Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (4 page)

“Yeah, I pissed her off earlier tonight, and she told me to leave.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re not very bright?”
 

“No. I am quite bright.”

“Well, use your God-given brains and get the hell out of there, then!” The sound of her swallowing not once, or twice, but three times comes over the line. “Seriously, Graciela, you know I don’t think you should be messing with that woman. You should turn around and leave.”

“I can’t.” Tears gather in my eyes and frustration curls my fingernails into my palms. “This is important.”

Daria sighs, letting me know her good will is running out. “Tell her what you came to say, in the spot where you usually meet. It could work.”

“That’s it?”

“Without me or being willing to open yourself up to the spirits, yes.”

“Okay.” I bite my lower lip, hoping she can’t hear how upset I am. “Thanks.”

“Gracie?”

“Yeah.”

“Call me later.”

“Okay.”

We hang up, and I stuff the phone in my purse, knowing it’s going to be dead the next time I pull it out. I bend over and put my hands on my knees, sucking in breath after breath while I try to decide if I have the guts to open myself up for spirit contact in a place that’s more active than most.

The truth is, I don’t. Even if I did, it probably won’t do any good. Mama Lottie does what she wants, when she wants, and the fact that I didn’t go through some kooky process doesn’t prevent her from showing herself to me.

She doesn’t want to talk to me, which means I can’t be sure she’ll hear what Amelia found out about James, even if I try saying it to the empty space. I can’t stop her from cursing the family that she might not be aware is also
her
family.

“Holy cockfeathers!” I shout, catching sight of the ghost of the little boy from before when I straighten up. “Jesus. Why? Why do you all have to sneak up on me!?”

For his part, the boy looks startled by my outburst. I press a hand to my chest to try to thwart a heart attack and rush over to cut him off when he tries to slink away.

“Wait, no. Wait. What is it?” I’ve heard him talk before, when he was fighting with the young version of Mama Lottie during the Drayton family reunion. Maybe he could talk now. “Why didn’t you want Mama Lottie to know where the extra DNA came from?”

The pure confusion on his smooth, cultured face points out my mistake in an instant. What does a boy from the late nineteenth century know about DNA?

I shake my head at my own idiocy. “I mean, about her son being part of the family?”

“He doesn’t want her to know,” the little boy replies, matter-of-fact.

That I can hear him with such ease ties my tongue for a moment. Just when I think I’ve got a handle on this whole ghost-talking thing, it changes again. I’m starting to believe that talents vary among spirits as widely as they do among the living.

“Who doesn’t? James?” He’s the logical choice, but there are other options. One of the Drayton men, maybe Charles Henry, who was Charlotta’s father, are certainly possibilities.

The boy nods. His shirt and breeches are still perfectly clean, his suspenders tight. The tops of his shoes have a sheen to them even in the dreary early morning light, suggesting they’ve been shined. He must be one of the Drayton children. None of the slaves or later workers would have such nice things.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Charles.” He grins, revealing his youth. The name doesn’t mean much—half the boys who lived here were named Charles.

But it’s somewhere to start.

“Did you know James?”

He nods, casting a glance around the trees as though waiting for someone. Expecting them. The girl? Mama Lottie? There’s no way to tell, and it sets my nerves on edge. He’s a kid, so my instinct is to trust him, not fear him, but I should know by now that their ages have nothing to do with their powers.

He could be stalling. Waiting for something to happen. Someone to come.

I take a few steps away, unsure now whether to trust my instincts and go, or to stay and try to get more information.

His forehead wrinkles. “Where are you going? Don’t you like me?”

“Of course I do.” I attempt to soothe him, but the shudder in my voice gives away my fear. “It’s time for me to go is all.”

He nods, an expression of understanding and sorrow on his cherub features. “Everyone goes. No one stays with me. Except her.”

“Mama Lottie?” Charles the ghost child folds his chubby arms over his chest and nods. “Did you know her when you were alive?”

“Everybody knew her.” He cocks his head to one side, as though listening to a sound only he can here…but then I hear it, too. His big blue eyes snap to my face. “They’re here.”

