Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “What? I haven’t taken any herbs or eaten anything odd.”

  “Did you find traces in her blood?”

  “Yes, we did. Significant amounts.” Her eyes flick to me before landing back on her patient.

  It crosses my mind that she’s evaluating Millie’s mental health. As though she thinks my cousin could have done this on purpose, tried to abort her baby.

  “Is it possible to ingest or…breathe them in or something and not know?” Amelia’s confusion thickens the question, as though she’s not sure exactly why this is happening.

  “They have a pretty intense scent and taste, and they’re not terribly common, so I’d say it’s unlikely.” The doctor snaps closed her pad and pins my cousin with a look. “We’re going to keep you here overnight to make sure everything flushes out of your system properly, but then you’re free to go. I’d advise you to be more careful with unknown food and drink during your pregnancy.”

  Her patient swallows and nods, a little too meek for my tastes. I want her to yell at that doctor, tell her no way that’s right, or if it is, it has to be an accident, but the fear glistening in Millie’s eyes stills my tongue.

  “I will. And ma’am?”

  “Dr. Lyons.”

  “Dr. Lyons…did you call the baby a him?” Amelia holds her breath, eyes huge and full of expectation. It’s not clear whether she wants to know or doesn’t want to know.

  “It’s a boy. I’m sorry. I thought you knew because you referred to him that way first.”

  Tears spill over now, and the smile that lights up Millie’s face can’t fail to convince the doctor that she would never, ever do anything to harm the little guy growing inside her. It seems to relax the entire room, like the ceiling and doorframe and the tops of the windows all sag with certainty.

  Then we’re alone. I sit on the edge of the bed and fold my cousin in a hug, careful to avoid the wires attached to her arms and hand and belly, but holding on tight. “It’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.”

  She nods, and once her heartbeat stops fluttering like a pent-up bird, she lies back on the pillows, hands brushing her belly with light strokes. A soft smile paints her face with the kind of beauty that exceeds even her typical blinding fare. “A boy. I knew it.”

  Remembering my conversation with Beau about the lack of boys in our family, the confirmation makes me sure time is running out.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There doesn’t seem to be any point in hanging around the hospital after Amelia falls asleep. She makes me promise to come back for dinner, and to bring her something that’s not hospital food—she and I share an aversion to Jell-O that neither of our grandparents ever understood. I agree before heading out to the parking lot and then taking a right to hike back toward the center of town.

  My phone’s in my hand, Melanie’s number punched in, the moment I’m free of the doors.

  “Hello? Gracie? Is everything okay with Amelia and the baby?”

  “Yes, at least for now. They’ve stopped the contractions and don’t foresee a repeat.”

  “Did they find out why it happened?” The edge in her voice makes me smile. Mama Bear Mel.

  “They said she somehow ingested some kind of herbs that can induce labor.”

  “How?”

  “We don’t know. The stupid doctor was acting like she might have done it on purpose, but obviously that’s not the case.” Even though things are bad at home, and Jake is not going to make a gold-star father, I have to believe Millie would leave him before harming her child. Have to.

  “Okay, well, I guess that’s good news. Maybe later we can help her go over everything she ate or drank today and figure out where she got into it. We definitely don’t want to go through that again.”

  “Sure. I told her I’d be back with dinner by six thirty. We could grab takeout from the Wreck and eat with her.”

  “Sounds good.” A squeal in the background shatters my eardrum. Grant is going to steal her attention sooner than later. “I need a favor, Mel.”

  “Okay…” Her hesitation is warranted, knowing the kind of favors I’ve asked her for over the years.

  At least this one’s legal.

  “I’m running back to the library to grab my purse and keys—is there any way you could meet me there? I have something to tell you, and it can’t wait.”

  “Sure, I think that can work. Will should be home any time, so I can leave Grant. Fifteen minutes?”

  “See you then.”

  Melanie rushes into the library a mere ten minutes later, red-cheeked and sweaty. I sit on one side of a table made for first-graders, because it’s the farthest from the front desk. She sits on the other side, and no doubt the two of us look pretty funny. Like giants.

