by Lyla Payne
“As a matter of fact, yes.” I give him a shortened version of the details I gave Beau earlier this morning, mostly because the fewer times I have to relive that experience, the better.
“That’s horrifying. Are you sure you want to learn how to do that yourself?” Concern lights his eyes and his fingers twitch, starting toward mine before he pulls them back into his lap.
My skin kind of tingles, the way it did the other night before that first, awful scene appeared in the yellow house in Mount Pleasant. I look around as casually as possible but don’t see anything terrifying or evil. “No. Right now I’m thinking I’ll stick with the spirits who go out of their way to find me, though the stuff she taught me how to do might come in handy since my ghosts don’t talk.”
“Speaking of the spirits who go out of their way to find you, how’s the little girl at Drayton?” He does a terrible impression of yanking a noose tight around his neck, then flops his head to the side with his eyes bulging and tongue hanging out.
It gets a laugh out of me in spite of how insensitive it is. “That is so wrong, Leo.”
“I know.”
“I got her police file, and get this, there were some cops on the case, along with the assistant coroner, who didn’t agree with closing it as a suicide.” I relay their concerns—her fingers, the marks on her neck, the footprints, the tire tracks. He listens, rapt, even though several people wave on their way into the restaurant. “But it’s all circumstantial. Nothing proves she’s telling the truth.”
“First off, I still don’t know why a ghost would have any motivation to lie. Second, sure, it’s circumstantial, but hell, Gracie. That’s a pile of questions that need answers.”
“I know. What do you think?”
“You know what I think.”
“That Brick was involved?”
“I’m not willing to say involved, but yeah, I think he knows more than he told the cops. Don’t you?”
The Draytons did act pretty weird when questioned, according to the report, and even Beau pretended not to really know the extent of the relationship between his younger brother and Nan Robbins when it came up this morning. Some of the kids from the school made comments about them being as thick as thieves, while others said they can’t remember ever seeing the two of them together. It’s just…weird. But it does seem like the truth has to be in there somewhere.
The thought of using the whole door-opening scenario to try to see what happened that night stays on my radar, but my stomach roils at the thought. I’d rather do this the old-fashioned way, and not only because I’m less likely to vomit talking to alive people.
The fact is, no matter how many police departments use psychics or how many people watch television shows about ghost hunters, no one is going to believe me—or Nan—if my only evidence is an invisible, ghostly reenactment that only I can see.
“Yeah, I do,” I finally answer Leo. “I’m thinking about going to talk to some of the people who were interviewed back then. Get my own take. Do you want to come?” The second invitation pops out with as little thought as the first, but Leo has always been the best of the best when it comes to a partner in crime.
Not only that but he has no vested interest in this case, the way Beau does, and he won’t constantly be telling me to mind my own business as Mel or Will would.
“When are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to get ahold of some of them this afternoon and set up times, then let you know?”
“Sure. That’d be fun. I don’t have nearly enough excitement in my life when you’re not chasing ghosts around hell’s half acre.”
“Well, I do live to serve.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Chapter Thirteen
There are lots of people listed in the police reports who don’t live in the area anymore, and even more who prove hard to track down, which is unexpected in this day and age of Internet narcissism. I suspect that most of the women have probably married and changed their names, but somehow, by the next morning I have a list of three who answered their phones and agreed to talk to me about the long-dead case.
It’s pretty obvious from some of the responses that most of the students at Charleston Prep wanted nothing to do with the investigation back then, maybe because of Brick’s family or popularity, maybe something else, and whatever reasons were good enough for staying out of it back then remain good enough now. I get several unreturned calls, a couple of hang ups after I tell them what I’m bothering them about, and one cursing-out by an older man who starts a racist rant so awful I want to bleach my brain and then call the police just to warn them that he exists.
Leo’s in my passenger’s seat, sipping coffee as we trek up the coast on our way to the first appointment before seven in the morning. The early hour totally sucks, but Henry kept me up half the night playing a trick he just learned—to turn the lights on and off. Once he learned that this also works with the radio, I may as well have given up sleeping. He and I are about to have a come-to-Jesus chat, because there isn’t anything I love more than sleep. If he keeps it up I’m asking Daria to get rid of him the way she’s going to get rid of that asshole man ghost and his poor, crazy daughter for her clients.
“So, where are we going?” Leo asks.
“Three people agreed to talk to us—one is the assistant coroner, who’s working up in Myrtle Beach now. The other two were both students at Charleston Prep.”
“No luck with the half sister? I think her take would be interesting.”
“Yeah. She hasn’t called me back yet, but it’d be hard to blame her if she didn’t want to dredge it all up again, you know?”
“I guess. But Nanette was her only family. That kind of wound doesn’t heal.”
We drive in silence for the next hour, until the signs for Myrtle Beach—or Dirty Myrtle, as it’s not-so-affectionately called by the rest of South Carolinians—lead us off the highway and into a middle-class, cookie-cutter neighborhood. The structure of the houses rotates about every three lots, and if the GPS on my phone weren’t directing me, I’d probably die here before I found my way out.
“We’re on time. That’s good—he said he has to be at work by nine.”