“Who?” It sounds like car doors slamming, and I notice that the dawn has lightened into day. My stomach sinks. The staff has started to arrive.

“The police.” As the words leave his lips, he disappears in front of my eyes.

Lights pierce the morning fog, slamming into my face so that I have to squint, and a familiar voice booms my name over the sound of squishing feet and rustling foliage.

“Miss Harper, I have to say I’m disappointed to find you here again.” It’s Officer Dunleavy of the Charleston PD.

I’d bet my life on it.

“For heaven’s sake, stop flirting and arrest the determined little trespasser.” The second voice is as recognizable as the first—maybe more so, considering she and I have spent far more time talking.
 

Cordelia Drayton.

“Crap on a cracker,” I mutter under my breath, knowing the jig is up. How she knew I was going to be out here I haven’t the slightest, but running is out of the question. I have some dignity left.

Not much, but some.

The officer comes toward me, an amused half-smile showing off a single dimple. The guy is handsome as all get-out, no doubt about it, but even that can’t make me happy to see him. Even so, the last thing I want is to let Mrs. Drayton think she’s about to ruin my day.

I put a hand on my hip and give him a saucy smile. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, with a mostly cool reception,” he comments, but as he shoots a look over his shoulder at Mrs. Drayton, the smile falls off his face. “I’m going to have to arrest you.”

“Handcuffs, huh? There are other ways to talk me into that kind of thing, you know.”

“Graciela, if you would please do everyone the courtesy of not having to listen to your filthy mouth at the crack of dawn, I’m sure we would all appreciate it.” Mrs. Drayton grimaces. “Robert, please don’t bother with the handcuffs. I’d like to speak with Miss Harper in private for a moment.”

In private? There’s nothing here but the trees and river. Does she really expect everyone to wait while we traipse back to the house or the office buildings?

She solves the mystery by stalking to my side and putting a hand on my upper arm with more force than even Amelia used last night to drag me into the kitchen.

I grit my teeth against the bite of her manicured fingernails as she guides me away from the four police officers and toward a bench set up to look out over the river. My throat burns from wanting to cry, but there is no way in hell—or any other plane of existence—I would give her the satisfaction.

It’s not the potential arrest that’s upsetting me. It’s the failure to find Mama Lottie.

The chat with the little boy, Charles, had been interesting but not helpful. The thought—the hope, really—that the knowledge about Mama Lottie’s own lineage being threaded into the Draytons’ would change her mind about the curse had bottomed out when she hadn’t appeared. I feel lower than ever now, in the face of the cold hard truth that there’s no changing what I’ve done.

Mrs. Drayton mirrors the feeling in her expression, steely as her eyes, which are so like Beau’s as they bore into mine. She sits primly on the bench, wrapped in a light blue woolen coat that looks warm, then cocks her head to the spot beside her.

I don’t want to sit down, but standing up doesn’t sound good, either. The bench is cold under my butt and wet from the rain that lasted most of the night. “If you’re going to have them arrest me, could we get it over with and stop wasting everyone’s time? I’m cold.”

Beyond cold, actually. My fingers are wrinkled and stiff. My toes have long gone numb, and my lips feel chapped beyond the help of regular lip balm. Not that I have any on me.

Mrs. Drayton purses her lips, her gaze sliding to my toes and then back to my face. She folds her arms over her chest, shaking her head as though she’s disappointed in me. “I want to know why you keep coming here.”

“I like it here. It’s nice.”

“That it is, but it’s my property and you’ve been asked to stay away. I know you’re not stupid—my son never would have fallen for you if you were—so why are you so intent on behaving like a reckless child instead of an adult with a promising career?”

Her question takes me aback, mostly because it’s the kind of thing my grandmother would have asked. It almost sounds motherly, in fact—if I ignore the contempt on her face. Even her tone picks up a vibration of true curiosity, as though she expects better of me.
 

Now that things are pretty much blasted apart as far as Beau and me, there’s not much reason to evade her question. She can think I’m crazy if she wants. She probably already does.

“I came to see Mama Lottie.”

That startles her, and her lips pull down into a frown. “Mama Lottie. The ghost?”

