Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (27 page)

In the back room, she plucks a pair of yoga pants off the back of the couch and slips them on, then ties her hair into the world’s poofiest ponytail. I move some files off the loveseat and flop down, surveying the mess with a mix of admiration and horror.
 

“Been busy?” I ask, trying not to sound as defensive as I feel. It’s not like Daria and I are best friends or anything, and we don’t have the history that I have with my childhood pals in Heron Creek, but my feelings are hurt that she didn’t respond when I needed her.
 

“Yeah.” Her voice stays scratchy even after she takes two giant swigs from what looks like a tequila sunrise. “Not sure what’s doin’ it, but spirits have been all stirred up. The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

The look she shoots my way is wary, but also annoyed.

“You could have called me. I still owe you that favor,” I remind her.

“Could have. But I figured staying away from you might be the best thing for the time being.”

I try not to take the barb personally. Knowing Daria even as well as I do, she doesn’t mean to be cruel. “I need to know if there’s another way to protect myself, other than the grounding process. Mama Lottie…she hurt me the other night. If I see her again, I need to be prepared.”

Her face goes pale, but she tries to hide her fear as she shakes her head. “Not that I know of, not really. Some people say witches can give you protection spells, things like that, but it’s all hogwash.”

“What is? Witches?”

“I would never presume to say that about someone else’s life experience. Not after all the weirdness of mine.” She takes another long pull off her drink, nearly draining it. “I believe there’s truth to witchcraft in all of its many forms, but that it doesn’t have much interaction with the life after this one. In most cases.”

“So if she flies into one of her rages there’s nothing I can do to stop her from killing me?”

“You can leave her be. That’s my advice.”

“I can’t do that, Daria.” My frustration rises, making me wonder if I should make an appointment with Amelia’s therapist and get some anxiety meds.

The thought of Amelia shakes loose another reminder: to tell Clete he can back off the search into the Middletons. If Charles Henry says Mama Lottie has Amelia, I believe him.

My eyes meet Daria’s, and the tears gathered in hers drop cold fear into my belly. A heavy weight presses against my chest until I’m about to hyperventilate. Nothing scares Daria. Nothing except Mama Lottie.

“She has Amelia,” I whisper. “She took her, and I have to figure out how to get her back. You don’t have to help me, but if you could just answer some questions…”

I trail off because I’m ready to cry again myself. Daria takes a minute, drinks the rest of her beverage, makes another, then comes to sit across from me on the couch.
 

“Okay. I’m petrified, Graciela, I ain’t gonna lie, but that is some bullshit. She can’t have the living. She can’t. It’s not her right.” She nods, determination and fire lighting her still-wet gaze. “Shoot.”

“Thank you, Daria.” I take a deep breath. “Now, have you ever had to try to help a spirit cross over who doesn’t want to? Or who you have to convince?”

Her eyes bug out. “You want to
help
her? Mama Lottie. The woman who keeps trying to kill you and curse the people you care about?”

“Well, yeah. I mean…that’s what we do, right? And getting her to accept that this is no longer the place she belongs would solve a bunch of trouble.”

Daria considers me, and that, for several moments before the corners of her lips twitch up in a smile. “You surprise me. That’s a good thing. It means you might surprise her.”

“So you’ve got advice?”

“Sure. All kinds of spirits aren’t keen on the idea of leaving—sometimes they don’t think they’re in the wrong place or they’re holding on because they can’t bear to leave, or maybe they’re stuck trying to resolve one thing or another.”

“Those last ones are the kind I get.”

She nods. “There are all kinds of mediums, Graciela. Like there are all kinds of people. The point is, you have to find the thing that they have to let go of, then figure out how to pry their fingers loose.”

“I think I have an idea. I’m working on it.” I pause, fiddling with a piece of lint on my jeans. “Of course, it’s the same thing that made her toss me across the deck the last time.”

“You can do it, I think. She’s powerful, and she enjoys being a scary bully, but she’s still a ghost. She’s not meant to be here, and they all realize that sooner or later.”

We chat awhile longer about techniques, the nerves in my stomach growing with each passing moment. I have to ask her something, regardless of how I think she’ll answer.

“Daria, will you help me? Like, once I have everything I need to convince Mama Lottie to move on, will you come with me?”

I’ve never had to convince a ghost to go away. They’ve
 
always left on their own once I do what they want, so Daria’s help is key to my confidence.
 

She doesn’t respond for a long time, crunching ice between her teeth in a manner that would send me into a rant in a different situation.
 

When she looks me in the eye and nods, the weight that lifts off my shoulders makes me want to weep with relief. I’m not doing this alone, like Leo said. I have friends. This means there’s one less impossible skill that needs to be learned before this is all over.

And I so desperately want this all to be over.

Chapter Sixteen

E
ven my step feels lighter on the way out of Daria’s, and not only because I gave in and let her fix me a tequila sunrise when she prepared her third. She informed me that it’s a morning beverage because of the name. I chose not to argue because staying on her good side isn’t such an easy thing to accomplish and I can’t afford to lose her.

It’s almost time to meet Beau at his family home in Charleston. There are no texts or missed calls on my phone, which must mean that he talked to Birdie and she’s agreed to keep their mother out of the house. That, or Beau figures—rightfully so—that we need the rest of those journals even if we have to go straight through Cordelia Drayton to get them.

Not that I relish the thought of having to go that direction. The woman is so impossible that the worry that she might haunt me as a ghost is enough incentive for me to wish her a long, happy life.
 

