Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (20 page)

“Clete ain’t here.” Big Ern appears beside us, seemingly out of nowhere. For a huge, hulking hillbilly, dude can sneak like nobody’s business.

“Where is he?” I ask.

Leo is silent, the way he tends to be out here in the woods, out of his element. It’s out of mine, too, but for some reason, I’ve never been truly
un
comfortable with Clete and the others.
 

Big Ern shrugs in response to my question. “Out.”

“When will he be back?”

“Mebbe by noon, he said.” Big Ern shifts the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You ken wait, if ya want. On the porch.”

We take him up on the offer, striding across the clearing and up onto the clapboard porch. It sinks and groans, leaving me hedging my bets on if we’re going to fall through, and if Clete will blame us if we do. Probably, on both counts.

Big Ern follows us, sitting down on the steps and pulling a pipe out of his pocket. The scent of tobacco fills the air as he puffs away, and I wonder if any temperature could cause him to alter his uniform of overalls, straw hat, and nothing else. He’s not even wearing shoes today, when the ground is soggy and must be cold.

Leo and I don’t do much talking, other than squinting up at the sky while we wait and wondering if it’s going to rain again. Big Ern has clearly been instructed not to leave us alone, and chatting about anything of consequence with him listening in doesn’t appeal to me. Instead, I think about Amelia—if she’s out in the cold, if she’s scared, if whoever has her is keeping her healthy and alive. I refuse to entertain the idea that they’re not, even when images of Paul Adams in the morgue and Lucy, god knows where, dance along the periphery of my mind.
 

Clete arrives just in time to stop me from completely losing my mind. He pulls up in an old, mustard-yellow El Dorado that backfires and billows exhaust when he turns it off in the yard. There’s a road that must come nearer to the property somewhere, because there’s no way he could have driven that boat though the woods. I’ve also never seen him drive before, so I’m all out of sorts by the time he steps up onto the porch.

My fingers are freezing, and I can’t stop shivering, but even though I’m sure he notices, Clete leans against one of the porch’s supports instead of inviting us inside.

“I see you brung yer side piece again,” he opens, glowering at Leo.
 

I suspect he likes the fact that he scares my old friend, the same way I suspect it bugs him that he doesn’t really frighten me. Much. That I let on.

“He’s a friend, and you know, a young woman alone in the woods and all.”

“You should know yer never alone in my woods,” he drawls, doing a fantastic impression of a creeper. At least, I hope it’s an impression. “What can I do ya fer?”

“Amelia is missing.”

His wiry eyebrows rise with interest. “That purty cousin of yers? Shame. Where’d she go?”

“I was hoping you could help me find out.” I hold my breath, scrutinizing his face to try to guess his response before he gives it, but as usual, Clete gives me nothing.

Nothing for free.

“Why would I wanna go and do that? I mean, she got a purty face and all, but she’s a tad thick ’round the middle.”

“She’s pregnant, you idiot.”

“It’s not mine, though, is’t?” He looks me in the eye. “Ya gonna find that there info I asked for? ’Bout the detective?”

I think about the email from Travis’s parents. It gives me leverage I didn’t have before, to try to get Travis to open up to me about his past. It’s possible I’ll be able to give Clete something, but will I be able to live with myself afterward?

Leo’s gaze is warm on the side of my face, and I know he’s thinking something similar. I can’t take advantage of poor Travis’s need to find his family, but I can’t not do everything in my power to find my cousin before the unthinkable happens, either.
 

One thing at a time. Find Amelia. Then deal with Clete.

“I can try again, Clete. Some recent revelations have come up that I could look into.”

“He thinks yer his sister, yeah? That should help.”

All I can do is shake my head. There’s no point in asking him how on earth he could possibly know such a thing. He won’t tell me. I’ll spend another night fighting the desire to check my entire house for bugs—and not the kind Amelia keeps swearing we’re going to get if I keep leaving dishes in my room.

“I’ll try.”

“Fine. Now, who ya think gotcher cuz?”

“I don’t know, but everything comes back to her in-laws. The Middletons, remember?”

“I ain’t daft, girlie. I remember. I remember havin’ a rough time findin’ dirt on ’em, too, but this is different. They won’ do their own kidnappin’, and criminals talk. I’ll find out if they took her.”

Part of the weight on my shoulders lifts at his agreement. The police are doing their part to track down legal leads. Clete and his boys will check out the Middletons. That leaves Mama Lottie to me, and like it or not, Daria and Frank are both going to help.

Chapter Twelve

T
he house feels too empty without anyone else here. Even Henry has abandoned me, it seems. I text Daria two more times and promise myself, and her, that I’ll be knocking on her door this afternoon whether she responds or not. I wish I could threaten Frank the same way, but without knowing where he’s staying, it’s impossible. To be honest, his failure to respond to my messages when he must know what it’s doing to me to lose Amelia is starting to make me worry that something has happened to him, too.

You don’t know him. He could just be an unfeeling jerk.

I don’t think so, though. I really don’t. He knew I thought he was dead. He could have lived the whole rest of his life without contacting me to tell me the truth about my parentage. What’s it to him if I understand the root and nature of this family trait that’s haunting me? Literally. He cares. I guess what I
don’t
know is if his fear of Mama Lottie trumps his need to help me through this. Whatever
this
is.

To ease my anxiety, I sit down and make a list of things that need to be done: find Odette, follow up with Beau about Lucy’s files, hook up with Daria, text Jenna back and make plans for lunch. Before we parted ways an hour or so ago, Leo told me he thinks I should try to find out the rest of James and Charlotta’s story. It’s solid reasoning. If we’re not done with dealing with Mama Lottie, if it’s possible that she has Amelia, then we still need leverage. If I could find proof that the Draytons had nothing to do with whatever became of James or the baby, it might at least convince her to calm the fuck down.

