by Lyla Payne
I find some big potatoes on top of the fridge and poke holes in them with a fork, then shove them in the oven alongside the meatloaf before washing my hands and going into the living room to find my phone. There’s no text from Beau, which makes me both sad and happy. Sad, because girlfriend Gracie wants her boyfriend to be thinking about her all the time, but happy because I don’t want to keep texting him as if everything’s normal when nothing is.
I check on Millie and find her asleep on her bed, wrapped in a fuzzy robe. It looks like she never made it to the tub. I tuck her feet under a blanket and head back downstairs just in time to grab my phone call from Clara.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Graciela, long time no talk!”
The relief from earlier returns at the sound of her voice, which is free of judgment and full of genuine pleasure, presumably to be chatting with me again after all this time. I feel the same way, and a smile crawls over my face at the mental picture of her sitting cross-legged in her office chair, a giant glass of water on the desk.
“I know, right? Thanks for answering my email so fast.”
“Well, you know how to get a historian’s attention. I have to say, I’m intrigued by what you described.” She pauses, and it sounds like she’s swallowing water. Clara had kidney stones three times while she was an undergrad, and has drunk her weight in water every day since. She’s a peeing machine. “Tell me more.”
“Okay—”
“Wait, before you tell me more, can I just say how happy I was to hear that you got away from that shitbag David? I mean, not only was he a terrible boyfriend and person, which became obvious, but the man is a shit academic. That might be even worse.”
I laugh, my insides loosening up at her honesty, and to be real, it feels good to have someone else who knows David talk about what an absolute dick he is. “You’re right. I should have listened to you way back when.”
“I mean, yeah. Maybe then you wouldn’t have ended up in Siberia.”
“It’s South Carolina, Clara, not Russia. I promise I’m still on the grid.”
Judgment about the South is rampant in the North, even though some people think it’s worse the other way around. The farther from the Mason-Dixon line, the more backwoods people and life must be. Clara was born in Chicago and, as far as I know, has never ventured south of Iowa City, so she’s ripe for believing each and every stereotype.
Or maybe she’s just yanking my chain.
“I don’t know, Gracie. I’d be scared to come and visit you.”
“Why?”
“I’m one-fourth black, remember?”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me, thinking how jealous I always was of her complexion. “It’s not nineteen-fifty. I promise I’ll protect you with my arsenal of guns, including the one I carry all of the time on my hip.”
Clara pauses. “Are you serious right now?”
“No, you idiot. We’ve got my grandma’s old pellet gun in the front closet, but it hasn’t killed anything since she died. And only varmints were ever in danger before that.” I make sure and say varmints in my best impression of Yosemite Sam, which earns me a giggle.
“Brat. Okay. Now that we’ve established that David was a royal dick and you haven’t turned into a Beverly Hillbilly, let’s move on to these books or journals or whatever they are.”
“They’re all written in French, like I told you, and range from the early eighteen hundreds to the mid-twentieth century. That’s why I thought it would be best if you did it—with your French Revolution expertise, the changing language complexities won’t be a problem for you.”
“And you have no idea what’s in them? Where did they come from?”
I take a deep breath, trying to remember how much Clara knew about my mother and my past. It seems easier to start from now and work backward. She probably doesn’t know much, given that Felicia wasn’t ever a hot topic of conversation for me. “My father showed up a few weeks ago blathering on about a family legacy all mysterious-like, and then he left this bag of papers with me a couple of days before Christmas. So they’re about my ancestors on his side, I think, but I don’t know anything more than that.”
The pause goes on longer this time, and the wheels turning in her brain are nearly audible across the states between us. “Thank you for trusting me with them. I’d love to take a look.”
My shoulders slump and I let out a breath. I had no idea how much I’d been counting on her help until she said she would give it. “That’s great. No rush, of course, but any idea when you’ll have time to get to them?”
“It doesn’t sound as if they’ll take too long, unless I run into something totally unexpected as far as dialect or education level goes. I have a few weeks before classes start again, so definitely by the end of the month.” Another pause, more swallows. “I could even send them to you as I finish, if you want.”
“Sure, that would be great.” A familiar tickle of excitement brushes the back of my mind—the one I get every single time a new historical mystery creeps up and taps me on the shoulder, whispering promises of discovery and connection to the past. “Start with the oldest one, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. You going to ship them up tomorrow?”
“Yes, for sure. Email me the best address to get them to you.” I pause this time, even though I have no giant jug of water to drink. “Thanks, Clara. I promise to buy you a beer when you come and visit me.”
“Ha! So now I’m coming to visit, am I?”
“You’re always welcome. I’ll even make you a pot of sweet tea.”
“Well, tally-ho.” She snorts at her own language. “Listen, Gracie, I have to go. There’s a department meeting in a few minutes.”
“Sure, me too.” The warm scent of meatloaf is making my stomach growl even though it’s still got almost thirty minutes to cook, but I need to set the table and then wake Amelia so she’ll have time to make herself presentable before Brick shows up.
