Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery) (22 page)

When she opens her eyes again, the pain in them is as intense as it was coming off Nan a moment ago. Beyond that, there’s hatred, self-loathing. It’s too much to bear and I look away, unwilling to stare at a woman exposed down to her blood vessels.

“Get out.”

I want to be surprised. I want to ask her why she’s lying about thinking Nan killed herself or all kinds of questions about her house
and her daughter and her life since that awful Christmas break, but I don’t. I can’t. Right now, she’s not a woman obstructing my pursuit of knowledge or killing my chances to help Nan rest. She’s a woman who just had her worst fears confirmed, and if it were me, I’d need to be alone so I could cry. Curse. Throw things.

It’s impossible to say what she’s thinking or what she’ll do, but I see myself
to the door and close it behind me, allowing her the space to figure it out for herself.

I’m knee-deep in files out at Drayton Hall later that afternoon, but progress has been steady. Cordelia Drayton thought it wouldn’t take me more than a month to go through the boxes, organize them, ensure they were preserved, and put together the documents
that would be of the most interest to either a historical society or to the public, but it’s not going to take that long. I’ve been working here a week, now, and it’s not going to take me more than another.

It’s all so interesting. Fascinating, really. There are centuries of not only family history but documents outlining the Drayton and Middleton influence on local, state, and federal politics.
With the sheer number of judges each family has sat on various benches, they’ve helped shape a nation. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but I will say that they’ve always been quick to align with the winning side. I’ve got letters, both personal and political, dissents, property evaluations, and diaries. Enough to fill a room or rooms for the family to display on the grounds
or in the house, if they can figure out how to manage it while not updating anything—and another stack that I think would be of interest to the South Carolina state and federal archives.

The air-conditioning and weather stripping got fixed the day after I sent that e-mail explaining why it’s beneficial to old documents, regardless of the fact that Beau was in the hospital during those twenty-four
hours. The AC is keeping me from sweating, and the daily cleaning crew makes sure there’s not a speck of dust anywhere on the files or me. It’s nice, but I keep experiencing a major out-of-place sensation whenever I move between the office and the grounds. It’s like stepping back two hundred years and a hundred degrees simultaneously.

Despite the fact that I’ve wandered the grounds numerous times,
even back to the spot where Beau and I had our picnic, I haven’t seen the black woman again. Nan’s been pretty absent, too, popping in and out, watching me but not pointing me in any direction. It’s unnerving, as though she thinks I’ve got all the necessary information but am too dumb to put it together in the right way.

“It looks like you’re making some good progress in here.” The deep voice
startles me out of my loop of self-flagellation.

I look up to find Sean Dennison of Magnolia Plantation and the Land of Perfect Physiques standing in the doorway. He quickly closes the door behind him as any good archivist would, then looks around with raised eyebrows. “She really outfitted this old heap of an outbuilding for you, huh?”

“That she did. It’s a lot easier to organize all this stuff
without worrying it’ll disintegrate if I leave it unboxed overnight, I’ll tell you that.”

He’s dressed about the same as he was the first time I met him, in a loose, white linen shirt that flutters in the air-conditioning and a pair of snug-fitting khakis and canvas Sperrys. His gaze is watchful. Curious in a way that puts me on edge, even though it could be easily explained as professional interest.

“Did she send you here to check up on me?” I ask in a tone that hopefully says I’m joking even though I’m pretty much not.

“You know it. Mrs. Drayton is not the kind of boss who leaves things to chance.” He comes closer, peering at the tables I have set up to house different types of files as I sort through the boxes. “You’re moving along faster than expected.”

“Yeah. I took leave from my regular
job. I get a little obsessive with stuff like this. I kept thinking, ‘Man, there’s going to be something awesome in the next folder,’ and so on.” I shrug, unable to stop the prideful smile on my lips. “I just love it.”

