Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (38 page)

“How can he not have been able to track down any of them?” Beau bellows, his familiar voice haggard, the tone sharper than the one he typically uses with me. “Is this guy some kind of hack?”

“A hack? Yes, that’s exactly what I’m known for, Beauregard. Hiring hacks when people’s lives are on the line. When
Lucy’s
life is on the line.” Birdie laughs, but it’s forced and there’s nothing funny about it. “He’s got some leads, okay. It’s been five years since the last payoff we know of. Trails get cold. This isn’t going to happen overnight.”

Beau mumbles something I can’t hear, and I resist the urge to press my ear against the door. My chest is tight at the mention of Lucy and the idea that their independent investigation isn’t going so well. I’m surprised to hear Birdie involved but I don’t know why—I should have realized that her loyalty to Beau’s ex would trump any duty as the Middletons’ lawyer. Should have but didn’t…

“I know,” Birdie says from inside. “I want to make them pay if they did this, too. I even want to hug Gracie and her snoopy little nose for digging up another shot at this.”

I knock then, because it’s getting creepy and it sounds as though they’re almost finished with the discussion, anyway. Footsteps, heavy and measured and belonging to Beau, come my way, and the sound of the locks disengaging comes a moment after he must have peered through the peephole.

“Hi,” I greet him, aware that it’s late for a visit, and since we’re starting over or whatever, maybe I’m not allowed to pop over unannounced at all.

Then again, he’s the mayor of a small town. It’s not like he has any
real
expectation of privacy.

Happiness floods his face, lightening the bags under his eyes, and my stomach stops cramping. “Gracie Anne. What are you doing here?”

“I found something out, and I wanted to talk to you…” Birdie peers around her brother, golden gaze wary but not pissed anymore. That’s something. “Both of you, actually, if you have a minute.”

“Sure.” He looks toward his sister. “You okay with sticking around?”

Birdie nods, pursing her lips. “How could I resist when Gracie wants to talk? No doubt whatever pops out is going to be interesting.”

I don’t know if she means that as a compliment, but she probably doesn’t. Beau beckons me inside, then slips my coat from my shoulders and hangs it in the closet. Despite the fact that his sister still stands in the foyer, he wastes no more time and pulls me into a giant bear hug. We hold on for longer than makes Birdie comfortable, I guess, because when Beau releases me, she’s wandered off.

“I’m glad to see you,” he murmurs, one thumb stroking my cheekbone.

Every muscle in my body has been wound tighter than a tick for hours, but his arms leak some sort of magical elixir into my skin that lets me relax for the first time in days. I lean back into him, resting my cheek on his chest and breathing the scent of him deep into my lungs.
 

“I’m glad you’re glad to see me,” I whisper.

His hands rub gentle circles on my back, then drop to my waist and squeeze. I look up and he looks down, and then our lips are touching and I forget where I am and about the dead people all over town.
 

The kiss is sweet with the slightest tinge of heat, and over much too fast. A sigh escapes as our mouths part, and Beau chuckles, rumbling straight into my chest.
 

“Me too, Gracie Anne. I hope the next time you surprise me I’ll be alone.”

He releases everything except one of my hands and starts toward the kitchen. I struggle to get my mind off the tingles that his comment set off, along with triggering the memory of the last time I came over unannounced and we’d taken care of business right there in the foyer.
 

Birdie’s at the table, eyes trained at her phone as she scrolls through what looks like her email. Her head snaps up when we enter, like a cat making sure no one is going to step on her tail.
 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Beau asks.

I start to shake my head at his offer, then change my mind. “A soda? Anything that’s not diet.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Birdie comments, and this time she decides to grace me with a rare smile. “Sit down.”

I slide into the chair and set the journals on the table between us. “I’m sorry again for spilling the beans like I did at your mother’s house the other day. I just…I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

She eyes the bags of little books, one manicured eyebrow lifted. “Understandable, now that I see you’ve looted Mother’s attic.”

“It was necessary.” Beau sets a glass of dark cola in front of me, then takes the chair to my right, his back to the bay window.
 

