Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (11 page)

No one answers the door, even though we ring the bell twice more. Paul Adams, in all his middle-aged, balding, pot-bellied glory, still doesn’t appear. I step off the porch and traipse through the hosta and holly bushes to peer through the front window, but the inside of the house is dark. White sheets cover the antique tables and uncomfortable divans, leaving no doubt that regardless of when Paul Adams decided to sell the house and move on, he’s not here now.

“Huh.” I whirl and stalk back to the sidewalk, motioning my friends off the porch. “We’ll have to try to track him down, but he’s definitely moved.”

We quickly decide to have a brunch at the Hominy Grill and choose a table inside because of the still-frigid weather. Well, not frigid in Iowan terms, but at least ten degrees below normal for South Carolina. I order my favorite—the Big Nasty—and Mel and Amelia follow suit. Leo requests a breakfast that basically contains every menu item, from pancakes to eggs to grits to biscuits and gravy. It’s going to be a gluttonous feast, but if one counts calories when out in Charleston, one is doing Charleston wrong.

Of course, if I lived within walking distance of any or all of these restaurants, I suppose my view would have to change. Unless I want to totally give up and live in sweatpants for the rest of my life, which honestly, doesn’t sound like the worst idea. Given my present situation.

“Okay, let’s find Mr. Adams.” Mel whips out her phone and starts clicking away at the screen.

Amelia does the same and I leave them to it, smirking at Leo, whose phone might as well be from another century. “You’d think with all of those part-time jobs, you’d be able to afford a phone that does more than call people.”

“It does more than that. People can also call me.” He makes a face. “Besides, I don’t know why y’all are so obsessed with those things. Why on earth would anyone want to be reachable twenty-four hours a day, on seventeen different apps and doohickeys, is beyond me. I’ll take the silence, thank you very much.”

My inclination to make fun of him disappears as his response falls around me, humble and sweet. There’s always been something about Leo that’s felt a little
days gone by
, and maybe it’s even one of the things I like about him the most. One of the things I envy. It’s so easy to get caught up in keeping up, in needing the next big thing, that most of the time people don’t even stop to ask themselves if it’s what they actually want.

There are very few people I want to be able to get it touch with me seventeen different ways. Now that I’m back in Heron Creek, they’re all less than a ten-minute walk away, so why
do
I need a $120-per-month cell phone bill?

“That’s admirable, Leo, but at the moment, it’s coming in handy.” Mel turns her phone around so we can see the screen. “The house sold a week ago. When were you and Will here the first time?”

I feel the color drain from my face and try not to let them see how unsettled that empty house makes me. It’s as though Paul Adams left so fast there was no time to take anything with him. “Does it say which real estate agent brokered the deal? Maybe he left a forwarding address with her.”

“It’s only been a few days,” Amelia reasons. “He can’t have gotten far, not without his things.”

I don’t know why her words refuse to improve my spirits, which have taken a nosedive, but they don’t. Leo catches my eye and holds his chin higher, as though to say,
Chin up
. I glare at him for being able to read my mind with such ease.

“Yeah, it’s right here. Hold on.” She’s already clicked on the woman’s name and found a number.

The waitress returns and sets down our drinks—orange juice for Mel, tomato juice for Amelia, and Bloody Mary’s for Leo and me. My mouth heats up with the delicious spiciness of the drink, and I feel calmer as the vodka hits my bloodstream. It makes me feel so much better in an instant that I wonder why I stopped drinking regularly, and
that
makes me wonder if I have a problem.

I dismiss the idea, at least for now. Once life gets back to normal and boring, then I’ll decide if my alcohol intake is out of hand. But at the moment, it’s helping me not need anti-anxiety meds.

“Hello? Hi, my name is Melanie Massie. I’m interested in your listing on Water Street.” She gives Paul Adams’s address. She also uses her maiden name instead of Will’s, probably because it’s an old name that might win her some pull with the agent. “Oh, that’s too bad. No, I was really looking in that area. Did the seller already sign a contract? Because I’m sure I would be able to make him a competitive offer.”

Her voice is syrupy sweet as she suggests the agent do something untoward to earn a bigger commission. I watch, amazed as always by the way my old friend uses her tiny frame, innocent features, and unassuming tone to get people to bend over backward. But now all of the color drains from her face and her jaw goes slack. Her brown eyes latch onto my face and hold on, and now her voice is robotic. “I’m sorry to hear that. Well, okay. Yes, yes, I’ll definitely let you know if my search parameters change.”

She disconnects the call even though the real estate agent’s voice still comes through the speaker. She’s probably asking for Mel’s number in case any other listings come through her office.

“What is it?” I ask, almost afraid to hear.
 

“He’s dead.”

“How?” Amelia sounds breathless, and she’d never even met the guy.

“The real estate agent said he was hit by a car while getting his mail a few weeks ago, but he’d put the house on the market for way too little a few days before that and it had already sold.”

My second sip burns all the way down. The juice and alcohol, Tabasco sauce and horseradish, sloshes in my belly, stirring up nausea and terrible, dark thoughts. What if someone killed Paul Adams because of what he’d told us? We hadn’t used any of it in court, but that didn’t mean Phoebe, Millie’s lawyer, hadn’t alluded to us having certain information when she’d basically blackmailed the Middletons into dropping the case for full custody of their unborn grandchild.

It’s those coincidences again. The ones that can’t possibly be just that.
 

Looking around the table at the pale, worried faces of my friends, I know they’re thinking the same thing. We killed Paul Adams. Or at the very least, we set into motion the events that did.