“I knew there had to be a real good reason to get you out of bed so early. It’s always poor Amelia opening the library.”
“‘Poor Amelia’ was born one of those perky, annoying morning people, so let her have them.”
Our banter dies away as we climb the couple of stairs to the porch. The doorbell plays a weird, chiming song instead of emitting a simple ding-dong, which makes me feel like a ding-dong for ringing the damn thing in the first place.
“Well, that’s douchey.”
I smirk. “Maybe it came with the house.”
The man who opens the door a moment later has a comb-over so awful I’m immediately convinced that the doorbell choice was purposeful. It definitely sounds like something a Donald Trump-style follower would choose.
He pushes his huge glasses up on his nose. “Good morning.”
“Hi, Mr. Collins. I’m Graciela Harper. We spoke on the phone yesterday?”
“Yes, of course. Please come inside.”
We step into the foyer, Leo not bothering to introduce himself and Mr. Collins apparently unconcerned by the identity of the man squiring me around town. The house is nice, with polished wooden floors and small upgrades like crown molding and vaulted ceilings, but nothing special. He guides us into a large kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, and motions to the cushioned barstools at a large island. He stands on the opposite side.
“Would either of you like some coffee?”
Leo and I both nod, then ask for milk when he offers extras. The small task gives me five more minutes to organize my thoughts before he turns, stirring a cube of sugar into his cup.
“You said on the phone that you had some questions about Nanette Robbins’s suicide. That was many years ago. What has come u
p?”
“I’m working out at Drayton Hall, archiving for a new exhibition that they’re planning to open sometime next year, and her story came to my attention. After reading the file there seemed to be some disagreement as far as whether she really killed herself…” I trail off, waiting for him to jump in, but he doesn’t. “You’re one of the people who didn’t want to close the case back then.”
“Forgive me, Miss Harper, but why would a suicide that occurred a mere fifteen years ago, that has nothing to do with the Drayton family, be of interest to their archivist?”
He’s sharper than he looks. Kind of like Donald Trump, who I’m starting to suspect might be Mr. Collins’s own personal Jesus. “It wouldn’t be, except for my conscience. Brick Drayton’s name comes up in this discussion quite a bit and I just couldn’t live with myself, thinking that I’m making a living off people who had something to do with what happened to a poor teenaged girl.”
Leo shifts on his stool, looking intently down at his hands. He’s totally trying not to fall to the floor laughing, apparently at the idea of me having a conscience. Or maybe it’s that I’m sleeping with one of the aforementioned Draytons and have no moral complications with that, but either way, Mr. Collins doesn’t know me—or Leo—well enough to pick up on the vibrations.
“Well, I suppose I can understand that, though you should know that I won’t and never have spoken to the family’s knowledge of or involvement in what happened that night.”
“That’s fine. I just want to know why you thought it might not have been a suicide.”
“It’s pretty much all in the police report. Her fingers were torn up, and there were scratch marks on her neck. Those two things alone would only point toward a girl who changed her mind at the last minute, but there was also the matter of the knot.”
“The knot?” I sit forward, not remembering anything about that in the file.
“It was tied onto the tree branch by someone left-handed, or at least, someone who tied knots left-handed. In addition, the knot at the back of her noose couldn’t have been tied by Nanette. Not after she had it around her neck.”
“But she could have tied it beforehand, right?” Leo asks, his eyes bright and intense. He’s as into this whole thing as I am, and my gut tells me it no longer has anything to do with his dislike of the Draytons or the adventures he gets to go on with me. He’s genuinely curious.
“She could have, and that was the argument the officer in charge made for closing the case.”
“But what about the knot in the tree? Was Nan right-handed?”
“She was.”
“How come you’re the one who noticed all this? You’re a coroner, but you examined the knots?”
He sips his coffee, peering at me over the rim with new appreciation. “I’m an ex-Navy man and an Eagle Scout. Knots are a hobby of mine, and the rope was brought in with her body in order to help us determine cause of death. I’m not sure the police even believed me, though they could have brought in other experts if they wanted.”
The more I hear, the more I believe Nan’s telling the truth about not committing suicide. Like the Town Car tire tracks, however, searching for someone in the area who’s left-handed and can tie a bang-up knot isn’t going to meet with much success.
Leo and I finish our coffee, making small talk about Drayton Hall and Charleston, how Collins likes living in Myrtle Beach, before he lets us escape. We learned more that helps my case but nothing that can prove it, so although our first visit of the day was interesting, nothing has changed.
“That was intriguing. Especially the part about how he no longer works as a coroner,” Leo comments as we climb back into my car.
“He doesn’t what? When did he say that?”
“When you were staring at his comb-over and zoning out, apparently. He said he took a job as a defense contractor through some of his old Navy buddies.”
“Huh. Well, let’s hope the girl from their class at school has something more concrete we can use. It’s sad that we know so little about Nan. And unless her sister calls us back, we probably never will.”
“Someone knew her, Gracie. She wasn’t invisible.”
All I can think as we drive down the coast toward Driftwood, where Lindsay works, is that I hope it’s true that Nan wasn’t as invisible as a ghost while she was alive. But there’s a sad, sure feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m going to end up heartbroken.
