Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (5 page)

“Good morning,” I chirp on my way into the kitchen, trying to force as much positive energy into the space as possible. The room is clogged with Amelia’s nerves so it’s an uphill battle. Maybe more akin to Sisyphus than one that can be won, but like him, I keep trying like a stubborn mule.

For my cousin’s part, she appears to be on the brink of throwing
up the scrambled eggs she’s forcing past her lips with robotic precision. Millie may be having issues taking care of her own mental well-being these days, but she’s never, not for one second, lost sight of the health of that little baby boy growing inside her. She’s over halfway there now, with a due date in late January.

“Morning,” she says. “I made a pot of coffee.”

“You’re just a little martyr
this morning, aren’t you?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to go back to drinking coffee after this. The smell of it makes me nauseated for some reason.”

“What doesn’t make you nauseated these days?”

“Not a whole lot,” she mutters ruefully, scraping up the last of the eggs and carrying her plate to the sink. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Let me pour a cup and grab a granola bar.”

Amelia wipes the crumbs from her toast off the counter with a pink sponge, anxiety radiating from her skin and tightening my own chest. By the time I’ve managed to fill a to-go mug and snatch a peanut butter granola bar out of the cabinet, even I’m close to hurling.

It would be nice to tell her to knock it off, that she’s worrying for nothing, that this lawyer friend of Beau’s is going to make
everything magically okay. Amelia and I don’t lie to each other, though.

We leave the house, climb into the silver sedan her sweet father delivered a couple of days ago, and I sneak a glance her direction. It’s hard not to wonder if I’m the only one keeping to that code, loyal to the promises we made each other years ago. Because there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by lately where I haven’t ask
myself at least once what my cousin is hiding.

The lawyer’s office is in Charleston, and we make small talk about the changing season and when we think the pink camellias will bloom over the hum of the radio. We find the address easily enough with GPS, pay to park the car, and walk the three or four blocks to a historic building with an engraved wooden sign out front: Rice, Rice, and Britton,
Attorneys
-
at
-
Law.

“She’s one of the partners?” Amelia sounds like she’s not fading away for the first time today.

“Her name is Phoebe Rice, so I guess?”

“Beau is a miracle worker.”

“And you haven’t even been to bed with him.”

The comment makes Amelia shake her head, but the hesitant smile is what I was going for. “Don’t be crass, Grace. It’s not becoming.”

“It’s not becoming?”
I stop walking,
hands on my hips as she holds open the door. “Have you been possessed by your mother?
Have I been confiding to Aunt Karen this entire time?
”

She snorts, tipping her head. “Are you done? Can we go inside now?”

“I guess. But I’m asking Daria about exorcisms later.”

“Fair enough.”

We settle down, awed by the grandeur of the lobby. It’s exactly the sort of building I love, designed to highlight
the gorgeous original floors and fixtures but still incorporating clean, modern lines into the space. The receptionist looks like she might be a college student, with a mousy brown ponytail and bright red lips stretched into a giant smile.
 

“Hi,” she squeaks in a chipmunk voice that I don’t think she’s putting on. “Welcome to Rice, Rice, and Britton. Do you have an appointment?”

Christ Almighty,
she belongs under the heading
perky
in the dictionary. Or possibly out on a ledge somewhere. It’s too early in the morning for me to respond without cringing, and my cousin steps up, clutching her hands together as though she’s hoping to hide the fact that they’re shaking.
 

“Hi, yes. Amelia Cooper for Ms. Rice.”

The girl nods, typing loudly into the giant Mac desktop for about ten seconds before
looking back up with a manic sparkle in her brown eyes. “Fifth floor. Her secretary will be expecting you.”

“Thanks,” my cousin murmurs, eyes on the elevator bank.
 

I follow her through the all-white, marble lobby, happy to leave the disconcertingly peppy receptionist behind. Maybe she is the sort of person who should have a job greeting perfect strangers wandering in off the street, but for
me, anyone who can make that much glee seem natural probably needs medication. Or needs to tone down her current dosage.