  It’s not even that Anne’s diaries are a secret, at least they won’t be for much longer, but Mrs. LaBadie has done everything in her power to make my life more difficult, and after she creeped me out earlier, I’ve never wanted less for her to overhear. If it weren’t nine hundred degrees outside I would have waited on the steps.

  “Hey, sorry. Will was running late.” She sucks in more air, pressing her palms against the table. “Man. I’ve got to get in better shape. What’s up?”

  “Okay, so you know how Amelia was in the archives earlier today looking for something for me?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, it turns out you might have the answer. I’m looking for genealogical information on the family of Mary Read. The pirate.”

  “I know who she is, Gracie. She’s a relation. My granny’s side.”

  Mel says this as if it’s no big deal, as though she’s commenting on my dress or the fact that it’s still a bazillion degrees outside. My mouth falls open, but in the back of my mind, I’m not sure why it surprises me. It’s exactly the kind of information that wouldn’t impress her.

  “How have you never mentioned this before now? Have you always known?”

  “Um, I guess? I wasn’t really interested in any of that crap as a kid, you know, and besides, she’s not really the kind of woman a respectable family wants to claim.” She pauses, then grins at me. “I mean, she’s probably the kind of ancestor you would like to claim, but not me.”

  “Thanks,” I say dryly.

  “Anyway, when Granny was dying a few years ago I spent time with her and she talked a lot about it—how we’re actually Mary’s ‘lost’ descendants since the history books don’t record her child living. It’s sort of interesting, I guess.” She pauses, her lips pulling down into a frown. “But how do you know about it?”

  Melanie’s always been sharp, and I’m hoping she paid more than passing attention to her Granny’s stories.

  “I came across a diary written by a woman who claims to be Anne Bonny, and there’s a bit in it about Mary Read. Anne claims to have brought Mary’s baby back to the mainland when her father secretly sprung her from jail, and that a cousin or aunt—she’s not clear on that—in Virginia took the baby in.”

  “That’s pretty much the story I heard. It was a cousin.”

  “It also says that later in her life, Anne’s husband forced her to send her son to live with that same family, when he was a teenager. He took the other half of her journal with him.” Mel sits up, her chocolate eyes sparkling. It’s a mystery, she can smell it. Her eager-beaver face fills my heart with hope, because once Mel gets her teeth into something, she won’t let go.

  “I need the other half of the journal. If Jack Jr. made it to Virginia, he was supposed to entrust it to Mary’s family for safekeeping.”

  “Her son’s name was Jack?”

  “Yes. After her husband. He went to Virginia as Jack Cormac, her maiden name.”

  “Granny talked about him, too, like he was Mary’s brother. One of us.”

  “They took him in.”

  “Yes. It seems he was quite charming. For what it’s worth, he made quite a lot of his life, stirring up a good amount of trouble in local politics, if Granny’s t
o be believed.”

  I’m grinning from ear to ear before I realize what’s happening, and my first, disturbing thought is to wonder if Anne knows her son lived. Flourished. She must be thrilled.

  “If the entire story is to believed, it makes sense that any child of Anne Bonny and Calico Jack Rackham wouldn’t be much for blending into the background.” My smile fades with the memory of why I came here to begin with—to find the other half of the diary, learn what Anne discovered about the curse on her son, and somehow make her feel better about the whole thing. “Do you know anything about the journal?”

  Mel eyes me, sniffing out not only the mystery, but the fact that she’s not being told the whole of it. My breath catches, because along with the excitement spawned by my discovery, an unexpected fear douses me.

  Someone in Heron Creek isn’t keen on my uncovering anything that might be hidden in those archives, which is exactly where Anne wanted me to go, and the idea of involving Mel makes me uncomfortable, at best.

  “What aren’t you telling me? What’s so important about this diary?”

  “I won’t know until I read the other half, but it means a lot that I do.”