“Don’t we all. It’s like a drug.” His fingers skim a sheet of paper and he picks it up, manicured eyebrows pinched together. “What’s this? A list of house slaves? I have to tell
you, that aspect of Drayton Hall isn’t going to be on Cordelia’s list of things to put on display.”

“No, it was just for me. I…” I stand up, going over and pulling it from him. Excuses stumble through my head, each one lamer than the rest, until I grab on to the best option. “I was going to pitch her an idea about ghost sightings on the property, since people are into that sort of thing and might
pay to check it out. Jenna told me what the employees and contractors see and who they think it might be, but she was saying there’s an older, heavyset slave woman that gets seen quite a lot around the house and river. She didn’t know her name so I thought I’d try to track the woman down.” I shrug, laughing as though I’m embarrassed. I kind of am. “No luck so far.”

“That’s easy. You’re talking
about Mama Lottie.”

“I’m sorry, who?” I peer down at the list. “I don’t see anyone on this list by that name.”

“Carlotta. Here.” He gets close enough that the spicy scent of his cologne crawls into my nose and dislodges a sneeze. “There. She was a house slave in the early eighteen hundreds, died before the Civil War, when the family abandoned the property.”

“What makes you think it’s her?”

“People have been seeing Mama Lottie out here for years. It’s the fact that she’s often seen pulling up roots by the river or chanting by an invisible fire that makes me think it’s her. She was a well-known voodoo practitioner. ‘Conjure woman,’ some called her.”

“Is there documentation?”

“Sure. The Draytons who were here at the time of her purchase, especially Sarah Parker Drayton, were believers.
Not that they would have advertised it back then, but Lottie worked magic over their ailing children and cured Sarah’s arthritis, too, according to her diary.”

“Hmm, I don’t have her diary here.” I look around, as though the documents betrayed me.

“It’s over at Middleton. We have some family archives over there, as you know. Most of the things Mrs. Drayton gave you to sort through are personal
correspondence, as I understand.” He nods at my confirmation. “Anyway, they let Lottie do her thing as long as it didn’t interfere with her work. People from all up and down the Ashley River—mostly African Americans, the majority of them slaves—came and went, both legally and illegally, paying for cures and blessings. Sometimes curses.”

“And the Draytons didn’t mind?” It’s hard to believe they’d
let one of their slaves earn money like that, especially when it could have been used to buy her freedom.

“Mama Lottie was powerful. Very powerful.” Sean’s eyes scan the room again as he backs up toward the door. “To tell you the truth, I think they were scared of her.”

Chapter Fifteen

Sean’s comments about Mama Lottie, the mysterious ghost that may or may not have tried to save my life by the river the other night, might have been helpful, but they also make it impossible to shake the spooky feeling of being watched as I make my way to my car and out of the parking lot a few hours later. It’s past time for me to be back in Heron Creek since Amelia
insisted on hosting all our friends for dinner. In another life, one where we’re both not about to break under tons of stress, I might have accused her of wanting an excuse to invite Dylan to the house. Except she
didn’t
invite him—only Will and Mel, and Beau. I get the feeling she didn’t
really
even want to invite Beau, that she wanted to recreate our childhood somehow, even if it’s only for
a night.

That thought gives me the willies, too.

I press a few buttons on my phone before pulling onto the highway toward Heron Creek, then hold it to my ear.

“Graciela.”

“Daria,” I respond in kind, infusing my voice with confidence, even though I can’t believe what I’m about to ask her. I’d hoped our first walk together would be our last, after what we’d seen and heard. Well, what
I’d
seen
and
she’d
heard—or sensed—which is kind of the reason for my call tonight.

“I was hoping you could find time in the next couple of days to come out to Drayton Hall with me. There’s a ghost there. I’ve seen her. She actually saved my life. But I need to talk to her, and that’s something apparently only you can do since I’m, like, faulty or something.”

“You’re not faulty, Graciela. All sensitives
are different. I couldn’t see those past scenes at that house, not the way you could.” She waits, maybe for me to respond, then plows ahead. “I guess that means we make a pretty good team.”

