Not Quite Clear

by Lyla Payne

  “No,” Brick answers, grabbing his phone and wallet off the coffee table. He gives my cousin a small smile that’s a little too much like a private conversation before tipping his head to the rest of the group. “I was just leaving. Y’all have a good night.”

  Then he’s gone, Beau’s in the kitchen making the nonpregnant people a nightcap, and Mel seems to have been startled so badly by Brick being here at midnight that she’s forgotten what she’s doing here at midnight. She doesn’t even know what question to start with, I don’t think, so I just start spewing answers.

  “I just got home from the reunion. Everything went well.” I raise my eyebrows in a pointed look that tells her what she needs to know about curse-related things. I’ll fill them both in on the appearance of the pirates and their help once Beau isn’t in the other room. “Then we got home to find Brick here, supposedly doing Amelia a favor by telling her that the Middletons filed for a psych evaluation and doesn’t see any reason the judge would deny it.”

  “More bad news,” Mel murmurs, sitting down in Gramps’s old chair and propping up her feet. “Amelia called earlier and told me Phoebe wasn’t impressed with our sleuthing.”

  “Not so much.” I accept a glass of bourbon and warm honey from my boyfriend.

  He sits in the spare chair, letting me have the spot next to my cousin. “Did I miss what brings our friend Melanie Gayle out in the middle of the night? It must be something good.”

  “No, we were waiting for you.” I cast a questioning look at Mel. “Why are you here?”

  She pauses, and I wonder whether she’s going to be able to tell us with Beau in the room. He knows everything about Millie’s court case, though, and I don’t see what Mel could know about the curse that I don’t. I give her an encouraging nod.

  “After Amelia called me earlier today, I started thinking.”

  “Always dangerous,” I tease.

  “Right, well, then I started snooping down at the office.”

  “Mel.” My stomach drops into my butt. This is not what we discussed. “You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?” Beau asks, looking confused.

  “The Middletons are clients at the accounting firm where Melanie works,” Amelia supplies, not appearing surprised by the development.

  I wonder if they discussed it, then think again how this is the old Amelia. Beau doesn’t comment on the information, but the look on his face isn’t hard to interpret. He thinks this is a bad idea, that it’s going to lead to trouble, and I tend to agree with him. It’s why I asked Melanie not to get involved, not this way, but it’s done now.

  Besides that, it looks like we aren’t going to get anywhere our way. Clete was a bust, Anne Bonny’s “witnesses” didn’t pan out, and we don’t have any idea what to do next.

  Melanie takes a deep breath. “I think I might have found something. There’s a list of clients inside a file that’s just labeled with a number, and they’re all high-powered.”

  “Okay.” I chew on my lower lip, not noticing at first when it starts to bleed. “How do you know it’s something nefarious, though?”

  “Why wouldn’t the information be with their regular files? Why isn’t it labeled? Why isn’t there a digital version?” She sits forward in the chair, dropping her feet to the floor. “It’s worth a look. It’s suspicious.”

  “How? I mean…if there’s no other information in the file, how do we find out what it’s all about?” Amelia wonders out loud.

  I peek at Beau and find the same look of mild dismay. He’s not interrupting or telling us to stop, but he wants to. Maybe he knows it won’t do any good. Or maybe he wants to help Amelia, too, and can’t tell us to back off if he doesn’t have any better ideas.

  “That’s where it gets tricky.” Mel sighs. “In the file with the names is the name of an offshore bank. That’s it. And the Middletons’ regular file doesn’t have anything on that bank—no accounts, no investments, nothing.”

  “So they’re not connected to it, as far as Harrington wants you or anyone else who goes snooping to know.”

  “Right. Especially because that one file isn’t digitized. It would be pretty damn easy to get rid of.” She shakes her head. “I’d say I can’t believe he’s got it written down like that instead of just keeping it in his head, but the guy’s getting older. He forgets things all the damn time, and I’m guessing those type of clients aren’t big on having to remind the guy who handles their money where exactly he’s keeping it.”

