by Lyla Payne
The one thing Travis knows about himself is that if he follows the rules and keeps his head down, his life stays more or less on track.
I can’t ask him to give that up for me. I’ll take his help however he’s willing to give it, and say thank you besides. Like the goddamn polite woman my grandparents raised.
I see the new ghost again that night, only this time I’m asleep. She’s standing across from me in her wedding gown, which is dirty and worn, maybe even slightly yellowed around the hem and sleeves, and that impossibly long noose. Her boots click on a wooden platform beneath her feet.
We’re not in my room. We’re outdoors and it’s cold—at least as cold as it’s been the past several weeks but not snowy or bitter the way it would have been where I used to live in Iowa. Other people press in around me, but they’re faceless and shadowy—it feels as if it’s just her and me out there in the cold morning.
The woman stands up a bit straighter on the platform. In the blink of an eye, I understand that we’re at a hanging.
And she’s the one being hung.
Her cold, dead eyes survey the crowd, looking for someone or something, but there’s no urgency about her, no hand wringing. In fact, her hands are folded calmly in front of her stomach. Whatever she’s done, she doesn’t regret it. Judging from the disdainful expression on her face, she’d just as soon spit on the people watching her than beg them for forgiveness or mercy.
My stomach hurts now that I know what’s coming. I don’t want to watch, but as with all of these visions, or dreams, or whatever they are, I can’t look away. My eyes are glued to the ghost who has chosen me as her link to the living world.
For her part, she seems to have caught sight of whatever—or whoever—she was seeking. The object that’s caught her attention is shrouded from me, but she’s watching it with mild interest that quickly turns to disgust.
Before long, the ghost opens her mouth and addresses the gathered crowd—at least, that’s what it seems as if she’s doing, but none of her words penetrate the hazy curtain between her existence and mine. The people around me shift in apparent discomfort. They glance at one another’s missing faces.
The woman laughs, and from her contemptuous expression, it must be derisive. Then she runs and leaps off the platform, hanging herself instead of waiting for the executioner to do it for her. The crowd recoils. The vision fades.
I find myself sitting upright in my bed, safe and sound in my grandparents’ house.
As reality solidifies me once more, I take stock—sweat has soaked through my pajamas, my heart is thudding against my ribs, and my fingers are curled tightly around the quilt.
I grab my phone, not caring that it tells me that it’s not quite five a.m., and shoot a text to Brian the Homicidal Tour Guide down in Charleston. Like I always do when I decide to get in touch with him, I try to focus on how he helped me learn about Henry rather than the fact that he almost killed me to keep that information to himself.
It works as well as ever. Which is to say, marginally.
I need to pick your brain. Before your tours tonight? Let me know.
He doesn’t respond right away, but I suppose I’ll have to give him a few hours to wake up. I’m not dying to see him, of course, and trekking down to the city after tonight’s book club meeting is an unappealing prospect. But now that the new ghost has shown me a little of her life—or death, as the case may be—I’m ninety-nine percent sure I know who she is.
Which means I’m one-hundred-and-ten percent sure I don’t want anything to do with her.
Chapter Five
Despite the fact that I’m anxious to get to my meeting with Brian, the adult book club that Amelia and I started is always a good time. Our regulars, gathered at the library toward the end of the day, include the old sisters from the coffee shop, Dorothy and Laurel; their friend Belle, who runs Westies; Mel; LeighAnn; and Taylor Nash, who used to date Leo.
I have to bite my tongue every time I see her to stop from asking whether the cleansing Daria and I did on her house worked or not. She doesn’t know her medium asked for my help, and she would probably prefer it if the rest of the ladies in town didn’t get wind of her haunting.
But Taylor’s not here, and neither is Belle. Cade Walters does put in an appearance, though, much to the delight of the elderly sisters. It’s nice to see him outside his grandmother’s house, really, since he’s shown himself to be something of a recluse ever since he arrived in town to clean and remodel her house for sale.
I’m not sure what to make of him—he drinks, he writes, he watches…but he doesn’t talk. Still, nosiness is not a reason to dislike a person in the South. He’s a mystery, to be sure, but one there’s absolutely no room for on my plate. He seems harmless.
Cade answers questions for most of the hour, none of which have anything to do with the latest Dennis Lehane novel we just finished, but everyone seems to enjoy it all the same. He’s young, charming, gorgeous, and new—which means he’s the center of attention. Even LeighAnn and Mel pay rapt attention as he talks about his writing process.
In fact, before I know what’s happened, they’ve begged him to ask his publisher about holding an official event and signing at the library and he’s agreed.
Lovely. More work for me, although it will be good for the library. He’s in town; he might as well be useful while he’s pondering or agonizing over or drinking his way through his next novel. I guess.
Normally, I’m not a clock-watcher. If the book club meetings go long, no skin off my nose. This evening though, I have somewhere to be.
“Okay, I don’t mean to break up the party, but you know the old saying—you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” I make the announcement after giving them twenty extra minutes.
Dorothy raises one graying eyebrow my direction all the same. “Do you have a date with someone new already, Graciela? Nothing like hopping right back on the horse, I say.”