T
he four of us split up to tackle more goals after rolling out of Hominy Grill ten pounds heavier. Amelia and I wander down to the Market first, to search for Odette. My heart is spastic, heavy one minute and racing the next, as the truth about what happened to Paul Adams sinks in. It doesn’t seem possible that he could be dead.

Wandering the stalls takes my mind off it for a while. We pick up some pralines, and Amelia grabs a cute pair of earrings that look like frogs. It doesn’t register until we walk out the last building and confront East Bay Street that we never saw Odette.

The knots of dread in my stomach tug tighter. We always find Odette when we need her. What does it mean that she’s not here this time?
 

After learning what’s become of Paul Adams, I’m not sure I want to know.

We go to the historical society next, while Mel and Leo check out back issues of the newspaper at the library, searching for more information on what happened to poor Paul Adams—if the police suspect foul play, if the driver has been identified, things like that. They call to let us know that angle seems to be a dead end. The police had no reason to suspect that Adams was being targeted, but the incident is classified as a hit and run. They’re searching for a red Toyota Prius that a neighbor spotted as it screeched away.

I’m sure they remember the make and model because it’s not exactly the sort of car favored by the kind of people who live in that neighborhood. I’m also sure it’s near the bottom of the list of models that the Middletons might drive—if they even drive themselves around town.
 

They wouldn’t have run Paul Adams down themselves anyway. Something tells me they don’t do their own dirty work.
 

Mel and Leo eventually give in about dinner, so four thirty finds the four of us waiting in the chilly lobby of McCrady’s. Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally are either late or early, depending on whose will is stronger that day—so they’re usually early, on Aunt Karen’s schedule—but never right on time.

I suspect my friends agreed to stick around because they’re hungry, and the scent of spices and aroma of cooking meat is surely convincing them they made the right decision. McCrady’s is one of Amelia’s Charleston favorites, which is why her parents chose it, I’m sure. It wouldn’t be one of my top picks because I enjoy stuffing myself to the brim—particularly when dinner is going to cost two days’ salary—and I’m always starving within a couple of hours of walking out of this place.
 

Oh well. Tonight’s bill isn’t going on my credit card, so I might as well enjoy pretending to be prim and fancy for a few hours. Aunt Karen might think about making me pay my own way, but Uncle Wally will pick up the tab for the whole table and not hear a word about it.

“What did y’all learn at the historical society?” Mel asks, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to the maître d’. “Anything interesting?”

I’d spent most of the time researching Henry Woodward. Now that I know he’s spying for my father, the need to get rid of him seethes inside of me like an impatient warthog. “Some stuff. We were killing time mostly.”

“Did you look up your father’s family?” Leo’s question takes me by surprise. He
should
be wondering if I’ve come up with any way to get him off the hook for breaking and entering, not whether I’ve made any progress figuring out where in tarnation I come from.

“No. I didn’t even think about it, honestly.”

“We’re trying to get rid of Grace’s current ghost. Henry. He’s been shlepping around for months now, and she’s all of a sudden keen to kick him out.” Amelia grins, a little of her childhood wickedness showing through. “I rather like him, even though we’ve never met. Grace tells me he saved my life.”

“He did.” I look up to see Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally coming through the door, and I exhale with relief. I don’t want to talk about Henry, or Millie almost dying, or my father’s ever-increasing role in my life. I don’t know how to feel about any of it.
 

My cousin spots her parents and rearranges her face into a mask of happiness. Her conflicting emotions about her parents must be hard. Her mother is such a trial, but I know Aunt Karen loves her only child more than anything. Uncle Wally has a much more level head and should be an ally, but he’s so used to plodding along the easiest path that he’s typically loath to cross his wife. At least in public.

“Hello, Graciela. It’s good to see you.” He folds me into a hug, his bearlike arms squeezing me tight, and I forgive him for not always standing up for us.
 

“Hey, Uncle Wally.” I point to Mel. “You remember Melanie?”

“How could I forget?” He smiles at her, and she returns it.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Cooper, Mr. Cooper,” Mel says.

“This is Leo Boone,” I tell them, “a friend of ours from Heron Creek.”
 

They shake hands, and with the introductions complete, there’s nothing to do but take a seat. I’m afraid that the Coopers are going to take pity on their daughter and Mel and forgo drinks, but I should have known better. Uncle Wally orders his bourbon and Aunt Karen asks for a martini, leaving me free to choose a glass of red wine to get me through this meal. Hopefully.

Once we’ve ordered—the menu is small, with only a few choices that change every season—and are situated and comfortable enough to begin a five-course dinner, Amelia dives right in to the reasons we’re both sitting here voluntarily.

“The house needs some repairs. Leo came by and caulked up the windows so Grace and I don’t have to huddle together for warmth, but he says the furnace won’t last much longer.”

This is the easy part. They may not have the kind of disposable income the Draytons or Middletons have, but few do. Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally can afford to keep up the house, but my fear is that the more that goes wrong, the more they’re going to push to sell it. They don’t need it, after all. Aunt Karen, like my mother, hated living in Heron Creek. It’s one of the few things the sisters had in common other than, apparently, not trusting me.

Uncle Wally quizzes Leo about the things that need repairs and how much he should expect to pay. I sip my wine, the knots along my spine loosening as Aunt Karen holds a quiet conversation with Amelia, seemingly unfazed by the topic of spending money on Grams and Gramps’s house. They never once bring up the idea of putting it on the market.

The waiter arrives with bread, then follows that with a gazpacho course that we all dig into with far more gusto than cold soup deserves. Even though it’s early—just after five—our brunch was early and I’m starving. The conversation lags, and my nerves return no matter how many sips of wine slide down my throat. Mel and Leo both know about Travis and his claims, so there’s no reason to put off the discussion any longer.