  “Honestly, it’s suspicious enough that they use him instead of a big firm. People with money like that…they don’t invest it with one-horse operations in nowhere towns.” Beau’s the one leaning forward now, his interest apparently outweighing his trepidation. “My family wouldn’t.”

  “Exactly.” Mel nods, her jaw set and determined. “I could use Harrington’s e-mail and login information to find out more, but not without account numbers for that bank.”

  The statement hangs in the air, attached to Mel’s lips like in a comic book dialogue bubble. We stare at it, examine it fifteen different ways. I don’t know what’s going through everyone else’s mind right now, but I know what’s going through mine… We have to get those numbers. We have to prove the Middletons are up to no good, and with the judge ordering the psych evaluations and the hearing coming up fast, it’s the best lead we’ve got.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I whisper, not looking at my boyfriend. They all start to protest at once, Beau loudest of all. Amelia offers to help, Mel promises we can figure it out together, but they fall silent when I hold up a hand, pinning Beau down with a resigned gaze, first. “You’re the mayor of Heron Creek. You were discussing bigger things with your father a few hours ago. You cannot get into trouble and you know it.”

  He shakes his head, opening his mouth as though he’s going to argue, then decides against it. If I know Beau, the discussion is only on hold.

  I turn to Amelia. “You’re about to have a hearing that will determine the custody of your child. A recent arrest isn’t going to help your case, not to mention that if you’re involved in obtaining or touching this evidence at all, it’ll probably be inadmissible in court.” I check with Beau, who makes a wavering motion with his hand like it could go either way, then snorts at my glare. “And Mel, you’re assuming enough risk the way it is. I can’t let you go any further. I’m doing it.”

  None of them say anything or ask me how I’ll manage it, and when Beau and I go up to my room a little bit later, I prepare myself for a fight that never comes. Once we’re in bed, snuggled under the covers in shorts and T-shirts, too exhausted to think about doing anything other than taking comfort and falling asleep, he speaks his mind.

  “I’m not going to try to talk you out of trying to help Amelia, Gracie Anne. I don’t want to know what you’re planning or when or why, because you’re right about keeping the details in as small a circle as possible.” He rests his chin on top of my head. “I just wish that you would worry as much about your own future as you do everyone else’s.”

  “I already have a record,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. The attempt tumbles on its face as Beau doesn’t laugh. His arm tightens around me, transmitting concern. I frown. “I’ll call Leo and see if he’s up for it.”

  Beau’s quiet for so long that I think maybe he’s fallen asleep, and I almost have when he startles me with a reply. “I appreciate the things that Leo Boone is willing to do for you, you know. But it’s not easy to stand by and let him be the one by your side when I want to be there myself.”

  I snuggle closer, tipping my head to look into his sad, tired eyes. “I love you. You don’t have anything to worry about from Leo or anyone else.”

  “I know that, sweetheart. But love and worry just go hand in hand.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Are you sure these people are at that gala tonight?” Leo whispers from behind the shrub next to mine. He’s cloaked by shadows, which is why we’re hidden here in the f
irst place, but not being able to see his face frustrates me. “Like, you’d bet your dog on it?”

  Based on his voice, he’s starting to have…maybe not second thoughts, exactly, but some anxiety about breaking into the Middletons’ house. We have a key and the alarm code, thanks to Amelia—at least, we do if they haven’t thought to change one or both since their son’s untimely but well-deserved demise—so maybe we’re not technically breaking in.

  I doubt the cops will make the distinction if we get busted, though, and my hundredth twinge of guilt over calling Leo tweaks my chest. I could have come alone. I should have come alone, but truth be told, I’m scared. As hard as I try to pretend that all this is fine—the ghosts, my new detective career, helping a dead witch put curses on the living, and my boyfriend’s family, at that—it’s not fine. I’m not fine, but I’ve got a hell of a lot less to lose than everyone else involved.

  “I don’t have a dog.”

  “Neither do I. Dammit.”