“So, how are things going with Beau through all this? I assume he’s found out about you seeing Nan by now.”
It’s hard to say how Leo could guess, but as it does with Amelia, over a decade of friendship counts for something. I shrug, not really wanting to talk about it. “He’s not thrilled that I thought he would side with his family over me—if there is anything to side with them about, which remains to be seen—but he got over it. I know you don’t like him but he’s a decent guy.”
“With the exception of your ex-fiancé, you’ve got a pretty good track record of picking decent guys.” Leo pauses, his gaze out the window. “And it’s not that I’m set on not liking him. I’m…considering the idea.”
I shake my head, one side of my mouth twisted as if it wants to smile. “You didn’t even know David. Maybe he was a nice guy and I’ve become a whack job since I left Heron Creek.”
“You were a whack job before you left Heron Creek, but you’re our whack job. If a guy cheated on you, Gracie, he’s the nut. No question.”
A smidgen of peace glows around the edges of my heart at the mere chance that two of the men who mean so much to me could maybe, possibly, one day be friends.
We lapse into silence as we approach Driftwood. It’s a more touristy version of Heron Creek with its spot on the ocean drawing a good number of visitors every year—which means more restaurants and a boardwalk jammed with cheap souvenirs and more teenagers wandering into to work their summer jobs. Most of us in Heron Creek prefer the quieter tone of our town, even if Driftwood makes quite a bit more money.
We’re pulling into the town center when Leo opens his mouth again. “I thought maybe we could grab brunch with Lindsay after this next stop. Or at her table, at least.”
“Sure.” It’s not at the top of my to-do list, because she apparently hasn’t forgiven me for wanting to help her get out of prison, but I’m willing to try. For Leo. “Oh, here it is.”
I yank the wheel to the right, nearly missing our turn into an alley that leads us to a cute little bungalow within walking distance from the beach. It’s adorable and painted sky blue, and even though it’s small, there’s no way it didn’t cost at least half a million bucks this close to the water. Whatever Vera Small does or whomever she married, she certainly hasn’t fallen from grace since leaving Charleston Prep.
“What’s her story?” Leo asks as we pick our way over the sandy ground up onto the porch.
“Same as pretty much everyone else at that school besides Nan. Her dad’s an international banker, tons of cash.” I motion to the sea, the waves audible even from this side of the house. “She obviously married well.”
“You’re such a misogynist. Maybe she made all the money herself.”
“Oh man, you’re right. What’s happened to me? I move back South and all of a sudden my dreams consist of bare feet and pregnancy.”
“No comment.”
The strangled tone of his reply causes me to cast a glance Leo’s direction, but he’s staring intently at the door, the deck, the landscaping, anywhere but me. I shake my head and knock, trying to remember if Leo’s always been this hard to read.
The woman who answers the door a few minutes later isn’t really what I expect, but maybe that’s because my own circles don’t consist of people living with tons of money and too much time on their hands. At any rate, Vera Small—what sort of name is that, anyway?—has clearly gone way over and above the recommended amount of plastic surgery. Instead of making her look younger, the overly tight, shiny skin on her forehead, the too-high arch o
f her threaded eyebrows, the boobs literally spilling out of her white minidress, and the tan so dark she’s the color of a spoiled tangerine, actually accomplish the opposite.
It’s a good thing I haven’t taken a drink of anything because this would be the most inopportune moment for my very first spit-take.
I glance over at Leo and see he’s having as much trouble pulling words together, but for different reasons altogether. His blue eyes are glued to that poor woman’s fake cleavage and he’s so not taking Jerry Seinfeld’s advice comparing cleavage peeks to looking at the sun.
I clear my throat, getting Vera’s attention if not Leo’s. It’s a good thing he’s handsome because she seems more bemused than irritated by his interest.
Which kind of makes me irritated.
“Hi, are you Vera? I’m Graciela. We spoke on the phone last night.”
“I figured. Not too many people come knocking on doors around here. We’ve finally managed to get some local ordinances passed to keep out those religious freaks.”
Yikes. She’s going to be a treat.
I’m supremely glad I didn’t drag Sean or Jenna along for this fact-finding mission because anyone who can call Jehovah’s Witnesses names isn’t going to have a single qualm about making off-color remarks about race or sexual orientation. I don’t have any basis for my assumption that Vera Small is one of those Southerners, but I’d eat the french fries off the floor mats in my car if I’m wrong.
Being in love with South Carolina, with its complicated history and divided citizens, isn’t the easiest relationship I’ve ever had in my life, but no way would I trade it in. It’s always been worth it, to me.
“Well, we’ll try not to overstay our welcome,” Leo says, recovered from his ogling in the face of her bluntness—one can hope.
“Right.” I laugh, but it’s too high. Nervous. “And we don’t much care about the final destination of your immortal soul.”
Vera either doesn’t get the joke or doesn’t find it funny, and unlike Mr. Collins, she doesn’t offer us anything to drink. The house she leads us through is of the traditional beach variety in both layout and decor. She might have plenty of free time on her hands but she doesn’t spend it on Pinterest finding cute ways to personalize her home, that’s for sure.
