by Lyla Payne
I do my best to bite my tongue, and manage to stop from snapping at him. It’s not his fault that the mysterious gems, which may or may not be little clues from my dead mother, are the least of my current array of issues.
Whether they’re from Felicia or Clete makes no difference, really. They can both take care of themselves, in as much as a dead person and a criminal can be trusted to do anything. Whether the same can be said of me remains to be seen.
I sigh again. Travis waits, sipping his coffee as if he has all the time and patience in the world. Neither can be true, but his acting skills are on point. Above average, even.
“The one I showed you…someone left the sliding door in our kitchen open and propped it inside.”
“There are more?” His overgrown eyebrows knit together.
I have the errant thought that he should really go and visit the new barber shop owner. She’s really quite good. His hair is long over his ears, too. A far cry from the uber-tidy style he wore when he first rolled into town.
I nod. “One in my car and another in my bedroom, but that time was different…someone brought it to me.” The explanation is lame, but he dismisses the obvious reference to one of my ghosts. A fleeting look of annoyance passes over his features. Maybe he’s pissed I haven’t checked in with him about it, or maybe he doesn’t like reminders of our shared supernatural ability. His uneasiness with it outstrips mine.
“So you’ve gotten three. All the same?”
I dig the three matching stones out of my bag. They’re not identical—different sizes and shapes—but to my untrained eye they are the same. Travis turns them over in his palm, then draws one close to his eye like he works in a pawn shop.
“Pretty sure they’re all garnets. People used to mine them around the tri-state border. Just rock hounds going after them now, wandering around and digging a bit, but the government won’t grant claims in the area.”
“Nantahala National Forest,” I supply. “Other national forests in the area, too.”
He nods, managing to look at once impressed and suspicious. Very Travis. “You’ve done your own research.”
“Sure. Some stranger is skulking around my family, Travis. That’s not the kind of thing I’d just ignore.”
“I know that, Graciela. You’re one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met, and that seems to go double for those closest to you. Do you know anyone who lives up there, or maybe someone who’s into gems or gemology or natural history? There has to be a reason the person chose these particular items to try to get your attention.”
“Yeah, obviously.” I fight to breathe normally, to maintain innocent eye contact, and to not tip Travis off that I’m lying. “I have no idea who it might be, let alone why they’re sending me obscure raw gems instead of text messages.”
Ghosts don’t have cell phones, of course, but neither does Cletus Raynard.
Trekking into the wilderness to find Clete—or even to a rundown cabin where my mother once sought shelter—isn’t currently high on my to-do list, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sell the old moonshiner out. A man like Clete has survival instincts. If he thinks there’s a reason he needs to be holed up in the mountains, then there’s a good chance he’s in real danger of one sort or another.
Reason enough for me to keep his possible location secret. Not that I could find it myself. At least not yet.
It’s hard to say whether Travis recognizes my lie. He assesses people’s truthfulness for a living, so he might realize I’m hiding something. But if so, he chooses not to say anything.
“You said you have some complaints?” He sips his coffee again, not taking his eyes off me over the rim as he does so. “Anything I can help with?”
This time, I swallow my sigh. The woe-is-me act is getting to be a bit much, even for me. “Yes. I probably need to come down to the station to fill out an official report, but I think someone has been tampering with my car.”
His eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t react in any other way. Maybe he’s used to hearing wild stories after years of being a cop, or maybe he’s just come to expect them of me. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, I had a flat tire a few nights ago on my way up to Seabrook. I didn’t think anything of it, but when I took it to Glory Jean down at the garage, she thought it was possible someone started the tear on purpose.”
“Glory Jean?”
The reminder that he’s still new to Heron Creek is jarring. “She runs the only car repair and maintenance shop in town. She’s a genius.”
“I’ll have to talk to her, if you want to file an official report.”
I nod. “There’s more. My engine caught on fire yesterday on my way home from Charleston. The Triple-A guys said they thought it was a rat’s nest, but Glory Jean said it was just made to look like a rat’s nest.”
“Any chance this Glory Jean character has an overactive imagination?”
The suggestion makes me laugh out loud, and this time my reaction does take Travis aback. I shake my head, getting my giggles under control so I can clear things up for him.
“First of all, no. Once you meet her, I’m sure you’ll agree. Also, Amelia and I drove down to Charleston, had lunch, and drove straight home, which is when the fire happened. I’m not an expert or anything, but wouldn’t the nest have caught fire on the longer drive?”
He gives me a weird smile, one that’s not amused, exactly, but can’t decide what it wants to be instead. “Are you sure you even need a detective? You’re getting pretty good at this stuff.”
“I wish I wasn’t.” Also, I don’t feel good at it. Most of it is common sense and that’s always been a bit of a stretch for my tends-toward-the-dramatic mind. “But I do prefer to have professional help in situations where my life could be at stake. That goes double for the lives of my family.”
“I quite agree. I’ll speak to this Glory Jean and then write up the report. You can come down and sign it tomorrow.” He stands up and tosses his empty cup into the trash. “Sound good?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Listen, if you decide you want to go looking for the source of those garnets, I’d be game. We could take a trip up to the mountains. There are some old, abandoned mining settlements we could try to track down, if you’re interested.”
