Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (12 page)

I catch Millie’s eye to let her know I’m taking the plunge, take a deep breath, and go for it.

“Aunt Karen, I had a bit of a weird experience the other day—”

“That sounds about par for the course.” She purses her lips, as though she finds my addressing her distasteful. Or maybe she’s simply tired of hearing about me and my weird experiences. Honestly, it’s hard to blame her.
 

I’m sick of talking about them, too.

“Yes, well, this one had to do with my mother.” That gets her attention. She gulps half her martini as though preparing herself for battle, then fixes me with her green eyes.

Those, all the Harper women share. I guess we have more than one thing in common—bright green eyes and my mother. And we both adore Amelia.

“I got an email from two people who adopted a little boy a few years after I was born. They said that now that Felicia is gone, they would love for the two of us to be able to get to know each other, because even though they had an open adoption, Felicia insisted that the two of us be kept apart.”

Silence hangs over the table like a cloud. Aunt Karen processes the information bits at a time, a parade of emotions marching across her aging face. It’s the confusion and the denial that convince me she’s going to say she knows nothing about it before she even opens her mouth.

“What are you saying? That you have a brother?”

“That he
thinks
he’s my brother, yes.”

“Full brother or half-brother?”

Something catches in my chest, and it’s hard to breathe. It sounds as if my aunt has known all along who my father is.
 

The waiter returns to clear our plates, more members of the staff behind him with our second course. The interruption gives me time to calm down, but all the time in the world wouldn’t make much difference. If Aunt Karen suspects Travis and I might have the same father, is it because she knows something about Felicia and Frank’s relationship?

“You know who my father is?” I ask softly.

“What?” She waves a hand, but even in the dismissal, I glimpse her fear. “No, of course not. I mean, we’ve always had our guesses.”

Aunt Karen gives Uncle Wally a conspiratorial glance. He doesn’t return it, seemingly lost in his asparagus salad, but then his eyes flick to mine and my stomach lurches. He doesn’t look disinterested. And unlike Aunt Karen, he doesn’t look scared.

He looks guilty.

While Aunt Karen prattles on through two more courses, trying to get information from me about who the man claiming to be my brother is, where he was raised, and what he knows about his father, my eyes keep going back to Uncle Wally. For his part, my uncle keeps his head down, careful not to glance my way again.

He knows something. I don’t know what, or why Aunt Karen doesn’t know it, too, but I do know that when this whole curse thing is over, I’m going to make him tell me.
 

Chapter Seven

I
t’s Monday morning and Amelia and I have barely settled in at the library. We spent the better part of last night huddled up with Leo, Mel, and Will trying to figure out how we’re going to get more information on the Middletons’ business enterprises without Paul Adams. There are other employees of Allied Pharmaceuticals who haven’t been hit by cars, obviously, but tracking them down will take time. It’s the only way we can come up with of convincing them to drop the charges. The misuse of the AIDS drug is the only bit of information we found that could be big enough to scare the Middletons into action. Testing drugs on defenseless, destitute children would be enough to disgust even members of Congress.
 

At least publicly.

My eyes feel gritty, the computer screen with orders for new books blurring at the edges. There is no sound coming from the stacks, even though Amelia went to check on the condition of a few titles. I suspect she’s found a warm, quiet place to curl up and take a nap. I should make sure she’s well hidden before Mr. Freedman gets a wild hair and decides to show up before noon. Or Mrs. Walters makes an appearance.

She hasn’t been into the library with the sole purpose of harassing us for days. I can’t help but wonder if she’s sick. We could take her some soup just to find out, but she’d probably toss it down the garbage disposal for fear that we’d either poisoned it or that it had been exposed to some kind of germs in our kitchen.

When the front door opens, sweeping dead, crunchy leaves into the library with a gust of wind, it’s not the nosy old woman from down the street. It’s Brick Drayton, armed with a paper bag from Westies and a drink tray laden with paper cups. Steam rises from the to-go mugs and grease spots show on the outside of the bag. My stomach growls by way of greeting.

“Hi, Graciela.” He looks around. “Is Amy here?”

I bite my tongue at his use of that damned nickname and force a small smile. “She’s resting. I’ll go find her. You can set that on one of the tables in the research area if you want.”

He nods. The small lines around his mouth are tight, his eyes wary, and the combination puts some hustle into my step. I have a feeling he’s got some news.
 

I find my cousin curled up on one of the beanbags in the children’s area. She looks peaceful, with her hands wrapped around her belly and her light hair splayed on the dark blue plastic material, but letting her sleep isn’t an option. We need to help our friends. And, you know, we’re technically at work.

“Millie.” I poke her with a toe, but she doesn’t stir. How little sleep has she been getting at home? “Amelia.”

She jerks awake, her green eyes wild as they dart around the space. Confusion and fear mingle on her face before she looks at me, then presses a hand to her chest. “Jesus Christ, Grace. You scared me.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just woke you up like a normal person.” Her reaction tenses my shoulders. After the sleepwalking, which nearly killed her, I can’t help but worry that things are happening to Amelia that she’s choosing not to share. The curse still exists, and until it’s reversed, it’s not going to stop until it’s accomplished the awful instruction that voodoo witch gave all those decades ago: stop the boys in our family from reaching adulthood.

“Is something going on?” I probe.

“Like what?” She holds her hands up for help. “A curse on our family? Our friends going to prison?”

I roll my eyes, and the two of us struggle for several seconds to get her into a standing position. “Like, anything you’re not telling me.”

She avoids my gaze. “No, Grace. Now why did you wake me up?” She sniffs the air. “Do I smell sauerkraut?”

