Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (47 page)

Travis turns to me, his lips pressed into a line and hurt swirling in his storm-gray eyes. “And how would he be able to blackmail me, Graciela?”

The accusation hits me like a slap across the cheek, even though he never raised his voice. I wince, and set my coffee down on the step. “I’m sorry, Travis.”

“That’s what you came here to say? That your sorry?”

I nod. “Yes. Clete’s been after me for a while to help him get dirt on you but I couldn’t really find anything and besides, he wasn’t coming through on his end of things so I kind of felt okay about letting it go.”

“Imagine that, a bootlegging criminal not holding up his end of the bargain.”

“Yes, well, when Amelia disappeared, I needed his help again. I still didn’t have anything, but then you came over and you told me…what you told me. The next he came by I was panicked and in a hurry to get out of the house, and it just kind of came out.”

“Let me get this straight. I have to move, again, because
it just kind of came out
?”

“I’m really not very good at keeping secrets,” I confess, hoping to lighten the mood. What’s done is done, no use crying over spilt milk and all of that.

Travis’s shoulders slump, the defeated air magnified. The seed of guilt burrows deeper.
 

“I’m sorry, okay? It’s been a crazy couple of months but things are settling down, now. If you want to talk about Felicia, or your parents version of your adoption or whatever, I have time.”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky guy,” he snaps, but there’s no gumption behind it.
 

“I can’t turn back time, Travis. All I can do is try to help you do what you came here for now.”

“I can’t stay, Graciela. Not all of us have the luxury of family money.”

It sounds like a slam on Beau, but I let it slide. This time. “Do you want my help or not?”

“I don’t know what you have planned, but I’ve been on the wrong side of your
help
a few times.”

“We’ve already talked about why you can’t convince me that you are Felicia’s son. It doesn’t have anything to do with any idealistic visions of my mother, either. There’s no doubt in my mind that, if your parents say she’s the one who delivered you and who’s name is on your birth certificate, that’s exactly what happened.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “But you don’t think she’s my mother.”

“No. I’m not even ready to say we’re related but if we are, it has to be through my father.”

“Frank Fouriner. The infamous bank robber.”

“The one and only,” I mutter, picking up my cup and swallowing more of the life-giving liquid. I’ve only encountered one cafe au lait that rivals , and sadly, I haven’t been back to Cade du Monde in New Orleans in several years. It’s past time for a visit, to be honest.
 

Then again, there’s not a doubt in my mind that city is crawling with ghosts. Based on the history of New Orleans, they’re likely not as charming or genteel as ours here in South Carolina.
 

Maybe I could put of that visit a while longer.

“Now that I’m no longer the head of the law in this town, you can go ahead and admit you’ve been in contact with the guy,” Travis says dryly. “Have you asked him?”

“I’ve asked him about you but he’s rather keen on avoiding the subject.” I sigh, peering through the small hole in the plastic cup lid. Empty. “He’s not going to tell me anything unless he wants to and at the moment, he definitely doesn’t.”

“What makes you think that he had the kind of hold over your mother that would allow him to convince her to pretend a baby is hers, when it must have belonged to another woman?”

I shake my head. “You didn’t know my mother, Travis. She was about the farthest thing possible from a traditional woman, and I can’t see jealousy being her thing. Felicia had some peculiar ideas about love.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.

“It means nothing surprises me when it comes to her.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes. The new sun is bright in the cloudless morning, burning away the fog and blinding me in the process. I squint, trying to ignore the whisper of an idea from the recesses of my mind. I spend the next several heartbeats looking for ways around the suggestion but come up with nothing.

The truth is that I’m curious as to my mother’s involvement with a strange baby, too. So, while what I’m about to say will assuage my guilt, it could also sate my curiosity. Two birds, one stone, so maybe a slightly invasive medical procedure could be worth it.

“I’ll do a DNA kit with you, if you want.”

Travis startles so hard the lid pops off his coffee. Some of it sloshes onto his hand but it can’t be that hot anymore. He raises one eyebrow my direction, ignoring the mess. “It won’t tell us how we’re related, just if we are. If you really believe it’s not Felicia, we’ll still need to talk to Frank.”

“It’s a start. If we know we’re related, it might give me some leverage with Frank.”

“I’m not sure your father is the type to give in to leverage,” Travis comments, an expression of distaste on his face.

“Hey, be careful. He might be your father, too.” I get up after checking the time on my phone. Ten minutes to get to the library. After skipping more than a week with Amelia’s disappearance and the fact that Leigh Ann killed my job in three hours per day, being late seems unwise. “I’m going to let you figure out how we get these kits or whatever since you don’t have a job… Too soon?”

Travis just shakes his head and puts the lid back on his coffee. I hand over my trash and then trudge back to my car, unable to stop chuckling under my breath. Maybe having a little brother wouldn’t be
so
terrible, after all.

I decide there’s time to stop back at Westie’s and grab Amelia some tea—and another cafe au lait for me—as long as the line isn’t too bad. The street has been quiet since the weather turned cold and chased Leo off the street with his guitar, and no matter how much shit I give him for sucking, I sort of miss running into him. Damn winter. It steals my heat, then my friends, and ends with my will to live.

Inside, I stop short at a commotion in the corner, immobilized by the sight of Daria holding court. There are five old ladies gathered around her and not one of them is commenting on her bright fuchsia hair.

“Your dog bit me!” She hollers at Old Mrs. Blount. The woman has short, blue hair that looks like it recently received a perm, glasses so thick they look like coke bottles, and no hearing aids—which means she’s probably blissfully unaware of being berated by my strange friend, the medium.

“She doesn’t have a dog,” Laurel points out, her red-orange hair looking quite normal compared to Daria’s.
 

