Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (39 page)

“Graciela, I am not going anywhere near that ghost again, I done told you.” His voice slurs, rough at the edges as though he’s really angry with me for calling.

My sweaty hand grips the phone so hard I nearly drop it. “Are we related to her? Is that why you want no part of it?”

He’s silent for so long my stomach falls all the way to my heels. It’s true.
 

“Way back. Way back, we are—the common ancestor is a woman named Carlotta. Just Carlotta, as she came to this country as a slave and worked on a plantation for many years before managing to escape on a ship to France.”

“Oh god. So I am related to Beau.” The horror in my voice makes it sound like I’m drowning. I
am
drowning.

“What? Graciela, for heaven’s sake, do you think I’d let my daughter bang her relation and stand by laughing? No.”

“But…” I trail off, my head starting to hurt as I try to picture the branches on our family trees.

“Beau is not related to Mama Lottie, honey. He’s not descended from Charlotta’s line, so that means he’s got none of Mama Lottie’s blood—or ours, either—Charlotta would have been his great great great etcetera aunt, not his grandmother.”

I try to hold back my sobs of relief and fail miserably. The last thing I needed was to lose Beau in the midst of everything else, and hearing that I don’t have to is enough to batter the last of my bravado.

Frank laughs while I cry, making me want to reach through the phone and throttle him.
 

“Jesus H, you must really love that boy, huh? Well, fear not. One single branch of our family tree wandered near his a hundred years ago, but they ain’t never touched. Not for y’all.”

I cry until the tears turn to sniffles, then hiccups, and Frank doesn’t hang up, which surprises me. “Thank you for answering. Although you could have done it a week ago.”

“I knew you needed me this time.”

“How? Henry hasn’t been around.”

“Henry.” The word turns down at the ends, as though saying it depresses my father. “Once you finish dealin’ with old Lottie’s ghost, don’t forget about him, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, dubious about my chances to help him being very good if he doesn’t come back. Dubious about my chances of helping him anyway, since he still won’t tell me what he wants. “When will I see you again? After this is over?”

Now that we’ve started down the line of my own paternal family tree, the archivist in me is dying to track it. If the woman who started it has no last name, it’s all going to be easier with Frank’s help. He says nothing, and I search my subconscious for the reason why.
 

“What if I promise not to mention Dylan Travis?” I hold my breath.

It doesn’t take long to get my answer.
 

“Talk to you later, sweets,” is the last thing I hear before he hangs up.
 

It’s not Mama Lottie that made him avoid me at all. It’s Travis.

“Well?” Beau’s standing in the doorway to the den, arms folded over his chest.

I was so wrapped up in the conversation with my father that I hadn’t even heard him come in. The look on his face, crushed and desolate, mirrors what I felt moments ago. I have the power to fix it, and a grin so big my cheeks ache stretches my lips. “We’re not related.”

“Oh thank god.” Beau takes two steps and collapses on the couch. “That would have been… I can’t think of any worse news, to be honest. For so many reasons.”

“Did Birdie leave?”

He nods. I sit next to him, feeling a little weak in the knees myself. It reminds me of when we were first dating and he thought his brother might be involved in something terrible—me comforting him. It feels as right now as it did then. “Mama Lottie and my father’s family are related, way back to the early eighteen hundreds. But he’s not descended from her and neither are you. The way he explained it, our trees grew close a hundred years ago but never touched.”

“I think I’m in love with your dad.”

A laugh bubbles up from my middle. “So I’ve got competition.”

His hazel eyes grow serious. My face heats under his scrutiny, catching fire when his fingers brush strands of hair back over my shoulder. “I can’t imagine a world where you would.”

A devilish smirk tugs at my lips. “You mean, except one where I’m your long-lost cousin.”

He groans, pulling away and sitting back against the cushions. “You just had to go there, didn’t you?”

“What can I say, I can’t help myself.”

Beau looks at me with a devilish expression of his own, and it’s not hard to guess he’s about to make some sort of comment or suggestion hot enough to melt my panties clean off. I beat him to the punch, shoving the conversation in the direction it needs to go.

Not, for the love of everything holy, the direction I
want
it to go.

“How soon do you think you can convince your mom to let me go out there?”

“Oh, we’re not going to convince her. I’m coming with you.”

“Beau, you don’t have to do that.” Even as the words come out of my mouth, I’m flooded with relief. Sure, Daria will be there, but it’s not the same. She makes me feel powerful; Beau makes me feel safe. “It could make things worse. Her seeing someone from your family.”

“Gracie, that woman is a menace. To herself and everyone else. Did she really try to poison my ancestors?”

“Yes. When she found out her son was planning to run off with Charlotta.”

“Why didn’t it work?”

“You should read Charlotta’s journal. She can tell it better, and maybe you’ll be more inclined to believe it coming from her.”

That makes him frown, even though I didn’t mean anything by it, not really.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like I don’t believe you,” he says. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that most of the stuff you’ve encountered is hard to admit exists, that’s all.”

I put a hand over his. “You think I don’t know that? I’m figuring all of this out, too. I’d never seen a ghost before I came back to Heron Creek, and now they’re everywhere.”

“You’re a natural. You’re a natural at everything you do, Gracie Anne. It makes me jealous sometimes.”

“You’re silly.” I can’t help but smile at him, and I think for the first time in a long time that it will all work out. “But I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

“Good. Now let’s go find that cousin of yours.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

W
e swing by and pick up Daria, who’s available even though it’s past eleven p.m. by the time we arrive and she’s usually out communing with ghouls by then. I suppose that’s what she’s going to be doing with me, too, but it’s odd she had the evening free. If I weren’t afraid of jinxing everything, I’d say it feels like the stars are aligning for us to finally send Mama Lottie off to wherever she belongs.
 