I don’t want to think of us being a team but I
do
need her help to talk to Mama Lottie. “So you’ll do it?”

“As long as you realize that means one day I’m going to ask you to return the favor.”

I cringe,
my chest squeezing at the thought of what I saw the other night, how it’s nothing I ever want to see again. She has a point, though. You can’t get something for nothing. “Fine.”

“I’ll check my schedule and text you. Good?”

“Sure.”

We hang up as I pull into Heron Creek, smiling at the familiar faces on the sidewalks—husbands and wives, older people keeping a keen eye on children romping through
sprinklers in the early-autumn evening, dogs tugging on leashes as they search for the next worst-smelling thing on the street. No matter what else is going on in my life or how insane things get when I step outside this town, I feel good coming home.

Home. Such a strange concept, in truth, because a place is just a place is just a place. If Grams and Gramps had lived in San Francisco, maybe
it would feel like home there. If Amelia had grown up in Minnesota, maybe we’d both be giant hockey fans. Iowa had never felt like home, despite my spending the most time there, and the longer I spend on this earth, the more I think that has to do with my relationship with my mother.

No matter how or why,
this
place is my home. It’s where I
grew up
, in the more existential meaning of the term.

The house is busy when I step through the front door, the sight strange but welcome. It’s warm in here because I’m winning the ongoing battle with the thermostat, but no one seems to mind. Mel and Amelia are in the kitchen, rounder, pregnant versions of my best friends, and they’re laughing while they make kabobs, stabbing pieces of chicken, peppers, onions, and mushrooms onto skewers. There’s
a pot of potatoes boiling on the stove and bright green asparagus soaking in a bowl. The mood in the kitchen infects me with easy cheer, makes me realize how much I’ve missed spending time with just the girls.

Not
the
girls.
These
girls.
My
girls.

Beau’s and Will’s voices murmur from the deck, where the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid suggest they’re doing the manly thing and watching the
grill—or, more likely, avoiding work in the kitchen.

“Hey, y’all,” I say. “What can I do?”

Amelia points toward the pot. “Check those potatoes, will you?”

“Sure.” I grab a fork and start poking. “They’re done. What kind are we making?”

“Crash Hot. They’re the easiest.”

“How was your day, Gracie?” Mel smiles, grabbing a handful of asparagus.

“It was good. I think I’m about done out there.
Another week, maybe.”

“That’s faster than you thought,” Amelia comments, a huge smile on her face, too. “I mean, not that I’ve missed you at the library or anything.”

“Right. You love dusting books and dealing with Mrs. Walters all by yourself.” I snort. “I’ll be there tomorrow since it’s story time.”

“Grant’s already reminded me twice,” Mel adds. “He’s been spending so much time with a sitter
since Will and I have both been job hunting that I think he just misses his time.” She dumps salt in her hand and sprinkles it on the vegetables. “I start at Harrington’s Thursday.”

“Mel the accountant. I’m going to bring you my taxes.” I bump her hip with mine.

“That’s sure to give me nightmares for a month,” she teases, tossing the vegetables into the olive oil popping on the bottom of Grams’s
favorite skillet.

We fix the rest of dinner among comfortable conversation, remembering all the evenings we spent in here with Grams back in the day, until Amelia hands me the last of the kabobs and points me outside. “Here. They’ll be ready for these.”

The plate is heavy, laden with more food than the five of us could possibly eat. I wonder again why my cousin didn’t invite Travis, but decide
that it’s none of my business. And besides, it’s kind of nice just us.

The joy on Beau’s face when he sees me step through the threshold onto the deck says that maybe he’s feeling like a bit of an outsider to our little group, but the only way to change that is for him to spend more time with us. He’s got more than a decade of catching up to do. “Hello, gorgeous,” he murmurs, planting a kiss
on my forehead and taking the plate from me.