Something about his offer, or the way he makes it, sets my teeth on edge. It’s probably just my knee-jerk reaction to anyone nosing through my business when I want to keep a lid on it. Or it could be the fact that I don’t have time to think about the garnets. Or that Clete—if he’s the one trying to entice me to Nantahala National Forest—wouldn’t welcome law enforcement.
My mother would be even less keen on me spending time with a Fournier, it sounds like.
There’s no way to give voice to any of these thoughts without making things harder and worse, so I force a smile and nod. He takes the hint—Travis is good at that, so points to him—and leaves the way he came.
I slowly get back to work, but it takes me a while to shake the feeling that I’ve missed something important. Something big. Something, maybe, that could save my life.
Chapter Seventeen
The feeling eases by late afternoon, helped along by a steady stream of patrons and a meeting with Mr. Freedman about possible new programs to incite more community involvement. I told him for the tenth time in a month that we need more computers and other technology if we’re going to keep people’s interest in this day and age. Even in Heron Creek, the modern world is creeping in and on.
Things get quiet about an hour before closing, so I sit down at the computer and start looking into Harlan Boone’s associates. He had quit his job to start the house-flipping thing with Leo, but for twenty years before that, he’d worked for Heron Creek Heating and Cooling. In my memory, Harlan could fix literally anything—dolls, treehouses, dishwashers, boats. You name it, I’d seen or heard about him digging in and making it work again.
If he were here, I bet even my Honda would ri
se from the dead.
The owner of the company is a guy named Sean Cooley, funnily enough, and he’s been the heating and air guy in town for as long as I can remember. He knew Harlan as well as anyone, I guess. So if I’m going to take Mel’s advice to talk to his co-workers, I can’t think of a better place to start.
No time like the present.
“Heron Creek Heating and Cooling, Lorene speaking.”
“Hi, I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Cooley,” I say in my most polite phone voice.
“Can I ask what this is regarding?”
I pause, wondering if there’s a magic answer that will get me through. It’s possible he doesn’t take personal calls on this line. “Um, my cousin had her dryer serviced last week and it’s broken again.”
“I can help you with that. Would you like to schedule another appointment?” Her voice never loses its polite, perky tone. Major customer service points to Lorene.
“No, thank you. I’d just like to speak with Mr. Cooley.”
She pauses. Probably to press the mute button and call me a well-deserved name. “Let me see if he’s available.”
“Thank you,” I say, realizing too late that she’s already put me on hold. But not for long.
“This is Sean Cooley.”
“Hi, Mr. Cooley. This is Graciela Harper.”
He takes a beat, perhaps trying to place my name. “What can I do for you, Miss Harper? I don’t recall us servicing any of your equipment, though we had a standing service order with your grandparents that I’d be happy to discuss continuing.”
“Uh, you’d have to talk to my aunt Karen about that. The house is hers and she takes care of all the financial stuff.” I swallow. “I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about Harlan Boone, actually.”
“For what purpose?”
“I…his family is concerned that the police might not have been thorough enough in their investigation.”
“You some kind of detective now, Miss Harper? Here my wife’s been sayin’ you worked down at the library.”
“Call it a hobby.” His patronizing tone is doing its best to unravel my manners, which have always been a bit frayed at the ends anyway.
There’s a longer pause this time. I wonder whether he’s hung up, or whether he’s put me on mute now as well in order to give voice to whatever he’s thinking. Which is likely not all that flattering.
“Doesn’t make much sense, the family having a hard time accepting what happened.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Right after the accident, they were keen to blame Leo for not being there, or because Harlan had quit his job, or because he was out there alone after dark. Maybe understandable at first, but I figured they’d come around after the autopsy put any talk of foul play to bed. Hell, the cops barely even glanced at Leo. He’s a good boy.”
“Wait, there was an autopsy?” Neither Leo nor Trent mentioned it. They both seem to suspect something nefarious happened to their father, and so does Orrie McElroy.
If nothing else, it’s a bit weird that none of them seem to know definitive proof exists.
I haven’t talked to Darla Boone, but it’s starting to sound like she should be on my list.
“Sure. There was enough suspicion around his death to warrant one, and Darla granted the request. The cops let me know it was deemed accidental on a follow-up visit.”
It’s my turn to pause. I can’t make my mouth work while my brain is turning over so much new information. It’s like a garden that’s been flipped in the spring.
“Miss Harper?”
“I’m here. I just…thank you for talking to me.”
“What’s this really about? Have you…do you see Harlan? Is he troubled?”
The question surprises me, and embarrasses me a bit, too. The fact that my ghost-seeing skills have become common knowledge in Heron Creek isn’t exactly a shock, but this is the first time a random citizen has brought them up like it’s a run-of-the-mill side hustle.
“If he were asking me for help, why do you think that might be?”