Maybe we should have had Birdie come along, since she knows the history inside and out, but I don’t have six months to get her to admit to the mere possibility of a curse on her family, never mind convince her to help me prevent it.

Daria climbs into the backseat of Beau’s Buick, which he insisted on driving because it would arouse less suspicion on the cameras at Drayton Hall.
 

“Well, at least this car doesn’t smell like ghost vomit,” she comments, folding her legs under her on the seat and heaving a bag onto the floor. It clatters, a sound reminiscent of wooden vampire stakes to my ears.

“You got your Buffy supply kit in there?” I ask.

Daria rolls her eyes as Beau pulls back onto the highway. “No. I have provisions to protect us and to help the spirit transition, since that’s what you want to try.”

Beau startles, shooting a look toward me. “That’s your plan? To get her to walk into the light?”

“Or the hellfire. Whichever,” I reply. “I’m not the judge, just the bailiff.”

“It’s not a bad plan, exactly.” Daria’s defense makes me more suspicious than pleased. Having her agree with me isn’t normal, and I’m not sure it’s good, either. “It’s the only thing we can really do, because she’s too strong to force off the property using my normal tactics.”

“Plus, that wouldn’t solve anything. My issue with her isn’t that she’s hanging around Drayton Hall.”
 

We ride in silence for a while, the backseat so quiet I think maybe Daria’s fallen asleep and turn to check on her. I’m pretty sure she’s awake because she’s sitting up straight, but her eyes are closed. A wrinkle in the middle of her forehead suggests she’s concentrating, and I start to worry that I should be doing the same.

She’s probably going to yell at me for disturbing her, but it won’t be the first time. Not the last, either, if we survive this thing.

Nerves spread through me at the errant thought, and the memory of Mama Lottie tossing me into the sliding glass doors explodes in my head. What if she pulls something like that again? Could she hurt all of us? Drown us in the river? Have her snakes bite and kill Beau for real this time?

My breathing starts to come fast, too fast, and before I know it I’m struggling with little sips of air instead of gulps. I roll down the window, even though it’s too cold tonight, and lean out, letting the chilly wind whip into my face.

“Goddamn it, Graciela,” Daria shouts from the backseat. “I’m trying to focus back here!”

I ignore her, concentrating on breathing and the reassuring weight of Beau’s hand on my knee until I feel better, and only then do I sit back and roll up the window.

“Sorry,” I pant, realizing I do not sound the least bit sorry.

“If you’re going to freak out, you should try meditating instead of freezing out the rest of the people in the car. It helps with connecting with the spirits, too.”

“I don’t know how to meditate.”

She snorts. “No one does. You just be quiet, and get your mind to go quiet, which is the bigger trick, and focus inward.”

“That sounds like a lot of hooey.”

“Most people would say everything we do ‘sounds like a lot of hooey’.”

She has a point, and the amused glance Beau lifts to the rearview mirror suggests he agrees. I wonder what he thinks of her turquoise hair and all-black ensemble, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered. Maybe we’re all getting used to Daria’s nonsense. It doesn’t stop her from helping, so whatever blows her skirt up is fine with me.

“Is there anything I can do that will help, Gracie Anne?” Beau’s voice is soft.
 

“Not die tonight?” I suggest, the words trembling out of me.

“Trust me. My ancestors survived her, and I plan on continuing the tradition.”

I keep my mouth shut about how the only reason they survived was her own magic, in the form of her son. We don’t have that, but we do have Daria. And me. And knowledge and being right.

Like that ever saved anyone.

I close my eyes and try to follow Daria’s advice. My mind is cluttered, and it’s not easy to wipe it clean. I do my best, though, because I need to find some sort of inner calm to do the grounding and spirit guide stuff before we meet Mama Lottie. I don’t know that it does any good, but Daria insists on it and it certainly doesn’t
hurt
.

The feeling in my chest as we pull onto the Drayton property and glide down the lane to the gravel parking lot reminds me of sitting in a classroom waiting for the professor to show up and hand out a test. I was always a little anxious that I hadn’t studied the right material, but mostly dying to just get the damn piece of paper so I could start.
 

We get out of the car, the sensation washing over me exactly like that, but on steroids.

“Gracie, I know you and Daria have done this a few times, but if you could prepare me for what to expect, I would appreciate it.”

Beau doesn’t look scared, so much as freaked out. It would be impossible to blame him for either.

“Well, the last couple of times I’ve wanted to talk to Mama Lottie, she hasn’t come out. The only reason she did the last time is because Frank was there and she didn’t have a choice.” A sick pang tries to distract me at the thought of him forcing dead people to do his bidding, but I ignore it. “I’m hoping Daria’s presence helps tonight, or that she’ll be listening even if she’s not showing herself.”

“Then we tell her what Gracie found out about what really happened to her son and her grandson, and hope to God she doesn’t insist on continuing to blame your family for every bad thing that happened to her.” Daria makes eye contact with both of us before continuing. “That’s key. As long as she feels as though revenge is the only way to complete her mission on this plane of existence, she’s not going anywhere.”

“How do we make her believe that it’s not my family’s fault?” Beau asks, his skin pale in the silver moonlight. “If she really thinks the Draytons who purchased her knew she wasn’t a slave, does the rest of it even matter?”

We stand in silence for a moment, the wind finding ways inside my coat and freezing the nervous sweat on my skin. Shivers run over me, and again, I want to get this over with.

“Your family was good to her,” I tell Beau, even though doubts temper my confidence. She was a slave. Could anyone owned by another human forgive them, even if they were kind?