“The one and only.”

“Why?”

Now I’m the one knocked for a loop.
“Why?
That’s your question? You’re not going to accuse me of being off my nut?”

“Of course not.” She scoffs, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to visit a ghost. “I’ve seen her myself. Surely you don’t think you’re the only person to see a ghost in your life, not in the lowcountry.”

“I…I guess not?” I stammer, trying to get hold of my thoughts on the subject. In the end, all I can do is answer her question.

Well, answer her question without telling her I’m helping curse her family, of course.

“She needs my help with something.” I shrug at the look of disbelief Mrs. Drayton shoots me. “The ghosts, they ask me for help. To cross over or whatever. Unfinished business and all.”

“That sounds like a fat load of nonsense. Or like you watched
Casper
too many times when you were growing up.” A light twinkles in her brown eyes at my surprised reaction. “It was one of Birdie’s favorites. That boy at the end, when Casper comes alive… She had such a crush.”

“Me too,” I manage, still trying to figure this whole thing out.

I told her the truth. If she doesn’t want to believe me, that’s on her. Instead of forcing the issue—mostly because the
real
reason I’m talking to Mama Lottie would likely piss her off—I sit quietly and stare out over the river.

“Surely you want more from your life than running errands for the dead, if that’s truly what you’ve been up to.” She refuses to let go of my eyes. “You meant what you said at the reunion, about moving to make a go of things with my son, didn’t you? Why would you throw him away if you truly cared?”

Tears fill my eyes despite my best efforts. She doesn’t know what happened, I don’t think, but her words are like fingernails scraping at an open wound. “I do care. I’m trying my best.”

Lies.
I
am
trying my best, but not for Beau. Not for us.

“We’ll have to disagree about that, but I’m surprised.” Her smile turns cruel. “Not that you’ve mucked it up, of course, but that you’ve let me beat you so easily. I rather fancied that you’d be a worthy adversary for my son’s loyalty.”

She stands up, leaving me sputtering with rage, and beckons to Officer Dunleavy. “Robert, could you come here, please?”

“Of course, ma’am.” He hustles over but doesn’t look pleased to do it. In fact, the glance he shoots at me seems upset. “Would you like us to arrest Miss Harper for trespassing? Again?”

I want to glower at him for adding the last word, but my whole face is out of my control after what Mrs. Drayton said. Had all of this really been a game to her? Did she actually think that winning Beau’s loyalty from his family had been my heart’s desire?

Life has to be pretty shitty if it all boils down to trying that hard to hold on to people and things as they struggle to slip free from your grasp. I almost feel sorry for the woman.

Almost.
I’m too angry, too tired, and too confused to be anything else with any gusto.

“No, not this time. I wanted to have you hear me say, however, that if I find her on this property again—and we
will
be increasing our camera coverage—I will prosecute her to the full extent of the law. Do you think you can do that?”

I stare at her, at a loss for words. Officer Dunleavy watches me, an expression on his face that suggests he’ll strangle me if I don’t agree to her terms. Maybe he’s got somewhere better to be than booking me for silly charges or maybe he really cares about my reputation, but either way, they’re both waiting for me to respond.

“Perhaps you don’t think that’s a fair offer,” Mrs. Drayton continues, her cadence smooth. Unruffled.

I wonder what it would take to ruffle her. I want to find out with a ferocity that makes me sweat.

“If so, I could go ahead and files those charges now. I have very good lawyers, as I’m sure you’re aware.” She raises an eyebrow at me.

Her children are very good lawyers, there’s no disputing that. She probably doesn’t know that while she’s worrying needlessly about me extracting her talons from Beau, Amelia has got a good hold on his brother. If Brick is to be believed, he’s set on using his position at the firm to get the dirt on the Middletons that we’ll need to convince them to drop the criminal charges against Leo and Mel.

So, in this case, her “lawyers” are technically on my side.

I toy with the idea of asking her if she knows where Brick has been spending his spare time but know nothing good will come of it. We might need the surprise of him being a double agent one day soon. She would warn the Middletons before she started the car.