Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) (7 page)

Acting as though they’re not there or don’t affect us won’t make them go away. Mrs. LaBadie and her
gris gris
bags on the porch, the spiked tea, the nightmares… This curse on Anne Bonny and her descendants will find us whether we say that it exists out loud or not.

“I guess.” I pause, wondering how she’s going to take my next question. “Do you think your mom would know anything about Felicia giving a baby up for adoption?”

Millie frowns. “I don’t know, Grace. But I doubt it. They didn’t talk at all, according to Mom, after Felicia got pregnant with you and ran off. Hell, we never met until we were in school, and Travis would have been born and given away by then.”

“I know.” It’s a long shot, but I think I have to ask my aunt anyway. “Is she going to freak out if I ask her?”

“She freaks out any time she thinks there might be juicy gossip that eludes her. You know that.”
 

“Maybe we can go to Charleston this weekend? Let her take us shopping and to lunch, butter her up?” I bat my eyelashes at Millie, knowing that she’s as weary of her mother’s needling about coming home to raise the baby as I have been with Aunt Karen my entire life.

“I guess. It’ll get her off my back for a few weeks, anyway.” She glances down at her bulging belly. Fear, worry, and wonder cross her face in quick succession, and I know she’s thinking that he’ll be here a few weeks after that.

All of this is going to be real very soon, and the sacrifices we’ve both made better be worth it. He has to survive.

Without Mama Lottie agreeing to help in exchange for my assistance with her own evil curse, we’d both be holding our breath for over a decade. Hell, even if she
does
say the curse on our family is broken, we’ll probably
still
hold our breath. I mean, how much can we trust a woman like that, one so focused on revenge she can’t even see that her own son loved one of the Draytons she’s so desperate to ruin?

We finish our lunch in silence, neither of us taking any joy in the little things today. My thoughts are on Beau and what I’ve lost to this nonsense but turn back to the curse soon enough, and the worry that Mama Lottie might not hold up her end of the deal. Aside from dragging Amelia to see Odette in Charleston this weekend, I’m not sure how we would even verify whether it’s been lifted or not.

I put that on my list of things to do. Can’t hurt.

Lunch is over and it’s time to get back to work, which with so few people coming in and out, means cleaning and shelving books all afternoon. Hiding out in the archives has certainly crossed my mind. There’s nothing in particular I’m searching for at the moment, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe there might not be clues to my own family’s history hidden on the shelves. Frank Fournier claims we have a legacy that has included some form of spirit communication since, well, forever. He says there are things I need to know about being a Fournier, even if it is in genetics and not in name.
 

My mother never even mentioned him. I’m sure I never met him before a few weeks ago, but that doesn’t mean the family doesn’t have roots that run through Heron Creek. After all, he knew where to find me.

“I’ll call Frank again.” I can’t call him my dad, even if Millie doesn’t seem to have any trouble sliding him into that hole in my life like a perfect, round peg.

“Good. Convince him you need him. Men love that.”

I roll my eyes at my cousin, who knows good and well that neither of us have the right to claim any expertise as far as men are concerned, but I know she’s right. Frank can make ghosts do things. Mama Lottie might be terrifying, and powerful, and
terrifying
, but she’s still a ghost. It stands to reason that she has to follow some rules. I hope.

Amelia grabs the dust rag, and I roll the cart of returned books along the aisles, using the menial labor and the quiet to screw up my nerve. Contacting Frank makes me nervous, and asking him for favors sits even less comfortably with my conscience. It’s not smart to be indebted to a career criminal—I’ve learned that much from my reluctant association with Clete Raynard. The fact that I’m still on the fence about letting Frank into my life in any other capacity really makes asking for his help inadvisable.

My stomach churns as my thoughts linger on the curse coming for the Draytons. They turn quickly to how Mama Lottie ignored me last night when I went back to find her. What if she ignores me forever? What if the lives of Draytons are ruined for centuries to come and Mama Lottie retires to the islands to stick her toes in the sand and laugh at my dumb ass, believing her that Anne Bonny’s curse could or would be lifted, as well?

The phone rings once, then twice, on Frank’s end. I let myself hope that he won’t pick up so I can avoid all of this for a few more hours.

“Graciela?”

No such luck.

“Hi, Frank. How’s your day going?”

That makes him laugh, and it loosens the tension between my shoulders the slightest bit. The truth is, we need someone we can trust who knows what in the hell he’s doing. No matter how much I love Will and Mel, and Leo, and everyone else in this town willing to stick their neck out for me, none of them know jack about doing mental combat with a hundred-year-old spirit hell-bent on revenge.

“I have a feeling that’s not why you called.” His tone grows serious. “We shouldn’t be talking at all, you know.”

“Why not? You don’t trust me?”

“You’re awfully chummy with the law, darlin’.”

I can almost hear him shrug. My mind catches his use of the Southernism, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s put on or not now that my curiosity has wandered to where he’s from originally.

“I’m not turning you in, Frank. Not as long as you’re more good to me out in the wild.”

“That’s a comfort, it truly is.” He clears his throat, maybe to cover the sound of someone talking in the background. “What kind of good am I going to be doing you today?”

In his voice, I hear a warning:
Don’t ask any more about Travis.
He doesn’t want to talk about it. Lucky for him, there’s something else on my mind today.

“I want you to help me find a ghost.”

The pause goes on for a couple of heartbeats longer than makes me comfortable. I’m ordering my argument for his help in my mind when he replies.

“Why don’t you ask your friend Daria?”

“She’s scared,” I say, a little more bluntly than I mean to. “Usually I don’t have issues with finding this particular ghost, but I’ve been banned from the property she frequents and she’s not cooperating anyway.”