The drive passes quickly, the traffic on the highway is lean in the middle of a workday in November. I wonder how Mr. Freedman is getting on at the library, if he’s found someone to cover for us, and feel a quick pang of concern that whoever it is will turn out to be better at the job than I am. It surprises me, the reaction of wanting to keep my job, and even more so to realize it’s not about the money. I have savings, Gramps left Amelia and me both a little, and we’re living rent-free thanks to Amelia’s hold on her father’s heart—and wallet. So I don’t need the money. I
need
to be part of the community in Heron Creek, and having a job in town every day makes me feel like I am.

I shake my head as I exit and start the slow crawl into downtown. There will be time to contemplate a future once Amelia is back and baby Jack is safe, not to mention Mel and Leo free to go on with their lives. Until then, I’ll be glad Mr. Freedman is an understanding man in a small town and I don’t have to worry about getting canned for taking time off following my cousin’s disappearance.

The phone rings, and I fumble it free of my cupholder just in time to press “Accept” without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Graciela? It’s Dylan Travis.”

My heart leaps into my throat, horrible images of what could have happened to force him to place the phone call crowding my mind. “What’s up?”

I sound almost normal, if normal people ask questions with nooses tied around their necks.

“Relax. I don’t have any news other than that, as of tonight, Amelia will be officially listed as a missing person. We can get the state and federal police involved, go to the media, things like that.”

“Has it really been seventy-two hours already?”

“I’m afraid so.” His voice is full of gravel and fatigue. “I just wanted to let you know.”

I should have called him to follow up before now. I should have thought about how he’s feeling, now that he believes Amelia and me are family. The truth is that I don’t have any more room at the moment. The mystery of my mother and Travis’s parentage and what Frank Fournier has to do with the whole thing is going to have to wait.

“Thank you.” I suck in a deep breath. “Will they be coming to see me tonight?”

“Most likely. Also, I’ve looked into the Middletons because of the recent conflicts Amelia had with them over the baby, and officially, they’re coming up clean.”

“Officially?”

“Yeah. Unofficially, I think they’re slimeballs and I wouldn’t put it past them to pull a stunt like this.”

I press my lips together to keep from telling him that Clete’s looking into the “unofficial” side of things. That would bring up a nasty conversation about what exactly I promised Clete in exchange for his continued assistance, and
that
would require me to lie. After everything that’s happened with Beau, I’m not feeling great about untruths these days, and even though a couple of weeks ago it wouldn’t have bothered me for a second to keep something as big as Clete trying to get him fired from Travis, things are different now.

Even if he isn’t my brother, our pasts are entwined in a way neither of us understands yet. It changes things, even if I don’t know how or why or what our relationship will look like down the road.

“They
are
slimeballs, but I’m not sure they had anything to do with this. Thanks for talking to them, though.” If getting into what’s going on with Clete sounds like a bad idea, telling Travis that I think a vengeful spirit might have taken Amelia is even further down my list of things to do.

“Of course. I’m going above and beyond on this one, you know that.”

“I do.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

We hang up, and I feel strangely comforted by the fact that Travis plans to accompany the other officers to the house.
 

The Drayton home looks as gorgeous as ever, half-hidden behind giant live oak trees and the trellises trimmed with bright pink blooming camellias. I pull through the open gates and park next to Beau’s car at the back of the long drive. He leans against the driver’s door, looking casual and handsome and almost like nothing has changed. Except it has.

Beau’s smile is tight as I climb out of the car into the late-morning air. It’s warmer than it has been, jacket weather instead of coat, and much more comfortable. The breeze that wafts through the garden, bringing the lingering scents of mint and lavender under my nose, is even warmer.
 

“Birdie took her to lunch, but I’m not sure how much time we have,” Beau says by way of greeting. “We should get going.”

 
I nod, not keen on wasting time if it means avoiding Mrs. Drayton. My skin itches with anxiety because this whole caper reminds me a little too much of the break-in Leo and I pulled at the Middletons’ that ended in a disaster of epic proportions. Even though this is Beau’s parents’ house and we’re getting in with a garage code and not a lock-picking set, part of me wonders if Cordelia will make the distinction.
 

The last thing I need is to end up arrested and charged alongside Leo and Mel. Knowing Beau’s mother, the fact that he’s here with me may not play into her decision to call the police.

“Do you know where they might be?” I ask, whispering in the huge, echoing foyer.

“I think so. My father keeps a safe in the office, but my mother has a stash of old documents up in the attic. I’d guess they’re under her control because my father doesn’t have much to do with the historical aspect of the family business.”

“Hmm.” I follow him up the stairs, taking care to walk only on my toes even though we’re alone.

Strange, that Mrs. Drayton is the one who took pride and ownership over the historical properties and protecting the family legacy when she married into it. Maybe his father sees that sort of thing as women’s work. He seems like the type, and besides, once she had her children, the Drayton legacy became near and dear to Cordelia’s heart, too. If she has one, that is, which remains unconfirmed.

We head up a second set of stairs, hidden behind a door, and enter the nicest attic I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s temperature controlled, obviously, with plush carpet underfoot, double-paned windows that let in plenty of the midday light, and built-in bookshelves and cabinets that line every last inch of available wall space. A desk sits under one of the larger windows, nestled between two full, glassed-in bookshelves and topped with neat stacks of paper. Several of the cabinets have locks on them, and the distinct smell and pressure of the air makes me certain that the environment up here has been calibrated to preserve historical documents.

In a completely incongruous move, someone installed a rather whimsical, padded window seat in a big bay window all the way at the end of the space. The built-in shelves and plush pillows make it the perfect spot to curl up and relax, something I can’t imagine Cordelia doing, no matter how hard I try.