The question seems to startle Trent, but he takes a couple of beats and doesn’t ask me where I heard that bit of gossip. His expression doesn’t change, though he seems more wary, now. “My mom and Leo would have worked things out if Dad hadn’t died. He would have made sure of it.”

  “What about Lindsay?”

  “Lindsay made her bed. The choices she made…Mom didn’t want to see Marcella repeat them. And when Linds asked Leo to be the one to raise her, well…it was like a slap in the face, I think. That her only daughter didn’t think enough of her to trust her with her kid.”

  “Maybe Lindsay didn’t want Marcella to be raised by someone who didn’t believe their own daughter when she said she was innocent.”

  Trent scoffs. Knox is following the conversation like he’s at a tennis match, and the look on his face says he’s kind of wishing he had some popcorn.

  “Innocent? You might have helped get Lindsay out of prison and yeah, she was railroaded by an overzealous D.A., but my sister hasn’t been innocent since she put away her Barbie dolls.”

  The more Trent talks, the more I want to go and hug Leo, and maybe Lindsay, too. If she’d let me, which is dubious. All this time, he must have been hurting so much more than I realized. More than anyone realizes. He lost the obvious things—his father, then his family—but those weren’t the only things taken from him. His dreams. His future. His plans.

  No wonder he’s adrift. All of those terrible feelings are tied up together, leaving Leo to search for something that doesn’t remind him of his father.

  I need to refocus in order to get as much out of this conversation as possible. Because at this point, I have no interest in talking to him about this again.

  “But there were other people in and out of the house where your dad died, too, from what I understand.” He nods, and I keep talking, puzzling out which direction to go as I stumble along. “Is there anyone who would have wanted to harm your dad? He seemed pretty well-liked.”

  “He was, but the work they were doing was competitive. Still is. Lots of times the kind of houses that get flipped are bought at auction, and there’s plenty of fighting over contracts after they’re bought.”

  “So it’s possible someone else wanted the house?”

  He shrugs. “Anything is possible. But the police looked at all of those angles, I think.”

  They might have, or they might have just told the family they’d cleared everyone. With a Raynard in the police department, it’s hard for me to believe everything was on the up-and-up.

  “Who bought the property after your dad died?”

  Trent shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  I put that on my mental list of things to check out. I figure if anyone had something to gain from Harlan’s death, it would be the person who ended up with the property.

  “You don’t think Leo could have had anything to do with it.” The disdain in his voice ruffles my feathers, but he clearly meant it to, so there’s no way he’s getting the satisfaction of my reaction.

  “No.” I level him with my best serious look, the effects of the alcohol having long since faded. The seriousness of the conversation has sobered me right up.

  Good thing, perhaps. I’m still not sure how I feel about Knox’s offer.

  “But I’m going to find out what your dad wants, one way or another. I’ve never let a ghost down yet.” I pause, wondering again why Harlan came to Trent. Why not Leo, or Lindsay, or his wife, if he wanted family?

  Then again, what’s to say he hasn’t been to visit anyone else? I don’t know, because I haven’t talked to them. Because I am a cowardly lion.

  “Has your dad’s ghost tried to tell you anything? Communicate?”

  Trent bites his lip and looks away. “No. He just kind of…watches me. Has for awhile. I called that friend of yours, the ghost lady, a while ago but she said she doesn’t do friendly ghosts. Whatever that means.”

  That squares with Anne Bonny’s interactions with Amelia and my Aunt Karen, but still…I feel like Trent might be holding something back. I stare at him, trying to figure out what, and he gazes back with a stubbornness that’s so Boone it makes my throat hurt.

  Trent is the one who backs away from our stare-down. After all, he knows as well as anyone how far I’ll go to follow through for my ghosts. I brought him a son he never knew he had.

  Our past should count for something, but he’s not backing down when it comes to his feelings about Leo.

  Which is fine. It just means he doesn’t know me that well, because if he did he would realize that I’m not scared of a challenge, either. And when it comes to defending my friends, even one I’m not currently talking to, that goes double. Or more.

  Chapter Nine

  I wake up to a voicemail alert from Glory Jean Rogers and not a small amount of regret that I’m home in my own bed rather than in the bunk on Knox’s boat.

  Then again, he probably takes those charters out pretty early—getting the worm and all that—and I prefer to sleep until the last possible minute, especially when my head is pounding from dehydration. Amelia didn’t wait up, but I know she heard me come in because her light went off as I shuffled down the hallway.

  There’s comfort in knowing that another human being cares whether I’m late, or if I make it home at night. There is also guilt, because she has enough reasons to lose sleep without worrying about me dragging after midnight, but there’s nothing that can be done about it. No matter how much I keep her informed about where I am and when I’m coming home, she waits.

  It’s exactly what I do on the nights she’s out with Brick.