The elevators open as soon as Amelia presses the button, and the doors slide shut behind us without a sound. Our images are reflected in clean, polished mirrors as the car zooms upward—opposites in just about every way except for our green eyes. My brown hair frizzes slightly
despite my best efforts while Millie’s gold waves tumble smoothly past her shoulders. She’s petite, more than two inches shorter than I am, but inside, we’ve always been more alike than different.

I reach out and give her hand a tight squeeze before the doors open and reveal us to whoever waits on the fifth floor. “We’re going to get through this, Millie. All three of us, and life is going to
be boring like it should be and we can finally start looking forward together.”

“I love you for saying that, Grace.”

“I’ll love it when you start believing it with me.”

The smile she gives me is sad. Then we’re facing a second reception area as posh as the one downstairs but softer and more inviting, and there’s no time left for us to confer alone.

There are three closed wooden doors that
look heavy and expensive. The carpet is off-white and so thick our footsteps make no noise as we examine the names outside the separate offices until we find the one for Ms. Phoebe Rice, Attorney-at-Law among the other two, one for a Mr. Randall Rice and a Mr. Garrett Britton, and push it open.

Inside, we find a second secretary who looks up with an expression that is polite but more tolerant
than thrilled. “You’re Amelia Cooper?”

My cousin nods. “Yes.”

“Ms. Rice will be with you in just a moment. Can I get you a cup of coffee, tea, or a coke?” Her gaze falls to Millie’s bulging waist. “We have decaf options, of course.”

We both refuse. I don’t want to chance spilling it on the carpet and Amelia’s still tied up in knots, if her fidgeting is any indication.
 

It turns out not to
matter, since a second dark wooden door swings open a moment later to reveal an inner office—and a woman—who can only be described as stunning. She’s tall, probably five nine or five ten, with sleek, midnight hair cut into a bob that lands just below her chin. She’s wearing a lavender sheath that must have been custom tailored to land at a very appropriate inch above her knee. There’s not a stitch
out of place, not a pound that’s not needed to contribute to her perfect curves, and when our eyes meet it’s hard to imagine a lighter shade of blue.

Ice. That’s the impression she gives off. And while a woman like Phoebe Rice would normally make me cross the street out of pure intimidation, it’s clear in an instant that she’s
exactly
the kind of woman we want on our side in a courtroom.

She
extends a slim hand—complete with manicured nails—toward Amelia, seeming to know without being told which one of us is her client. “I’m Phoebe Rice. You can call me Phoebe.”

“Amelia.”

In the back of my mind, which is still recovering from the shock of seeing Beau’s attorney friend for the first time, my devils start to wonder how close she and Beau are. Or how close they might have been in the
past. Or whether it’s possible for any man to get within five feet of Phoebe Rice, Attorney-at-Law, without drooling.

I resist the urge to tell the devils to shut up since my cousin has made clear, on more than one occasion, her feelings about me talking to myself out loud and in public.

A nudge at my hip startles me out of my head, and Millie frowns at me. I realize the manicured nails are
now held out toward me, and I jump to shake her hand. “Graciela.”

“Yes, Beauregard’s girlfriend.” Her cold gaze flicks over me. “Interesting.”

There’s no time to wonder what the hell that means or get my dander up because she turns, leading us into her office in three-inch, nude, patent leather heels. Her office reminds me of Brick’s, except the view of the city through her giant picture window
isn’t nearly as impressive. The deep cherry furniture is stylish, understated, and almost certainly cost more than I make in a year.

The effect, however, is relaxing. Amelia’s shoulders fall from where they’ve been hunched up around her ears, and for the first time all day, I can’t hear her breathing. We sit in two matching chairs, and Phoebe perches primly in the swivel chair behind the desk,
folding her hands.

My head is jammed with a million questions, but this isn’t my appointment. Before the lawyer can get out a single word Amelia leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. The straight posture, the fire in her eyes—this is the Millie who used to break rules with me, who was always the last one to drop her firecracker, always the first one to strip down naked and leap, squealing,
into the river.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Phoebe spreads her hands in a gesture of open invitation. “Of course.”