  Her gaze sharpens, clings to my response with invisible talons. “Means a lot to whom?”

  “Me, maybe Amelia.” I swallow hard. “Anne Bonny.”

  “Anne Bonny?” she says, too loudly for my taste, then glances over her shoulder at my obvious wince. She lowers her voice. “Don’t you think she’s a little, you know, dead to be worried about what became of her old diary?”

  “Probably.”

  “Are you being haunted, Gracie? Have you gone mad, is that what this is about?” She’s full of giggles. They pry open her lips and spill out all over the kiddie table.

  “Would you lower your voice?” I hiss, wanting to smash them. “Yes, okay, I’ve been seeing her ghost and that’s how I found the diary. Amelia saw her, too. You can ask her.”

  The mention of my cousin being willing to back me up slays the giggles where they writhe in delight, and her expression turns skeptical. Questioning. Amelia is historically less prone to nonsense and theatrics than yours truly. “I can go through Granny’s things before I come to the hospital. She only had a couple boxes when she died in the nursing home, and there are a few books. I’ll check.”

  I cover her hands with mine, the gesture of warmth surprising us both. Impulsive affection has almost disappeared completely from my life, aside from the mayor, and the fact that it feels good needles me with discomfort. When I left Iowa City, it was with determination—mostly to not put myself in the position of depending on anyone else again.

  Ever.

  Yet here I am, needing Mel’s help. Accepting Beau’s support, in more ways than one. It feels like an old sweater, maybe even one that had once been well loved but shrunk along the way until it didn’t fit. It could be that it’ll stretch back out, with some love and time.

  If I want it to.

  “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you, Mel,’” she says, her tone soft, eyes careful.

  “You always did say things better than me,” I quip in return, breaking the tension but not the feeling of friendship between us. “I’m going to grab dinner and head to the hospital. You see what you can find in those boxes and join us, if you can get away.”

  “Will’s home all night. He won’t mind.”

  Will never minded girl time, or being on his own for a few hours or even a weekend. One of his better qualities, though he had more than a few.

  “Okay.” I stand up and snag my purse from the back of the miniature chair. “What do you want for dinner?”

  “Fish tacos, duh. Nothing to drink.” She sighs. “I miss wine already.”

  We step into the stacks and nearly run down Mrs. LaBadie. A scowl twists her face, one that makes her resemble a rabid raccoon or an angry crocodile—she’s all teeth and crazed black eyes. Even Mel starts and takes a step back. The old woman makes no excuse for hovering so close, and there’s no cart of books or other reason for her to be back here. The library closes in five minutes; she’s always ready to go the moment clock ticks to five thirty. She was spying on us.

  When she whirls away without a word, something oily and unsavory clings to the air. Mel raises her eyebrows, one hand pressed to her chest, and I shrug. “I don’t know. She’s a freak.”

  “She was listening to us.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Melanie, Amelia, and I had a great time at the hospital last night, despite the circumstances. We all love the Fourth of July, and being together again, the sound of fireworks booming and crackling and popping outside the windows, provides a kind of magic even though our conversations are less than helpful. Mel hadn’t realized her Granny’s boxes were in storage, so she’d have to wait until morning to get to them, and Amelia couldn’t remember drinking or eating anything that would have contained those random herbs. Even so, the three of us gossiped, caught up on the past five-plus years, and even though rekindling their friendships hadn’t been part of my plan when returning here, it’s starting to feel as though it’s just what I need.

  Between the two of them, Anne, and Beau, I might as well give up on a damn thing going as planned.

  I’m up by seven thirty, which is obscene even considering my bedtime of 10:00 p.m., but stumbling half blind into the bathroom to find Anne sitting on the closed toilet seat startles me fully awake, nose first. I clap my hands over my mouth to muffle my shriek, even though there isn’t anyone else around to hear now.