  I wash my face and assess whether or not I can get away without showering. My bloodshot eyes stare back at me in the mirror and my hair has half fallen out of its ponytail.

  Maybe a good thing I didn’t stay with Knox after all. I know he’s not looking for a girl to take home to his parents, but still. I think waking up to me looking like this would have sent the poor guy leaping overboard.

  Sighing, I let my voice message play over speakerphone.

  Hi, Graciela, this is Glory Jean down at the garage. I was wondering if you’d be able to stop by on your way to work today. I know you picked up your car the other morning when I was at my doctor appointment—my hernia’s gonna need surgery again, and that damn doctor refused to schedule it without an exam. An excuse to swindle money if you ask me. Anyway, stop by if you can. If not, give me a call when you have a minute.

  She hangs up without a thanks or see you soon, and also
without telling me what she wants. I shake my head, deciding that a French braid and some makeup will have to do, especially if I have to stop and talk to Glory Jean. Might as well do that rather than call her back. The last time I stopped at Westies around this time I ran into Leo. No thanks.

  The numbers on my phone promise that there’s just enough time to get dressed and stop at the garage, with maybe a quick cup of coffee downstairs.

  Amelia is at the kitchen table alone with a steaming cup of tea. The scene is serene and peaceful, and it would be really nice to join her and pretend everything’s okay. But the truth is that someone is leaving us red stones behind doors that are supposed to be locked and Harlan Boone might have been murdered after all.

  I grab a mug and wait for the coffee to brew, taking a moment to soak up the blessed silence.

  She quirks an eyebrow my direction. “How was your trip to Seabrook? You have that red-eyed regretful look that says you had a few drinks.”

  The sour cotton feeling in my mouth concurs. I was stone-cold sober by the time I got behind the wheel to drive home, but that didn’t stop a hangover from starting at the base of my skull about the same time I hit Heron Creek.

  “I had a few drinks, yes.”

  “And some hanky panky?”

  I snort. “No. Although I’m not ruling it out in the future.”

  “Good.” She nods. “You need to relax.”

  “I’d take a weekend at the spa, if I had time.”

  “Sex is better. And cheaper.” She pauses, toying with her mug. “I talked to Brick the other night.”

  I want to ask whether the Brick comment was somehow triggered by the sex comment, but it’s clearly not the time to be funny. Or try to be funny. Or to reveal that I overheard part of their conversation. So instead, I just say, “And?”

  “He’s going to go back to meetings and have regular check-ins with his sponsor. We talked about how we need to be there for each other because stumbling is expected, and honestly?” She allows a smile to tug at her lips. “I feel good about it.”

  “That’s great,” I say, a bit cautiously. It is, but I’m wondering if any of this is going to be easy. If it’s going to be a lifelong struggle for them both.

  If so, maybe it’s a good thing if they’re able to saddle up together. Or maybe it’s not.

  “We’ll see.” She bites her lower lip. “The truth is…I don’t know, Grace. I feel lighter about life in general since all of this happened. Like maybe that fear about backsliding to the old me was always there, weighing me down, and now that I’ve dragged it out into the light and looked it in the eye, it’s easier to swat.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Most things are less scary in the light of day. Even my ghosts, once unmasked and acknowledged, aren’t as frightening as they are sad.

  The memory of the spirit that preceded Harlan Boone clouds in, dark and dripping with malice, making me reconsider the blanket statement. Lavinia Fisher might not have done all of the diabolical deeds the Charleston tour guides give her credit for, but after spending a few days in her ghostly presence, there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s the sort of woman who would have, given the opportunity. She’s a mystery I’m relieved I don’t have to solve; I don’t know why she left, but I’m grateful she did. And I’ve spent a few evenings throwing the request that she never return out to the universe.

  “Anyway, why are you dressed so early?”

  “Glory Jean wants to talk. Something about my car.”

  “Maybe she wants to patent the smell and sell it to the military.”

  I make a face and give her an exaggerated, silent belly laugh before dumping both of our mugs in the sink and heading for the door. “I’ll be home right after work, if you want to cook dinner together. I feel like I haven’t seen Jack in a while.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll invite Will and Mel, too, if you don’t mind. I’m sure they could use a hot meal someone else cooked and a night out.”

  “Of course. See you then.” I pause at the sink, glancing at the back door. “Oh, and I invited Travis over a few days ago and then never followed up. Maybe he can come too?”

  “Sure.”

  I run upstairs to brush my teeth, slip into my shoes and jacket, and grab my phone before heading for the garage. I’ve forced myself to keep parking inside even after Gillian almost killed me in here, but I never turn out the light. This morning, like every other, I hold my breath until I’ve started my car and backed safely out into the early morning.