  Leo doesn’t have much more to lose than I do, and maybe that’s why he always says yes, no matter what crazy thing I ask him to do with me next. It was his decision to be here tonight, but it hurts a piece of me I can’t quite find to know that even with Marcella and Lindsay in his life, my old friend feels like he doesn’t have all that much to lose, either.

  “I’m sure. Amelia double-checked the guest list with an old family friend, and her parents said more than once how awkward it was going to be to see their old in-laws there.” The mention of my aunt, a woman who is likely as worried about how this whole situation will affect her social standing as how it is trying to destroy her daughter, boils anger in my gut.

  It helps.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Okay.”

  We move from the shadows after we double-and triple-check the block to make sure we’re alone. It’s eleven p.m., not so late that people are asleep but late enough that the streets are quiet. The city is largely tucked in for the night, even if the Middletons and some of their neighbors are not, and we can’t wait any longer. These fancy-schmancy benefit galas, held periodically to raise money for the foundation that oversees preservation in Charleston, last until the wee hours, according to both my cousin and Beau, but we can’t be sure how long Randall and Bette are going to stay.

  The night is chilly and I’m glad for my black jacket, paired fashionably with black jeans and boots. Leo didn’t go so far in with the criminal-slash-spy look, opting for his typical dark-wash jeans and a long-sleeved maroon Gamecocks T-shirt, instead. We’re both all but invisible against the tan house because of the extensive landscaping casting impressive shadows against the stucco.

  Amelia’s key is to the back door—the old servants’ entrance, appropriately enough—and turns easily in the lock. The code she gave us to the alarm works without any trouble. In fact, getting inside the house turns out to be so easy that it’s hard to trust. It must be Leo’s good luck because it can’t be attached to me.

  The house is even nicer than I expect, and not because of its size. It’s a traditional Charleston single house, historical and much like the one where Cordelia Drayton chose to threaten me for the first time, out on her piazza. This house boasts the same double porch, but since we’re not after tea or a sea breeze, I think we can skip it.

  “Should we split up?” Leo asks softly.

  “Yeah. Same as when we did Jasper’s place.” I purposefully make it sound like we’re old pros and breaking in and tossing houses, which makes Leo roll his eyes.

  We have been in on our share of illicit projects, but in truth, the time we broke into the county sheriff’s house looking for proof that he was involved in Glinda’s death was the only other time we’ve done anything even close to this big.

  But we did do Jasper’s place, and Leo took the main floor while I explored upstairs, and he knows what I’m referring to, anyway.

  “You got it, boss.”

  The kitchen and entryway offer plenty of high-end appliances, expensive rugs, and rare antiques, but no file cabinets that look like they might contain financial information.

  “Ten minutes, Gracie. Not one minute more.” Leo gives me a hard look, the moonlight filtering through the windows and lighting his blue eyes.

  I nod, and we go our separate ways at the ornate, twisted staircase in the foyer. My head is a jumble of worries. The biggest one isn’t that we’re going to get caught.

  It’s that we’re not going to find anything.

  All this will have been for nothing, and Amelia will be right back where she started—a woman who can be described as “troubled” and about to lose her baby.

  Upstairs, I find a second parlor, five bedrooms, a couple of bathrooms and, blessedly, an office. Inside, there’s a desk and a bunch of paintings, bookcases, and a television but no cabinets. The desk only has one drawer, and based on the number of pretty pens in there and the closet full of needlepoint supplies, I gather this space belongs to Mrs. Middleton.

  I’m not one to be all sexist, but I don’t think I’m going to find what I’m looking for in here. My nerves tighten. They could have a safe—they probably have a safe—and if they’re involved in something illegal, wouldn’t it be awfully smart to keep the documents there?

  They’re cocky, though. Not used to being questioned, able to convince people to look the other way when they are. Leo and I talked all this through before coming here tonight, and we both think there’s a decent chance they keep all their banking information in one place. All their account numbers, checks, whatever.

  Not in here, though.