  “Do you pick the places you show up based on which will be most likely to make me shit my pants?” I growl at her, still trying to coax my heart out of my ass. She doesn’t reply, per usual, but the sparkle in her typically pissy gaze confirms my suspicions. “I can’t say I approve, since it’s my shit, but I suppose there isn’t a whole lot that amuses you these days.”

  I turn on the shower, then eye her. “Are you going to watch?”

  She cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t move, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Making me uncomfortable isn’t going to make Mel find the other half of your diary any faster. Did you know your son became a politician? I would love to have heard what he had to say about the Civil War.” Her expression changes from one of mild interest to rapt attention, and guilt at my scant details pinches my cheeks until they burn. I should have thought to research him further. “I don’t know details, but I can look them up if you want and tell you later.”

  She looks satisfied, at least for now, and when I check on her again after testing the water temperature, she’s nowhere to be seen. Which is good, because I’d love to not smell like rotting wood during breakfast with Beau.

  A shower, makeup, and fresh clothes—Amelia did my laundry—help me achieve that goal, and the cool morning air puts a smile on my face when I step out the front door, locking it behind me. If reasons exist to get up early, sunrise might be one of them.

  “Where’s Miss Amelia?” Mrs. Walters rocks on her front porch, two houses down, and squints as though the sun ought to slink away because it’s inconveniencing her.

  The reply that it’s none of her damn business shoots onto my tongue, but I bite it back at the last second. It’s not the way people respond to prying conversation, not in Iowa and not in Heron Creek. “She’ll be along soon, Mrs. Walters. I’ll be sure to tell her you were worried about her. So kind of you.”

  “Humph. And your aunt and uncle, they going to sell the house now that Martin’s passed on?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure they’ll want to do what’s best for the community when the time comes.” My steps take me past her porch, and I force a smile, too bright and perhaps a little on the sneery side. “I hope you have a lovely day, ma’am.”

  She humphs again, but it’s almost not strong enough to follow me. The sun climbs higher in the sky, which abandons its pastel hues for a bright, cloudless blue. The walk to Beau’
s takes about fifteen minutes, and it’s a pleasant one, with the scent of salt on the air. I take a path that trails along the marshy portion of the riverfront, deciding to carry my shoes so they won’t get muddy. It’s a toss-up, muddy feet or muddy shoes, but if Beau doesn’t like me with dirty toes, we were never going to work out, anyway.

  The feeling of the squishy ground relaxes my soul. The sound of a car creeps up the street behind me, but I don’t turn around. I’m twenty feet off the sidewalk, so no need to worry, and I’m simply not concerned with the humans that live in Heron Creek this morning. Right now, the blue herons, great egrets, and hawks command my attention and hold it captive with their elegance and chatter.

  They take flight all at once, the birds gathered nearest to me in the trees and along the marshy bank, at the same moment that the sound of footsteps registers, followed by an impossibly strong grip that pinches my elbows together behind my back. I get an impression of a smallish, black-clad figure before it twists my arm, hard, and kicks my legs out from underneath me. The scream that gathered in my chest wheezes out in a pointless gasp as my face hits the marshy ground. The weight on top of me seems far too much, the strength an insane impossibility for how small the figure seems.

  I’m not much of a fighter, but my assailant blocks every attempt at bucking them off, thwarting twists by delivering a crazy amount of pain to my twisted shoulder, and I give up and lie still, listening to the sound of my breaths fill the quiet morning.

  “What do you want?” I manage to gasp between stabs of pain.

  The person doesn’t answer, and my heart accelerates. Sweat drips down my temples and into my hair, dampens my armpits, and pools between my breasts. There’s dirt and moss on my lips. It tastes earthy as I lick it away, then bite down to manage the pain. I could scream, but if no one’s close enough to see what’s going on, no one’s close enough to hear.

  The ninja-person drags me into the waist-high grasses closer to the river. Every lecture my mother ever gave me about paying attention to my surroundings plays in my ears, and I have a feeling now that she didn’t mean watching birds. I whimper as the person wrenches my arms again, then kicks my ribs when my noise level rises toward a shriek.