“Thanks.”

“Why was it necessary? Beauregard, you could have copied anything Gracie needed. Or asked me.” She frowns. “It’s not safe to take them out like this.”

“Gracie’s an archivist, Birdie. She’ll take care of them.”

“I will. I would never hurt anything this precious. Charlotta just about broke my heart.”

“Why?”

Beau’s question catches me off guard. It’s so odd that he never thought to read them, but I know family history isn’t everyone’s thing.
 

“Listen, little brother, I need to get home. Read the journals on your own time like you should have years ago.” Birdie rolls her eyes, then settles them on me. “So now you know about our family’s dirty little secret. What questions are left?”

Birdie doesn’t know about the curse, not unless Beau told her and I can’t imagine he did. For one, it would mean admitting he thinks it’s possible, and two, Birdie would probably try to commit us both. I can’t imagine a scenario in which a woman with her no-nonsense approach to life would ever, even for a moment, entertain the possibility of voodoo and ghosts and magic.

Which means, she doesn’t know that my interest runs beyond simple curiosity, or even professional curiosity, if she’s willing to give me that much credit. The question is, how much to tell her.

“I don’t find the secret to be that dirty,” I start, feeling my way along. “And I’m curious what happened after the journals stopped. I know that Charlotta’s son eventually left the plantation but was denied the Drayton name, but not how he grew up. Or what happened to Mama Lottie.”

“That woman…” Birdie shudders. “She hated our family, and why? No one ever knew.”

I bite my tongue to keep from telling her the reason, unsurprised that there’s nothing in their family documents that explains it—if Charles III or Sarah Martha had guessed at Lottie’s origins, they wouldn’t have written it down, not even in a personal diary. Families like theirs learn early that there’s no such thing as privacy when the eyes of the nation glance at you on a regular basis. It’s one of the things that makes Charlotta’s journals so exceptional.

Beau’s gaze is heavy on the side of my face, his unasked question clear in my mind. I shake my head, both as a response to Birdie’s rhetorical question and his silent one. Now is not the time.

“As far as the boy, James, of course he didn’t bear the Drayton name. His father wasn’t a Drayton.”

“He wouldn’t have
had
a last name, though, right? Because Mama Lottie was a slave.” I pause. “Didn’t most slaves actually take their owners’ names after they were freed?”

Birdie nods. “Sure. She didn’t, though, because she hated us. When James left, he was about thirteen and decided on the name Fournier.”

All of the blood drains from my head. Beau sucks in a sharp breath, and Birdie looks at us both like we’ve lost our minds.
 

“What?” she asks.

“That’s, um…that’s my father’s last name,” I croak, horror slowing my thoughts.

Birdie makes a face. “Well that’s awkward.”

“Oh my god…”

“You guys.” Birdie shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with her new role as comforter in this situation. “There must be thousands of people with that last name in this country, and more in France or wherever. I’m sure you’re not related.”

“But my father said…he said to look into a woman named Carlotta if I wanted to learn about our family’s legacy.”

That stumps her. “Well, if you guys are related, I’m sure it’s so far back that it hardly matters.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Beau asks, though when I dare to peek at him, there is color coming back into his face.
 

I can’t explain it, but I don’t think it’s true. I mean, it could be true that Mama Lottie’s true family is tied up with mine, but that doesn’t mean Beau and I are related, especially not since her contribution to the Drayton family tree branched off long before his birth.
 

Still… Ew.

“How could you not tell me that?” I demand, turning on Beau now.

He holds his hands up, the expression on his face incredulous. “Do you seriously think I knew?”

“He couldn’t have known,” Birdie says, coming to his defense. “After James, almost all members of his family line are women. There are no Fourniers left, since they all married. Only people like my mother and me, who followed the line from the beginning, really remember the name he took when he left.”

“Name he took,” I repeat slowly. “Why did he choose it?”

Please, God, let him have plucked it from thin air.