She would roll her eyes if I told her my rationale, but while Millie might not have admitted how much she cares for Brick at this point, it’s clear to me that she does—and that the feeling is mutual.
Clara and I sign off, and I spend the rest of the hour in the kitchen getting things ready for Brick. I only wish that it could be equally easy to prepare myself for the conversation to come with his brother.
Chapter Six
The talk with Brick was interesting, for sure, but it didn’t give me much of a lead on what Lucy might want from me. If she really doesn’t know she’s dead, I’m afraid that she might want actual help getting loose from her captors. In that case, Brick suggested that perhaps simply recovering her body could be the answer.
I didn’t say this to his face, because he’s a Drayton and he assumes moving mountains is a thing that’s possible, but Lucy would have been better off with a local ghost whisperer. I don’t know how I’m going to find her, or do whatever it is she wants, from Heron Creek, SC. Traveling to the Middle East isn’t on my bucket list, and it wouldn’t be even if I had the money and the ability. Which I don’t.
It’s Amelia’s day off, but she’s already awake—since she passed out by nine, she’s been awake since six, washing and folding the baby clothes that Aunt Karen has been dropping off by the trunkful every time she comes to take her daughter to lunch. I make a mental note to text Mel about putting together a baby shower as soon as possible and climb into my car to head to work.
The days when I’m at the library alone are always painfully slow, but with working on my article proposal, making a trip to the post office, and the more uncomfortable quandary of how to tell Beau about Lucy, I figure it might not be so bad. Even so, before I get out of the car at work I text Mel, then shoot one to Leo to ask if he wants to go for a quick run this evening.
Inside, my phone buzzes twice before I get the computer fired up—a reply from Mel that asks if I can come by on my way home and another from Leo as
king for a raincheck until tomorrow. He doesn’t say why, which makes me think he has plans with Victoria. If it was something with Marcella or a work obligation, he would have said. My stomach goes a little sour at the thought of his girlfriend, but apparently we’re all going to have to get used to her since she seems intent on sticking around.
Trust Leo to finally decide he likes a chick who makes me feel like someone is jabbing hot needles under my fingernails. Not to be dramatic or anything.
I spend the first couple of hours doing the work I’m being paid to do, even dusting for an hour because it’s hard on Millie’s back at this point, and then settle back behind the desk about an hour before lunchtime. Lucy’s ghost hasn’t been around all morning, but as soon as I pull up the paper on Henry and Elizabeth Myles, Henry’s spirit hovers over my shoulder, close enough to give me a chill down the back of my neck.
“I don’t care if you want to read, Henry, but back off a little, okay?”
He makes a face at me and shuffles a step or two away, then squints at the screen. It doesn’t take him long to give up; apparently his eyesight had started to go before he died and his impairment has stayed with him.
“I’ll read it to you after it’s published, how about that? We can make a night of it, you and me.”
The ghost looks strangely pleased by the prospect of the two of us having planned a date that revolves around discussing his life. I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, given that I strongly suspect the entire reason he’s haunting me is because no one knows his, admittedly remarkable, life story.
For the next hour and a half, he paces around while I finish my revisions. Henry gives me plenty of space; he just seems to want the company. I don’t mind. It gets lonely around here with Mr. Freedman locked in his office and Amelia at home—there hasn’t been a single patron all morning. On days like this I even miss Mrs. Walters, God rest her soul.
“Okay, Henry, I’m pushing send on this bad boy.” My stomach hurts a little as my finger hovers over the Enter key, nerves getting the better of me even though they’ve told me they’re on board with the essay. I take a deep breath and hit send, but when I look up to smile at Henry, he’s gone.
The reason presents itself a second later when none other than Cletus Raynard steps through the front door like he owns the joint. The fact that he’s wearing actual shoes—boots, but even so—shocks me into immobility for several moments.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, slipping out from behind the desk and grabbing my purse on the way. No one is here, and Travis doesn’t intend to resume his role as a detective when he rejoins the force, so I’m not sure why the idea that someone might see the two of us talking bothers me so much.
But it does. There are enough rumors about me scuttling around town without people wondering whether I’ve fallen in with a criminal element. Explaining my association with Daria is rough enough.
“I need ta talk to ya.” He frowns. “And I go where’s I please.”
That much is the truth. The backwoods moonshiner has shown up wherever and whenever he pleases in my life since the ill-fated day I met him.
I sigh, reminding myself that I can’t say our relationship hasn’t been worth it. Clete has used his connections to get me valuable information, and has extracted me from a couple of scrapes. I had hoped—apparently in vain—that our association was at an end.
“Well, out with it. I’m headed for lunch.”
“Oh, good, you ken buy me a san’wich. I love me the BLTs at the diner.”
My heart drops into my butt. “It’s January. The tomatoes are going to look like shit.”
He’s halfway out the door when he shrugs, leaving me no option but to follow him. So much for people not seeing us together, I think as I follow him out onto the street. At least the cold weather means he looks halfway normal; he’s wearing a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans that are dirty as all get out.