  Even so, I search the shelves and bookcases, checking for loose books or swipes in the thin layer of dust that some housekeeper is so going to get fired for someday soon. If they’re not as self-assured as I think, they could be trying harder to hide things and the wife’s room would be a perfect place.

  Nothing is out of order, though, and I move on, giving each bedroom a cursory glance before finding a back staircase that leads up to the attic. There’s nothing up there but junk, no matter how many boxes and tubs I scoot through the dust. If anyone comes up here they’re going to notice that shit has been moved around, but based on the lack of attention by even a cleaning staff, that’s not going to be the thing that raises suspicion.

  Disappointment throbs in my veins as I check my watch, then head for the stairs. Ten minutes have passed, plus a couple of seconds, and Leo has done his duty and then some. Maybe we both have, but it’s not good enough unless he found something downstairs.

  I step as lightly as possible on the stairs, trying my best to be sneaky and wincing at every creak and pop with a jumpiness that didn’t accompany me on the way up. My heart starts to race. Moisture leaches from my mouth, and all of a sudden I’m sure that I’m going to find my worst nightmare at the bottom of the staircase.

  Maybe it’s unreasonable panic, or maybe there’s a ghost or two in this house that haven’t shown themselves to me but are screwing with my emotions, but either way, there’s nothing downstairs but Leo skulking out of a room off the parlor.

  Relief grabs the backs of my knees so hard they almost give way. The expression on my face makes Leo rush forward, like he thinks he needs to catch me.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispers, concern evident in his squinted eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “What?” Leo asks. “Yes, what?”

  My heart leaps into my throat as I reach out and press my palm over his mouth, raising a finger on my opposite hand to my lips. I can’t breathe, can’t think.

  Because I’m not the one who’s talking.

  “Yes, Officer. A man in the house. I heard him rummaging around and talking to himself.” A pause. “Alone? I think so…”

  My eyes are so wide the lids feel stretched, but Leo’s already moving. His hand wraps around mine, urging my feet into motion. The voice is coming from the back of the house, near the kitchen door where we snuck in, maybe, so we have to go out a different way. Leaving out t
he front after the police have been called wouldn’t be my first choice, but it’s looking like we don’t really have one.

  We’re almost there. The front door looms, one of those ornate wood and stained glass jobs that’s totally not historically accurate, when footsteps shuffle into the foyer.

  “Stop! I’ll shoot.”

  “Run,” Leo hisses, pulling me in front of him and turning me loose with a shove.

  I hit the front door with my palms, then fumble for the lock. It clicks open and I yank, stumbling out onto the porch with Leo behind me. I’ve hit the bottom step when the deafening sound of a gunshot shatters the night.

  Leo grunts. I spin around, panicked, and watch him stumble down the last steps with a grimace twisting his handsome features.

  “Oh my god!”

  “Go… Run!”

  I twist, trying to get a good look at him, make sure he’s okay, as we hightail it out through the garden. My car, all fixed up from the incident the night we went out to Clete’s, waits less than a block away, but when I get there, Leo’s not with me.

  He lags a couple hundred feet behind, dropped onto his knees on the sidewalk. I run back, on some kind of weird autopilot that doesn’t allow me to totally panic and lose my shit in the face of not only the sound of police sirens but the sight of blood soaking through Leo’s shirt.

  “Oh holy shit you’re shot,” I pant out, scanning the street. Lights are starting to flick on up and down the block. One person has opened the front door. “We have to get out of here, Leo.”

  I bend down and sling his arm over my shoulders, using what little strength I have in my noodle thighs and old-lady back to lift him up. He’s helping, but it’s costing him. By the time we get to the car he has to bend over and throw up.

  “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “Leo, shut up. Stop apologizing for getting shot.” Tears clog my throat, coat my words as I stuff him into the passenger seat and run around to the driver’s side.

  Slow down. Don’t raise suspicion.

  I drive off with as much decorum as humanely possible, hoping everyone is too focused on the sound of gunfire and the approaching police cars to pay any attention to the old Honda turning the corner. Once we’re a minute away, I give in to the panic.