“What?” I feel my cheeks get hot. On the heels of my embarrassment comes the shocking realization that I’ve hardly thought about Beau all day. “No. I have a meeting, that’s all.”
She exchanges a look with her sister that leaves nothing to the imagination—they assume I mean with my attorney. Which is probably where I should be going, as opposed to meeting a crazy man for dinner so we can discuss an even more insane woman who’s been dead nearly two hundred years.
“Well, we need to be getting home anyway. Buddy noses through the trash if we leave him alone for more than a couple of hours,” Laurel finally says, letting me off the hook.
Their old basset hound is about the fattest dog I’ve ever seen. He definitely doesn’t need to be gorging on leftovers, but I can’t deny I’m thankful for his bad habits if it saves me from an interrogation. Everyone gets up and makes to leave, grabbing purses and muttering goodnights. Cade gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy my story, or at least realizes there’s more to it, but doesn’t mention it.
“I’ll talk to my publisher about getting copies down here to sign, and then we can nail down a date. Sound good?” He waits for me to nod, then stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks out into the night. The sound of him whistling slips back through the doors before they close all the way.
Dorothy and Laurel leave while both Mel and LeighAnn loiter behind, obviously waiting to chat. Another thing that would typically sound great. Not tonight.
“I really do have to be somewhere,” I tell Mel, rearranging my face into an apology.
She squints at me, waiting for more, but I don’t want to talk about my new ghost in front of LeighAnn. While I like her a lot and she’s helped me out more than a few times, the idea of casually discussing the woman in the wedding dress and the noose wrinkles my nose.
Mel gives me a slight nod—she gets it. While I have no doubt she’s stockpiling plenty of questions, she’ll hold off until later.
LeighAnn slings her bag over her shoulder and picks at a glob of something on her sh
irt. “Y’all, kids just rub stuff on you all the time. I swear, I haven’t worn clean clothes in a decade. I think this is…” She trails off, lifting the fabric to her nose to breathe it in. When that doesn’t offer any clarity, she moves in for a taste test. Her expression grows alarmed. “I think it’s potatoes. I can’t even remember the last time we had mashed potatoes.”
“Trust me, I understand. Last week, I walked around for an entire day with dried milk in my hair. Will was the first person to tell me…after he got off work at seven p.m.” Mel is such an expert at commiserating, LeighAnn probably can’t tell that she’s trying to steer her out of here.
“Oh my gosh, Gracie,” LeighAnn says, not taking Mel’s bait. Her eyes are sparkling with what can only be excitement over some really good gossip. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me about Leo breaking up with that woman.”
It takes a second for her words to sink in, and then another before they make any sense. Leo and I went for a run together yesterday morning, just two days after he and Victoria stopped by to get the applications they needed to start some big project together.
When exactly did this happen?
“I didn’t know…” My lips feel numb, though it’s hard to say why. Leo breaks up with women all the time.
But Victoria has been around for longer than most. Also, he really seemed to like her—or at least that’s what I’d concluded.
“He didn’t tell you?” LeighAnn’s face twists into confusion. “Oh, I just figured he would have. I heard about it at the new hair salon today. From her neighbor.”
The new salon just opened a week ago. The owner’s a woman who recently came back to town to take care of her aging father. I haven’t braved the place yet, although the fabulous state of LeighAnn’s hair suggests there’s nothing to fear.
“I guess he didn’t have a chance yet,” I say lamely, feeling Mel’s curious gaze on the left side of my face. “What happened?”
“Oh, she didn’t know that part. Just heard a row and then saw him leave. The next morning Victoria was whining over her cup of coffee about how men just can’t commit or whatever.” LeighAnn waves her hand in front of her face, as though clearing the air of a bad smell. “Typical bullshit.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll make sure and give you the real scoop once I find out what it is.” I smile, hoping that will be enough to get rid of her. I’m trying not to show her how much it bothers me that she’s the one who had to tell me about Leo’s personal life.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says in a mock serious tone, pointing one manicured finger toward me before backing out the door. “I’ll see you gals later. Make sure and send that email about Cade’s signing—that’s definitely babysitter worthy!”
Once she’s gone, Mel whirls toward me, her brown eyes huge. “I don’t know what to ask you first.”
“I saw a new ghost. I think I know who she is, but I’m heading down to Charleston for a couple of hours to get some details.” I pause, not wanting to answer the second, still unasked question, but there’s no chance Mel will let me avoid it. “And I don’t know why Leo didn’t tell me, unless it just happened last night. Which is possible.”
I haven’t seen him today, and even though we are close—at least, I think we are—it would have been weird if he’d come over to cry on my shoulder or something. I didn’t run to him after breaking up with Beau.
Of course, I couldn’t have run anywhere given that I was in police custody.
“We have plans to hang out tomorrow night,” I tell Mel when she doesn’t reply. “I’m sure he’s planning to bring it up then.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she murmurs. The expression on her face is hard to read, but the word bemused comes to mind. “Who are you meeting in Charleston? What’s your ghost like?”
“Scary,” I admit, happy to change the subject. “Like really super scary, but maybe she’s just being dramatic.”