We really need a new hairdresser in this town.

“She does, too. A ratty hound with brown spots and pointy-ass teeth.”

“You mean Buster,” Dorothy chimes in. “But he’s dead.”

Mrs. Blount is stirring milk into her tea and ignoring the commotion. The other two women sit quietly, looks of glee on their wrinkled faces at the excitement.
 

Sue and Honey were friends of my Grams, and the fact that they’re lesbians is also the worst kept secret in Heron Creek. This is the south, where people really talk about things like that, but for some reason no one seems to pay them any mind. I think it’s because they’re old, though I can’t say what that has to do with the issue.

Daria rolls her eyes. “Of course he’s dead, but that doesn’t mean he can’t bite people, now—”

The fact that she’s about to tell the whole coffee shop that she sees ghosts, hunts them even, propels me into action. Which is dumb, considering everyone in here already thinks the same thing about me, but still…no need in parading our crazy right out where everyone can see.

“Daria!” I call, skirting tables and moving quickly to her side. “What are you doing here?”

Everyone already knows we’re friends, so there’s no point in pretending on that front. Not that I could have, since she must be in Heron Creek looking for me. Again.
 

She spins around, jabbing her right foot out like she’s kicking, well, a dog, and waves. “Hey, Graciela. I came looking for you but the library ain’t open yet.”

“Yeah, I’m on my way there to open.” I paused at the counter, thankful that Daria’s antics had distracted people from forming a line, and ordered Amelia’s tea and my coffee to go. “What’s up?”

I try and fail to stop staring at the spot on the floor in search of Mrs. Blount’s dead hound dog. I don’t see anything, but it wouldn’t be the first time the two of us have been in the same room but see and hear different things.
 

“I wanted to cash in that favor you owe me.”

Please hurry up with those drinks,
I think toward Belle silently.
She’s going to say something about demons or ghost-hunting and the whole town will be exaggerating the story before lunch, like some geriatric game of telephone.

“Here you go, Graciela.” Belle hands over my two paper cups like she read my mind. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.” I raise my eyebrows at Daria, trying not to let her see how badly I want to get her out of here. It would be a surefire way to make her start talking in her outside voice. “You want to walk with me?”

The table of old ladies are staring at us, except for Mrs. Blount, who’s holding a piece of lemon pound cake down toward the floor—exactly as she might offer a table scrap to a dog. I ignore her and give the women a smile that hopefully passes as normal.
 

“Ladies. Nice to see you.”

“We’re so glad your cousin is home safe,” Laurel says. “Terrible thing. No one can believe it.”

“Poor Stella, too, dyin’ like that on her kitchen floor.” Dorothy makes a face, like it’s all too much to think about. “I mean, no one can believe she’d do such a thing, kidnappin’ Amelia. She must’ve had one of them strokes or something.”

“Maybe,” I agree, not wanting to talk about it. I hadn’t given much thought to how the rest of the town would react to Mrs. Walters’s role in Amelia’s kidnapping and the old lady’s subsequent death.
 

I don’t really want to think about it, now. However awful the old bag was to me during her life, no one deserved to get used by Mama Lottie and to die like that, alone.

“Well, we’re all just going to have to move on,” Sue says, reaching out to pat my hand. “Her grandson should be in town later today to sort out her estate.”

“That’s true, I heard that he’s some kind of writer. Writes them sex novels,” Dorothy claims. It’s hard to tell from her face whether the prospect of having a romance novelist in our midst makes her excited or horrified.

Either way, she definitely finds it more interesting that had become of her poor friend Stella Walters.

“No, they’re not sex novels. They’re love stories or something,” her sister Laurel corrects.

“I head they were chop-em-ups,” Honey insists.
 

“Yeah, let’s go.” Daria says, giving the invisible dog one final death glare.

We leave before there’s any sort of definitive consensus on what sort of books Mrs. Walters’s grandson writes. Knowing the rumor mill in Heron Creek, I won’t even believe he writes books at all until he tells me so himself, and if he’s anything like her, hopefully I’ll never have the chance to ask.

“So, what’s this favor?” I ask Daria, shaking my head a little to dispel the nonsense from Westies.

“I’ve got a bad one. I’ve been once already and I can’t see much. They keep changing on me.” She casts a dubious glance my direction. “They’re poltergeists, I think. Tricky little buggers to get rid of, if so, but I could use some backup to be sure.”

“Poltergeists? Those are real?”

“Sure. I mean, I won’t go so far as to say fairies and elves and unicorns and shit like that exists, but pretty much every version of a ghost story you’ve heard, I’ve seen. Or heard. Encountered.”

I hold up a hand, wrapped around Amelia’s hot tea. “I get it.”

“Anyway, I figured no time like the present to call in my favor. In case you get any wild ideas about leaving town now that all the dust has settled.”

“I’m not leaving,” I inform her. I’m a little surprised to realize it never crossed my mind, but where would I go? Everyone I love is right here, so nowhere else could be home. “You know, I have a phone. You could have called.”

“You never call me. You just show up at ungodly hours, probably to get a peek at me in my nightclothes.”

A laugh bursts from my chest. “Yes, you’ve got me. That’s exactly it. It couldn’t be the fact that you rarely answer my phone calls in a timely manner.”

“I say timely is a subjective term.”

She’s got me on that one, but part of her statement strikes me as interesting. “What
are
you doing up this early? It’s not quite nine.”

“Haven’t been to bed yet, and I have to say, I’m not sure the coffee is worth dealing with those ladies.”

“They’re not so bad.” I pause, deciding whether I want to know the answer, then figure screw it. “Did her dead dog really bite you?”

“Yes. Animals who don’t cross right away turn evil as shit. That’s free advice.”