“Why are you so willing to take on my case when every other attorney in town laughed us out of their offices? Aren’t you afraid of the Middletons and what they can do?”

“First off,” she starts without hesitating, her gaze lingering on me, “I’m willing to take your case because
Beauregard asked me to take your case.”

Her tone, the silky softness of it, leaves me wondering what else she’s been willing to do just because my boyfriend asked her.

“As far as your second question, I’m not afraid of anyone.”

She and my cousin stare at each other for ten seconds, fifteen. Then Amelia nods, sits back, and crosses her arms. “Great. So where do we start?”

“Well, I’ve spoken
at length with Beauregard and requested discovery from his family’s firm, which they’ve provided.” She motions with a lazy finger toward a file box under the window. “The first thing you’ve got to do is stop seeing that quack therapist in Heron Creek.”

Millie sucks in a breath, and my heart sinks.
 

“I-is that necessary?” The tremble in her voice confirms all the worries that invade my nights.

That she’s even less okay than anyone knows.
 

“Yes. We need you to be viewed as a fit mother and fit mothers don’t see shrinks.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I interrupt, offended. “Half the people in America see therapists and the other half probably need to.”

“We’re not discussing America, and while I don’t disagree with your opinion on our need to remove the stigma from mental health care,
the fact remains that there is one.” Her cool gaze shifts back to my cousin. “I do not think you’re crazy. You’ve been through more in the past six months than most people will go through in their whole lives, and you deserve to pout and talk it out and whatever else makes it a little bit better. But we’re trying to make sure you keep your kid, and I’m telling you that your record of hospital admittances,
therapy records, and arrests isn’t going to play in your favor. We need to fix all of that, starting now. Okay?”

“Okay,” Millie says softly, her jaw set and expression determined. “I’ll be okay.”

“Second, I’m not sure that, even if we can make you out to be the most fit parent in the world, it’s going to be enough at this point.”

Phoebe shoots a look my direction that straightens my spine.
She must have been a drill sergeant in another life or something because this girl has
presence.

I get a sudden mental image of her in a sexy uniform with a whip, but banish it before I trip down that path. Surely Beau would have mentioned if they’d ever been involved…right? And at least her name isn’t Lucy, the mysterious ex his sister Birdie mentioned when she thought I wasn’t listening, but
that he
still
hasn’t brought up.

“We’re going to need more, especially if you’re set on them only having limited visitation rights.”

“I don’t want them to have any rights,” Amelia spits. “They knew. They always knew what their son was, how he treated me, but they didn’t care. They only cared about him.”

The ice eyes melt the tiniest bit. “I understand how you feel, but one step at a time. You
retaining full custody of the fetus is the primary goal.”

“His name is Jack,” Amelia says, quiet but steady. Insistent.

Phoebe presses her lips together, as though she’s trying not to say what she really thinks. She nods. “Of course. As I was saying, we’re going to need more. Ideally, some sort of proof that the Middletons were not good parents to Jacob, that they have money trouble, that they’ve
committed morally ambiguous acts. Anything like that would help.”

The lawyer raises her eyebrows at Amelia, as though waiting for an answer, but her blue eyes quickly fall to me again. They flicker, as though maybe if we were good friends I’d be able to discern some secret message, and then they’re gone.

“I’ve heard plenty,” Amelia starts, slowly. “But Jake never said a single word against his
parents, and they certainly never let me close enough to get any sort of proof.”

It clicks then, as Phoebe stifles a sigh with a smile that does nothing to reassure anyone in the room that we have more than the barest chance of keeping my cousin’s baby away from those people. If she talked to Beau, if she did any sort of digging on her own—and she doesn’t seem like the type of woman to leave
one single thing to chance—then it’s possible she knows about my proclivity toward snooping.

It may usually have to do with some pushy spirit, but in this case, I’m more than willing to put my newly acquired skills to work if it means helping my cousin put her life back together. No problem.

“You’re saying you want dirt on the Middletons.”