If it bothers him that I didn’t admit to anything outright, he doesn’t say so. “Harlan Boone was one of the happiest men I knew. Loved his family, loved his work, loved the Lord, and had a rosy outlook for the future. I never saw him more excited than the day he quit to start that business with young Leo.”
“So you’re saying no one would have wanted to hurt him.”
“No one I knew about, and I just can’t imagine it, to be honest. If he’s back, hanging around like he wants something, mark my words: it’s got something to do with his family.”
I thank Mr. Cooley again, promise to have Aunt Karen call him about getting our old furnace serviced before it breaks down with a baby in the house on one of these cold nights, and hang up.
I drive Amelia’s car to Seabrook soon afterward, not feeling too guilty for taking it since Brick is staying over. All the way there, I can’t help but wonder why Harlan hasn’t been back. I wonder if he’s visited the rest of the Boone family.
I wonder what else Darla Boone is hiding.
Most of all I wonder whether Mel and Sean Cooley are right—because the thought that Harlan Boone might be back because of how his death has ripped apart the one thing he loved more than anything, feels right all the way down to my toes.
That said, nothing much has changed in that regard in nearly three years, so why is Harlan letting us see him, now? The fact remains that I don’t know what he wants from me, or how I can help.
Before I even hit the edge of town, I realize that something is different: Darla hired the Draytons to take Lindsay to court.
And even though there’s no way to prove that’s what prompted his return, it’s the best lead I have so far.
I don’t know what it is about Knox MacArthur, but it doesn’t take five minutes of sitting at the table in his galley before my stress starts to leech away. In my mind, I see it floating in the water around the boat like a gas spill, pulled gently out to sea by the waves lapping at the sides of the White Whale.
It’s warm inside, thanks, in part, to the steam curling off the pan sizzling on the stove. Knox is tending to a batch of shrimp fried rice that looks better than any takeout I’ve ever had. The smell has my mouth watering, and that’s to say nothing of the view.
I’ve been with some sexy men in my life, but I’m not sure any of them fills out a pair of faded jeans the way Knox can. Then again, he might be the first guy I’ve taken to bed who’s really the jeans-wearing type.
Will wore jeans, but the clean, starched sort. Beau had a pair, but he always looked like he was dying to get back into his tailored suit pants.
Knox looks like he’s lived in his, the way that they mold to his body. A shiver zips down my spine and lands between my legs, and all of a sudden, dinner doesn’t sound quite so appealing. It sounds like something standing between me and the pleasure-filled mind-wipe I drove all the way out here to get.
“It’s almost done,” he says in an amused tone. There’s a sparkle in his eye that I’m learning goes with a playful sense of humor.
One that extends to the bedroom.
“I’m not in a hurry.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Another flash of amusement. “Why don’t you tell me about your day while we wait.”
“I hate waiting.”
“Yes, well, I’ve found that delayed gratification can come with some pretty spectacular side-effects.”
More electricity, this time ending in my lungs and a restricted ability to breathe. “Oh?”
He shrugs and turns back to his task. “Just saying.”
The truth is, I don’t want to talk about my day with Knox. I don’t want to bring my troubles onto the White Whale, or dissect how shitty it is that someone is out to get me. Or that helping Harlan might require me to get way more involved with the Boones and their shit than Leo ever wanted. Or how either my dead mother or a hard-assed moonshiner is trying to lure me into the wild
erness.
“Why did you name your boat the White Whale?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and the brief tightening between his shoulder blades gives away the fact that the question, intended as a simple way to deflect attention from myself, hit some kind of nerve.
I’m immediately sorry I asked, though to be fair, he painted it in four-foot letters on the side of a boat, so one would assume it wasn’t a taboo topic.
“I’m guessing you know the reference.” He glances over his shoulder, then goes on at my nod. “My childhood wasn’t idyllic. I dreamed of having my own boat since the first time my great uncle took me out fishing when I was eight, but given my family’s financial situation, it was hard to believe I could make it happen. My parents loved me, but they’re practical people. My twin sister supported me, but that was about it. So, I don’t know. My first boat? It was like Ahab capturing that elusive fish after all those years. She’s my White Whale.” He turns back toward the stove and starts plating the food.
The explanation is good, and it even sounds like it’s mostly true. There’s something about the way he doesn’t turn around, though, and how the story is triumphant but oddly void of pride or satisfaction, that makes me think he’s leaving something out.
I let it lie, because he’s not my boyfriend and Knox made it clear from the get-go that he was holding on to his heart and his secrets and that I should do the same. Which is the main reason we’ve made it this far.
“My White Whale used to be the perfect pot of shrimp fried rice, but I have a feeling I’m going to have to find a new goal after tonight. That smells delicious.”
He spins around, a plate of rice in each hand and a smile on his lips that’s part relief and part gratitude. “You have no idea what you’re in for, young lady.”
“Lord. Just bring that shrimp over here and stop talking.”
He smirks as he sets down the plates and parcels out silverware. “And here I thought you were here for more than shellfish.”
I take a bite of the dish and savor it, even though it’s hot enough to burn my tongue a bit. “Mmm. Well, tonight you’re going to have to beat out this shrimp in terms of satisfaction.”