But she’d said no Fourniers ever came from his line, only girls who married and took different names. It’s why the man we met in Savannah didn’t tip me off. His last name was Raven, and now that I think about it, he’d said the same thing, about the family name—that nearly all of James and Charlotta’s descendants had been women.

My father couldn’t come from Mama Lottie’s direct line, if there aren’t any Fourniers left, like Birdie says.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, thank you.

It doesn’t mean Frank and Mama Lottie—Carlotta—aren’t entwined further back, but that wouldn’t affect Beau and I being blood relations. Even so, I think I’ll double check with Frank before the mayor and I take this reconciliation into the bedroom.

She frowns. “He claimed it was his grandmother’s family name, way back, but of course, that doesn’t make sense. That would have been an African name, right? If they were slaves?”

My mouth is too dry to talk. I gulp half of the soda, close my eyes, then open them to face the truth. “It could have been true. Mama Lottie claimed that she was born in the North, free, and was kidnapped before being sold to your family.”

Birdie’s face goes white now. “That’s awful. But how could we have known that?”

“The fact that she could read and write, that her vocabulary was impeccable—all of that should have tipped them off.” I shrug. “She thought they should have asked more questions.”

“She tried to kill five people because their
parents
didn’t
ask enough
questions?”
Birdie’s putting everything together now, and I see the moment the real question sparks in her eyes. “How do you know all of this, anyway? It’s not in the journals or any of the archives at the Hall.”

Here we go… At least this gives me something to focus on other than the heart attack hearing the name Fournier just caused me. “She told me herself. When I saw her.”

Her eyes widen for the briefest of moments before she snorts, folding her arms over her chest and slumping back in the chair. “Oh, right. The ghost thing. Well, at least you’re not the first one to see Mama Lottie at Drayton Hall.”

In that moment, all I want to do is get out of here. Amelia is still missing and Mama Lottie has her. We can’t break either curse until I find Mama Lottie again and tell her what I know, and I can’t waste any more time.
 

Still, Birdie knows things I need to know. Things that could help that happen.

“So, James Jr. left Drayton Hall to, what? Go to school?”

She nods. “He was too dark to stay around here, and Charlotta’s father left money for him in the will. He went up north, then abroad for a few years before returning to the Savannah area, where his descendants still live. What’s left of them.”

“The Ravens,” I murmur. “We’ve met.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Charlotta raised him, then?”

“Yes. They allowed it, although he wasn’t kept in the main house and remained a secret from all but the staff who attended the birth. She loved him dearly. They kept in touch until her death, and, little known fact, he was named as a partial owner of the Hall after she died.”

“What?” Mr. Raven hadn’t told me that.

“His descendants fell on hard times years later and sold out to my family, but yes.”

Sold out to her family.
Knowing the Draytons, it’s likely that some form of coercion was involved.

“What about Mama Lottie?” I ask, choosing not to voice my thoughts.

“No one knows. She disappeared soon after her son’s death. We don’t even think she knew Charlotta bore his child the same night or that she’d ever been pregnant.” Birdie’s eyes shine, and it’s the first moment I can see the story of the ill-fated young lovers affecting her the way it did me. “It’s hard to believe she would have poisoned them like that, had she known she might kill her own grandson.”

I have a million other questions for Birdie, like how can she read Charlotta’s account and still be so skeptical about things that can’t be explained, but now is not the time.
 

I steel myself for what I have to ask next. “I need to go to Drayton Hall with Daria, and I would sincerely love to not be arrested in the process. Can either or both of you help me with that?”

They exchange glances, full of silent back-and-forth, disagreements and acquiescence the way only two people who have known each other their entire lives can manage.
 

In the end, it’s Beau who wins, and he nods. “We can handle our mother.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why?” Birdie asks, her head tipped to one side.

“There’s no time, but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you after.” I grab my phone out of my purse, unable to wait another second. “I’m going to call my father, then I’m headed to Daria’s.”

I step out into the hallway, following it toward Beau’s den in search of some privacy. My fingers tremble as they punch in Frank’s number, praying that he’ll sense my distress and pick up this time.