I catch up with him a block away from Debbie’s Diner and listen to him whistle under his breath while we trek the rest of the way side-by-side. If my nerves were tweaked before I sent in that paper, now they’re zinging through me like june bugs flitting around a porch light in the middle of summer.
It’s not only the fact that we’re about to have lunch together in the middle of town, in the harsh light of day. It’s also—maybe even mostly—the fact that I have no idea what he’s doing here or what he wants. And Clete Raynard always wants something.
We grab a booth and manage to ignore the majority of the curious looks—as it happens, Debbie’s isn’t as busy at lunch as Westies, because their sandwiches aren’t nearly as good—and order our food.
Once the waitress delivers our drinks, Clete drains half of his root beer in one gulp and then levels me with a serious gaze. “I came ta warn ya, Crazy Gracie.”
My mouth goes dry in the space of a sentence. I try to swallow, but don’t manage it until I sip my orange soda. “Warn me?” I finally squeak.
“Yep. An’ this is totally outside my…ya know…operatin’ procedures, but fer some reason Big Ern got it in his fat fool head that he likes ya. So ya can thank him next time ya see him.”
“Thank him for what?” I ask, figuring it might be a while before I get the chance to see the big guy myself. As far as I know he doesn’t own a shirt or shoes, so he probably doesn’t get out much in the winter. “Tell me, Clete.”
“Rumor is that someone’s after ya. Lookin’ for information on yer comins’ and goins’ and if and when ya might be leavin’ town tah go visit that there boyfriend of yers up north.”
“Who?” My mouth is on autopilot, asking all the right questions, which is a good thing because my brain is frozen somewhere back on someone’s after ya. “Why?”
“I’ll keep my ear ta the groun’, but best I ken figure it’s got sumthin’ ta do wit yer daddy.”
The waitress returns right then, a middle-aged woman whose name fails to come to me. She drops off our sandwiches and fries, brings drink refills, and then shoots me a concerned look before disappearing. There’s no way I’m going to be able to choke down one single bite after the news my unexpected lunch date just dropped, but for his part, Clete seems unaffected. He’s plowing through his cheeseburger—he decided against the winter BLT after all.
My gut says there’s no benefit to pestering Clete for more answers. If he claims he doesn’t know anything more, then he’s either telling the truth or he’s lying, but he’s not going to tell me more than he’s ready to spill.
We finish lunch in silence. I have the waitress—Delores, I finally recall—box up my food, and after I pay the bill, I give Clete the leftovers. He happily takes them, tells me again to watch my back, and disappears as quickly as he arrived.
It’s almost as if I dreamed my entire lunch break, like he was never in Heron Creek today at all. Only the raw pit of dread in my stomach promises it all happened. The bad part is, I haven’t the slightest idea what to do about it.
I get through the rest of the day on some kind of default setting, though I do remember to make copies of all of the Carlotta pages before stopping at the post office and overnighting them to Clara in Iowa City. I can’t help but wonder, briefly, if they have anything to do with this person supposedly snooping around Heron Creek for information on me, but if the warning has something to do with my father, like Clete believes, it’s more likely about his criminal past in the real world, not anything to do with his involvement in the spirit one.
I consider asking Henry what he knows, or seeing if he might reverse spy on my father, but dismiss the idea pretty quickly. For one thing, he’s not around. For another, my father is the one who can get ghosts to do his bidding, not me. If I tell Henry what Clete said today, chances are high that he would report to Frank and not the other way around, which would be…I don’t know. I’m pretty pissed at him right now for putting me in this position at all, so maybe it’s best if he stays away.
Thinking about Fr
ank brings Travis to mind, and the fact that we haven’t spoken since the other night makes me feel something like guilty. Maybe I’m too hard on him, like Millie says. If someone is after me because of Frank, maybe Travis needs to watch his back, too.
After I cancel our after-work plans, Mel texts me a couple of times to ask why, letting me know that she’s not buying the headache excuse. She’s too perceptive, that one, but Melanie Massie would take one look at me and force me, for the second time in as many days, to spill my guts about what’s bothering me. She’d tell me to go to Will, which is exactly where I should be going to discuss what amounts to some kind of threat—how serious or how real, it’s hard to say—but I’m not.
Not yet, anyway. As far as everyone else goes, Amelia would only worry, and Beau…well, I can’t exactly slip in this news after dropping a bombshell in his lap. Leo would probably grab a shotgun and take up sentry outside the house until further notice, which is tempting, but we have nothing more to go on than a cryptic warning. There isn’t much point in dwelling on it, so the best thing I can do is to keep my wits about me and focus on something else.
Luckily, there’s never a shortage of “something else” in my life.
I nudge my old Honda into the gravel lot outside the trailer Daria calls both home and work, then turn off the ignition and take a couple of breaths.
“Oh, it’s you,” Daria says by way of greeting, opening her front door in a ratty pair of leggings and a tie-dyed, off-the-shoulder T-shirt.
If anyone else had been dressed that way, I would have asked if they were headed out to an eighties costume party and maybe even have invited myself along, but with Daria, I assume this is normal Thursday attire and ignore it.
“It’s me,” I commiserate, trying not to smile.