I don’t want to worry her. The ghosts can’t hurt me, according to Daria, so it’s likely me who’s being dramatic.
The vague reply makes her frown, but it also distracts her from the fact that I didn’t answer her first question. No one likes the fact that I still talk to Brian. If I tell her that’s who I’m going to meet, she’ll want to tag along, or make Will go with me, and Brian is more likely to talk if we’re alone. He only respects people who know at least as much about history as he does.
“You should talk to Daria. If this one feels different.”
Talk to Daria. This has become something of a refrain with Mel, which might make sense now that she’s working for the medium, but I’ve heard the same advice from our other friends, as well. My experience with this haunting crap isn’t as lengthy or as nuanced as the medium’s, true enough, but at this point it’s starting to annoy me that everyone just assumes I need help or advice to get through every tiny little ghostly interaction.
“I will,” I tell her, because the thought of discussing it is less than appealing.
“And you’d better call me after you talk to Leo. I’m not above gossip, as you know.”
“Oh, yes, I’m familiar.” My smile is real this time. Warmth gushes through me as Mel links her arm through mine, sticking by my side while I turn out the lights and then lock up.
“Hey, Gracie?” she asks as we part ways on the sidewalk, heading to cars parked in separate directions.
“Yeah?”
“Be careful with Brian. Meet in a public place and all of that.” She winks and then strides off, chuckling to herself like the brat she is, leaving me to stew in the knowledge that I am not, in fact, slick.
Not at all.
I spend the entire twenty-minute drive to Charleston asking myself why exactly I’m driving to Charleston. This ghost might be giving me bad dreams, but there are simply too many other things on my plate that need to be eaten first. If she’s going to leave me alone, mostly, then maybe I should leave her alone.
Lavinia Fisher might have been a serial killer in real life, but she’s dead now. Which means I can put her off for as long as I care to, at least physically.
I rethink that assumption as I find a parking space near the Lowcountry Bistro and climb out into the January evening. Mama Lottie hurt Mrs. Walters, Cade’s grandmother. She hurt Amelia, too, or at least she tried. She did all of that through surrogates, though, not on her own.
The streets aren’t busy. In fact, they’re almost empty, and I start to wonder if I should be more worried about this meeting with Brian. Then I see him at a table for two, his napkin nearly shredded, his knee jangling up and down with nerves, and remember that aside from one moment of actual backbone, the kid is a pussycat.
There are plenty of restaurants in Charleston that close during the off-season, though that’s changed somewhat over the past ten years—the tourist season continues to expand, then expand again. Luckily, this place is delicious and we have the advantage of not needing a reservation. The smell of their amazing fried green tomatoes earns a growl from my stomach.
Brian smiles up at me when he sees—or maybe hears—my approach.
“Hi. Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.” My tone is all business. There’s no reason for him to think the two of us are friends, or colleagues, or anything else. Even if this will be the third case he’s helped me on. Technically.
He owes me at least this much just for torching Amelia’s car, never mind thinking he’d melt me in the process.
“Sure. I had no dinner plans and a hankering for shrimp and grits.”
“A hankering, huh? Yowza.” I grab the menu, take a quick look just to check out the specials, and then order my usual here—chicken and waffles—while Brian gets what he came for on his turn.
We order the fried green tomatoes for an appetizer, select alcoholic beverages, and then the waitress slips away. It leaves us with nothing to talk about but the reason for our impromptu get-together, and I’m the only one who knows what that is.
“What do you know about Lavinia
Fisher?”
He makes a face, like there’s something inherently wrong with my question. “Why are you asking me about her? She’s like, Charleston Ghost Tour 101.”
Ah, so I’m not challenging him. Figures. Brian has an ego a mile wide, so he probably thinks it’s beneath him to talk about one of the city’s more famous spirits.
He withers a bit under my glare and a feeling of triumph trickles through me. At least I can still intimidate someone.
“I’m not asking you to tell me what you spout on your tours every night, Brian. You’re the guy who told me about Henry Woodward when no one else even knew his name. I want to know the other stuff.” I pause while the waitress sets down our drinks, then take a good, long swig of mine as she walks away. “What kind of person was she, did she really do it, those kinds of things.”
“What, so you can steal what I know and write a paper for some big-shot journal? Get the credit instead of me?”
Irritation swirls in my gut. He has no idea what he’s talking about. Henry came to me for help—and I did exactly what he wanted me to do. Not to mention the fact that people who whine and feel sorry for themselves are just the worst.
“First of all, let’s get one thing straight.” I work hard to keep my voice even and low, not wanting to let on how much he’s pissed me off. Because that would mean I care. “I did the work. I called in the favors and put in hours and hours of going over handwritten family documents. I wrote and rewrote those articles, and I’m the one with the PhD.”
The last part is a little harsh, maybe, but it’s true nonetheless. His face and ears turn red, but he doesn’t look angry or embarrassed. He looks ashamed.
Which makes me feel guilty. Dammit.
“Sorry. But I didn’t steal anything from you. You gave me a name. I did the rest,” I finish, my tone softer.