He chuckles. “Banned from the property? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t right proud.”

“Save the fatherly moment. If my penchant for running on the wrong side of the law comes from you, I could do without it.” I could do without it either way, honestly, but not if it means abandoning my goals.

“You just need to talk to this spirit? Nothing else?”

“What else is there?”

He’s silent again, and this time no answer to my question ever comes. “Henry warned me that you haven’t been taking my advice to look into our family’s past.”

“I haven’t had— Wait,
Henry
warned you? Is he like a spy or something?” Anger builds in my chest. That damn ghost has been lurking around my house for months now, all the time refusing to tell me how to help him move along. I never would have guessed he was there the whole time for someone
else’s
reasons.

Regardless, Henry Woodward and I are going to have a chat the next time he mopes his way into my bedroom.

“Don’t be sore at Henry, darlin’. If you’d done your research you’d know he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.”

Half a dozen questions rattle around in my head about Henry—among other things—but I press my lips together to stop them.
Focus.
This information is good, even if I do feel violated.
 

“Well, then Mama Lottie won’t have a choice but to show up, either,” I say.

“Mama Lottie? Oh, your ghost.”

Is there a catch in his voice? Does he know about her? How could he if he’s not involved in this ordeal and isn’t from around Heron Creek or Charleston?

I sigh, exhausted by all of the things I need to know but don’t. “Will you help me get an…an audience with her, I guess? It won’t take long. There’s just one thing she needs to know about our agreement.”

“You made a deal with a ghost? I do not like the sound of that, Graciela.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like you’ve exactly been around for me to go to for advice, so you don’t get to play the concerned parent now,” I snap. “Can you help?”

“Yes. I’ll come to the house.”

“When?”

“I can’t say. I’ll be there when I can.” He coughs, again over patter in the background. “I’ve got to go. Stay safe.”

He’s gone before I can respond at all, but
thank you
isn’t on the tip of my tongue. He owes me—for leaving me in the dark all of this time about both his existence and our family history, and a bunch of other stuff too twisted and hidden to name.

There will be time to focus on my own personal issues—and I have enough to keep a therapist busy for years—once these curses have been resolved. Until then, I need to keep my eyes open and my head down.

M
y eyes are heavy after a late night reading through Charlotta Drayton’s journals in the kitchen with Amelia. We pored through them from the time we finished our dinner of frozen pizza—and wine, for me—until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. There’s plenty in the journals about Charlotta and James’s romance at the Hall, up until the day her brother found out she was pregnant with James’s child. Then nothing.

Charlotta either stopped writing down the details of her life or Jenna hadn’t brought all of the journals. We aren’t quite done, not with an in-depth read, so maybe we missed something. I’m going to read through them again today since it’s my day off. They’re calling to me now, waking me even though it’s too early after last night’s delayed bedtime.

Groaning a little, I stretch and open my eyes to the unwelcome sight of Henry Woodward’s ghost in the corner, sulking as usual, but I’m no longer sure whether his attitude has to do with his own inability to move on or his being unwillingly at my father’s beck and call.

Either way, my patience is running thin.

“I’m not talking to you anymore,” I inform him, like the super mature person I am.

He looks at me with a mixture of surprise and guilt, the latter of which suggests he knows exactly what he’s done to earn this morning’s cold shoulder. His expression turns beseeching and he holds out his hands, as though to show me they’re clean of any fault.

I shake my head, rolling out of bed and shuddering when my feet hit the cold floor. I can’t stand sleeping in socks, and we’ve got to do something about the heating and insulation in this old house.

“Nope, sorry. If you can’t help tattling on me to Frank, you could have at least told me.” He points to his mouth, which we both know is useless between the two of us. My heart relents, but I smack it away. “Whatever. That’s a bullshit excuse. Every other ghost who’s come around has found a way to communicate. You’re just lazy.”

Based on the way he goes pale and turns away from me, that seems to insult him. He doesn’t leave, though, and there’s nothing I can do to force him. Instead of sticking around and letting him frustrate me, I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and slip into a clean pair of yoga pants and a hoodie.

Amelia is downstairs, dozing in front of the TV as another Harry Potter marathon begins, even though it’s not even nine o’clock. Worry over her sleepwalking creeps in, but she’s assured me that not being able to sleep well during the last trimester is perfectly normal. It’s hard to know what an average pregnancy would be like, but I know she and Mel talk. It’s probably nothing.

She doesn’t wake as I tiptoe into the kitchen and put on some coffee, making as little noise as possible. Who knows how long she’s been down here trying to fall asleep. No one respects a good nap like I do.

My plan to let her rest is blown out of the water when the doorbell rings at half past the hour. I’m sitting at the kitchen table drinking my first cup of coffee and shivering while I read the news on my cousin’s laptop when it dings through the house, so loud it makes me drip hot liquid onto my lap.

Amelia stirs, her eyes confused and sleepy, when I pass her in the living room. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not clairvoyant.”

“Who knows with you,” she tosses back, snuggling further under the heavy blanket Gramps favored during his final days. Even though he died in the summer, he’d always been cold.

I stick my tongue out at her, continuing the morning’s theme of childish behavior, and step into the foyer. My heart leaps at the thought that it could be Frank, that I’ll have my chance to talk to Mama Lottie. She asked me to come back in a few days, but Cordelia seems to be serious about the whole arresting me thing.
 

Amelia thinks I should have demanded Frank come right away, but I don’t think demanding works with him. I don’t know him well enough, thanks to his own machinations, to guess what would.