I heat up some leftover spaghetti and dump it onto a plate with some sauce, then sit down with the same journal I read last time. She’s fifteen, and the diaries stop within the year. If there are clues as to how things went for the young lovers, they’ll be in here. Before I start, I shoot Jenna a text and ask if we can have lunch tomorrow. I’m going to convince one of my friends to come along to Charleston so we can look for Odette, too. Two birds with one stone, one of whom will hopefully produce some kind of answer.

She responds with a yes while I’m pouring a cup of coffee, and then I sit down to read with at least a little bit of focus.

6 September, 1899

My brother knows about my affair. Charles Jr. came looking for me today when Mama had one of her spells where she can’t breathe. Bessie started to panic and needed someone to go for the doctor, but she won’t believe anyone that Charles is old enough to leave the property on his own.
 

James and I were together where we always are, but I fear our little spit of land on the opposite side of the river is no longer the sanctuary we’ve come to depend on, not now that Charles has seen us.

I managed to bribe him into keeping his mouth shut with promises of candy and hunting trips, but I don’t know how long that will hold his silence. The importance of the secret is too much for a small boy to understand, perhaps. My heart hurts, thinking about how frightened the whole incident has made James. I don’t understand why he believes that he has more to lose than I do—I’m the woman, after all. I’m the one whose virtue has been compromised, the one who will sacrifice all hope of a respectable future to be with him. I suppose he might be right to fear my father’s wrath, but in truth, it’s his mother’s that terrorizes his thoughts.

He doesn’t know that I’m aware of his parentage. He has protected his secret all of these years, and though I know not why, I know better than to pick at a wound a person would rather leave scabbed over. In truth, part of my reason for staying silent is that I fear Lottie. Everyone who has any sense does. My father loves her like a sister, and she saved Bessie’s life from scarlet fever when she was a girl, but I’ve watched her ever since I followed James that day and learned she gave birth to him.

She hates us. All of us, even though we have been her family. Even though she was given her free papers years ago now, she chooses to stay.

Why?

The answer is hidden but makes my blood run cold all the same.

I managed to grab Charles after supper, asking him to help me stack firewood in the kitchen. He tried to run off after dumping an armful of wet logs, but I snagged the collar of his shirt and made him look at me.

“You can’t tell anyone what you saw, Charles.”

“I won’t. I already told you.” His big, honey-brown eyes were wide. “I like James. Mama would kill him.”

“Good. It’s good that you know that.” I ruffled his hair, kissed his red cheek, and said a prayer that his fondness for James would keep us all safe.

But he’s just a boy, and secrets aren’t made for keeping.

I toyed with the idea of letting him in on the fact that Mama Lottie might kill us all, should she find out, but decided it would frighten him too much.
 

We only have to hang on for a few more months, and then James and I will be gone.
 

The ring of the doorbell pulls me out of the diary with rough hands, dumping me into the present so hard it makes me ache.

Or maybe the ache is from being slammed into a glass sliding door so hard it cracked. Probably that.

On the way to the front door, I can’t help but wonder when Charlotta found out she was pregnant. Since the journal ends in the spring, it wouldn’t be long now, and my heart hurts for the long-dead girl. She must have been terrified, but she trusted James so blindly… Had he let her down? Had Mr. Drayton killed him?

I didn’t think she’d raised the boy at Drayton Hall, even though Charlotta herself never left. She owned her share of the property until her death not so many years ago.

My last hope is that Jenna’s managed to find some information that isn’t in the journals. She knows what I’m looking for, and I know she wouldn’t have said she found something if she hadn’t. The possibility of knowing the end of Charlotta and James’s story lights a flutter of anticipation in my chest, despite all of the stress tugging at my limbs.

“Oh. Hello.” The jarring release from the past numbs my surprised reaction to the visitors.

It’s Beau and Brick standing on my porch.
 

My heart stutters at the sight of the former, but the twist of anguish on Brick’s face punches thoughts of anything but Amelia straight through my stomach.

“Any news?” he asks, his voice raw and low.

I shake my head. “No. The state police will probably be by at some point, and I’ve got Clete on it.”

“We want to hire a private investigator, too,” he replies.
 

“I’m not in any position to reject your help.” I clear my throat, dislodging more tears. “Thank you.”

They nod, and I stand aside so they can come inside. There’s something about the way Beau shifts from foot to foot, an eagerness about him as he clutches the folder in his hands, that tells me the offer to hire an investigator isn’t the only reason they’re here.

“Did you find something in the file on Lucy?” I ask once we’re in the living room. Neither Drayton brother wants to sit down so I don’t, either, but all of us standing, trying not to pace, infects my chest with tight nerves.
 

“Yes.” Beau slides a glance toward his brother, who doesn’t seem to notice. The anguish on Brick’s face as he looks around the space where he and Amelia spend so much time tugs at my empathy. “Nothing that’s going to break this wide open, maybe, but the name of her supervisor while she was working at Teach International in Iran.”

“We could talk to her and find out if Lucy confronted Allied directly. Ask what her thoughts are, if the company is still operating in the same manner,” Brick adds, coming back to the issue in front of us currently. “If she’s got any proof, or any way to get it.”

“Great.” My spirits lift the slightest bit. It won’t bring Amelia home. In fact, thinking too hard about what happened to Lucy only makes me think that if the Middletons or Allied
are
behind Amelia’s disappearance, I may never see her again. “Where is she? Do you want to call her?”