  The sun has barely yawned, her eyes as reluctant to open for a new day as mine were an hour ago. The sky has faded to navy, with the faintest streaks of a lighter blue, or maybe eggplant, smearing the edge of the horizon. According to the radio announcer it was chilly overnight, dipping into the forties. Basically arctic for these parts.

  Glory Jean’s parking lot is dark, but the lights are on inside her office and work space. I slam my car door to announce myself; no reason to frighten a woman who’s likely to be holding some sort of heavy tool.

  “Graciela Harper, if you don’t stop lurking out there, I’m gonna call the cops.”

  My lips twitch into a smile and I step into the light. “I’m friends with maybe all of them at this point. Which is not to say they wouldn’t drag me down to the station, just for fun.”

  “Seeing as I pay my taxes, I would insist on it.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I smelled your Honda.”

  “Jeez, everyone’s hating on my poor baby today.” I shake my head. “Seriously, how did you know?”

  “Process of elimination. Not expecting anyone on the books until nearly noon, and I left the kind of vague message that gets a gal like you revved up. Even this early.”

  I spread my hands, palms up. Part of me wants to argue—the same part that always does—but, really, when someone hits the nail so squarely on the head, what’s the point?

  “Well, you got me here. What’s up?”

  Her teasing expression grows serious. The fun atmosphere created by our friendly banter evaporates, leaving me full of apprehension and the sudden desire to turn around and run. Glory Jean sighs and pulls an oil-smeared rag from the pocket of her equally smudged coveralls. I’m not sure how, but she manages to use it to blow her nose without getting more grease on her face.

  “I’ve been debating whether or not to say anything since you had your car in here. Then I thought, with all the trouble you’ve been getting yourself into down here, it would probably be better to be straightforward.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not for sure. I mean. Could have just been a flat tire you had the other night. The roads in this state are shit since the politicians can’t stop swimming in their money like Scrooge McDuck long enough to do their damn jobs, you know that.” She waits for me to nod, so I do, even though I feel like we’ve veered off track. “But from the way it looked, it could have been that someone started a rip in your tire, hoping it would blow out on you. That sort of thing can cause an accident, you know.”

  My body goes cold, like when one of my spirits lays a hand on my skin. Icy dread fills my veins. Because Glory Jean is right—it could be a simple flat tire, but when has anything in my life turned out to be the simple, non-felonious answer lately?

  I give her a tight smile, hoping she doesn’t notice the sweat that’s popped out on my forehead in the chilly morning. The sympathy in her clear gaze says she does, but unlike most of the middle-aged women in this town, she chooses to hold her tongue on the matter.

  “Thanks, Glory Jean. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

  She gives me a tight nod. “You do that, Graciela Harper. This place is far more interesting with you around.”

  Back in my car, I can’t help but wonder if there’s someone still out there who feels the exact opposite. And is doing everything in their power to make sure I’m not here for long.

  Amelia and I trade texts off and on all day, like we u
sually do, but I’m purposely vague in mine. I may be postponing the inevitable, but I don’t want her to worry—and I’d rather not worry either.

  Instead, I fill my time doing the work of two people at the library. At lunch, I run by the police station and invite Travis to dinner tonight. He’s coming, and the more I think about it later in the afternoon, the better it makes me feel. After all, he’s the gem aficionado. Apparently. Maybe if we all put our heads together we can come up with some idea of what the garnets mean, at any rate. I can’t say they’ve been at the top of my list, but after my chat with Glory Jean this morning, maybe they should bump up a few notches.

  Nothing unusual happens during my work hours. Which is, in itself, sort of unusual. I lock up a few minutes early. Mr. Freedman never showed up today and we haven’t had a single patron since two.

  Without stopping to think too hard about why, I nose my Honda to the cemetery on the outskirts of town instead of heading straight home like I promised. Travis, Brick, and the Gayles won’t be over for an hour or so, but I know that Amelia probably needs help pulling dinner together, even if it is just lasagna out of the freezer.

  But I don’t know. For some reason, I feel pulled in this direction.

  My feet trade pavement for grass without a clear destination. Or at least, not a conscious one. It’s not until I see Leo Boone crouched in the misty dusk that I realize where exactly I’m being led.

  My mouth goes dry. Because, yeah, I don’t know how it’s possible, but Harlan Boone must have somehow pushed me here tonight. I never even come visit Grams and Gramps except before Christmas, and since it’s winter, Leo’s mowing job has been on hiatus for a couple of months.

  My flight reflex kicks in for the second time today. The desire to turn and run, to escape before he notices me, skirts through my veins.

  The tension that ripples through the muscles in Leo’s neck at that moment tells me that I’ve missed my chance. So instead of being a chickenshit, I blow out a long breath and keep going. The damp, brown grass soaks through the toes of my flats and settles a chill deep in my bones. Harlan’s ghost is nowhere to be seen, but his grave is well-tended. Free of leaves and with a fresh bundle of mums in the vase.