Now that she mentions it, there is a distinct, vinegary odor in the air. The fact that Brick would be able to pick out her current pregnancy craving by happy accident is too much to buy. I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows at her.

“What?” Her too-innocent face works on ninety percent of the world but not on me.

Apparently there’s more than one thing my cousin prefers to keep to herself.

“Brick’s here,” I tell her. “He says he needs to talk to us both, and he seems…jumpy.”

“Jumpy? Or excited?”

“Who can tell?” Impatience crowds out my curiosity about her personal life, at least for the moment, and I don’t ask the pointed questions about how he knows what sort of sandwich she’d want. “Come on.”

We hurry back up front, just in time to see LeighAnn struggle through the front door with two of her four kids. The older ones have finally started school.
 

She gives us a salute. “Good morning! I’m not going to bother you, I just needed to get the kids out of the house.”

“You’re not a bother,” I reply, smiling. “Let us know if you need help finding anything.”

She nods, then chases after the three- and four-year-old girls, who have already disappeared into the stacks, no doubt headed for the children’s area. LeighAnn’s a regular and a book lover; she can take care of herself.
 

“Looks like my wake-up call came just in time,” I observe to Millie. “I doubt the kids would have been any gentler.”

“I’m pretty sure God designed pregnancy so that you’re ready for no sleep when the baby comes,” she grumbles. “I can’t get comfortable enough to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time.”

“You’re making me want to stay childless.” A squeal and a crash issue from the back of the library, and I wince. “So is she.”

“Bah. LeighAnn talks a good game but she’s nuts about those brats.” Her hands go protectively to her stomach. “And I’d die for Jack. I don’t even know why, but I would.”

A bolt of cold fear slashes through me. Even though I know she doesn’t mean anything dark and foreboding by the statement, I feel it—like an ominous black cloud swirling around our feet, climbing up our calves, preparing to choke us as it moves higher.
 

Amelia either doesn’t feel it or chooses to ignore the change in the library’s atmosphere. She follows her nose to the research table where Brick has emptied the contents of his bag and spread out the drinks.
 

His face lights up with a smile at the sight of my cousin. “Hi. You’re looking well.”

She laughs, the sound a tinkling bell too bright for the state of our lives. “I look like hell, but you’re sweet not to mention it. What did you bring me?”

“Reuben, dill pickle chips, and cinnamon tea.”

Just the description makes me want to throw up but Amelia slides into a chair, rips open the bag of chips, and digs in without another word. Not even a thank-you.

“What did you bring
me
?” I ask, unable to stop myself from batting my eyelashes at Brick.

He gives me a look like he thinks I’m ridiculous, then shakes his head. “I didn’t know what you’d like, but the ladies at Westies said their specialties are chicken salad and turkey and cranberry. I got one of each and don’t have any experience with either, so I’ll take whichever you don’t want.”

My eyes go wide. “You mean, you’ve never had either one?”

“No. I’m not very adventurous. The couple of times I’ve gotten takeout there I just ordered soup.”

“He’s boring,” Amelia says around a mouthful of corned beef and Russian dressing. “We’re working on it.”

“Then you should pick,” I offer. It doesn’t matter to me, anyway.

Brick snorts, then chooses the turkey and cranberry. It’s one step above boring because of the gooey fruit, but I suppose it could count as moving in the right direction. It suits me fine. Their chicken salad really is fantastic; it’s what I would have ordered.
 

“Thanks,” I tell him, remembering my manners even if my cousin’s pregnancy has made her go feral at mealtimes. He and I each grab a bag of chips and sit down, then Brick unfolds the paper around his sandwich and frowns at it.

“I promise it’s good,” I say. “Why don’t you focus on what you came here to say?”

“Oh, right.” That excited/scared look comes over his face again. This time Amelia sees it, too, and finally feels the foreboding in the air.

She even puts down her sandwich and wraps her hands around her cup of tea like she’s gotten a sudden chill. “What is it? Did you talk to the Middletons?”

He nods. “Birdie and I met with them this morning, then I went back to the office and did some research. I found… I might have found something interesting, though I’m not sure how we can use it to our advantage without some serious work.”

“We’ll do the work.” I press my lips together, pushing away the chicken salad on a croissant—my favorite. He’s not eating, either. Whatever this is, he doesn’t like it. “What is it?”

“Maybe nothing,” he says.

Amelia’s eyes are fixed on his face, her complexion ashen. “Spit it out, Brick. There are kids in the back and who knows when Mrs. Walters is going to make an appearance.”

“Okay. Well, the Middletons used to own a pharmaceutical company, back in the eighties and nineties, called Allied Pharmaceuticals.”

I gasp. I can’t help it, and Brick notices.

“Yeah, I know. You brought up something about it during the custody hearing, but I didn’t think much about it. It’s old news, and they’d moved on.” He pauses, licking his lips. “Except they haven’t.”

“Wait, what? They still own Allied?” All I can think about is Paul Adams getting run down in front of his house after talking to us about what he knew was going on there way back when.

“Yes. A controlling share. They no longer own it outright, but she sits on the board.”

“
She
does?” That surprises me. Mrs. Middleton looks like she can barely get through a regular day without prescription painkillers and booze, never mind sit on the board of a multimillion-dollar corporation.

“If she does, it’s only because he doesn’t have time or doesn’t want his name attached,” Amelia guesses, her gaze faraway as she peers toward the front window. The wheels in her mind are turning almost audibly. “There’s no way she’s doing anything but reporting back to him.”

“Bette’s just as awful of a person as her husband, but I agree. She doesn’t have the mental capacity to contribute in any real way.” Brick clears his throat, then sips from his cup. “But that’s not all. Back in the eighties, the company was involved in research for AIDS drugs, but they abandoned that avenue for something more lucrative.”