Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “Okay …” It sounds too good to be true, especially since knowing where they’re operating has probably nailed my coffin halfway shut already. Except for the drink part.

  “How did you find my place out in Berkeley County?”

  “Big Ern showed me the way. Remember?” It’s probably unwise to sass him, but sassing is default mode for me.

  “Ern caught you on my property to begin with or he wouldn’t have brought you to the house.” He gives me a look that reminds me of every overtired schoolteacher I’ve ever had. “You might not have been looking for me, but you were out there looking for something. I don’t take kindly to strangers, and I certainly don’t like having to restrain myself from shooting trespassers. An answer, sweet thing.” The pause is quick, calculated. “Maybe our friend Mr. Gayle didn’t happen upon you quite so accidentally.”

  I hasten to dispel that idea, not wanting to put Will in any kind of danger.

  But I don’t like the way he said our friend.

  “I came out there looking for Glinda’s house. I didn’t know I crossed your property to get there, or even where I was going, really. It was all an accident.”

  “See, the thing is, none of us were aware anyone here in Heron Creek knew about that bitch’s associations in Berkeley County. Or about ol’ Merle’s homestead. So how is it you come to know?”

  There’s a gleam in his pitch brown eyes that says I’m not getting away with skirting the issue. Dread gathers in my belly, heavy and cold, promising that the only answer Clete’s going to accept is the truth.

  Except he doesn’t realize the truth is more unbelievable than an accident. There’s nothing to do but take a deep breath and expel the honest version, no matter how marbleless it makes me look.

  “Glinda showed me.”

  “Glinda ain’t been out there in years. She sends her man, Cooter, to do all the runnin’, ever since Merle passed, and she’s dead besides.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask exactly how Merle passed, but figure I’d rather not know. And Will told me about Cooter. These names, I swear. It’s like they have no dignity at all.

  Stupid nickname or not, this Cooter could know more about Glinda’s life outside the Creek. Big Ern might even know where to find him. Maybe there’s a catalog company that sells big brutes willing to traipse about the foothills and take part in clandestine interests.

  Big Sal, Big Art, Big Lou …

  I close my eyes, trying to shut off my brain as it rattles on nervously. “Glinda’s ghost took me out there. She wanted me to find something, or do something, I don’t know. So she can move on.”

  His eyes bug out, and his mouth hangs a bit slack, the very first time he’s shown any kind of genuine surprise in my presence. I’ve managed to shock him.

  Clete regains control of his expression a moment later, clamping his lips shut and squinting at me the same way most people squint at bugs having sex on the sidewalk. “You’re serious, ain’t you? Or at least, you think you are.”

  The fact that the man’s a good judge of character and truthfulness shouldn’t surprise me, yet it does, a little bit. Maybe you don’t stay alive long in his business if you don’t pick up things like being able to read people.

  “Trust me, I’m serious. I wish I weren’t.”

  “Let’s just suppose there are such things as ghosts and that you can communicate with them. What’s the ol’ bat want out of that house?”

  I shrug. “I never got to look. She can’t just tell me. I have to figure it out.”

  He studies me another minute, then shakes his head and guffaws. That takes me by surprise, and I feel my eyebrows climb toward my hairline as this wiry, tanned criminal giggles like a schoolgirl on my doorstep.

  There’s a prickly feeling between my shoulder blades, as though we’re being watched; no doubt Mrs. Walters has made it home and is observing the whole scene from the crack between her robin’s egg blue living-room curtains.

  I hope for her sake that she doesn’t decide to come over and question Clete herself. I might not like the woman, but I don’t want anyone else to end up dead in this town—partially because that old hag would haunt me for no good reason until the day I die.

  “Since you find me so amusing, does that mean you’re not going to shoot me where I stand?”

  That only makes him laugh harder. After several minutes, he calms down, wiping his eyes and trying to get rid of a ridiculous case of the hiccups. “Lordy, girl, you are pretty damn funny. Shoot you where you stand? This ain’t the Wild West, and I ain’t Andrew Jackson, God rest his soul. If I wanted to get rid of ya, you’d be weighed down to the bottom of the nearest creek. As long as you don’t tell no one else where to find me and mine, we’re going to be fine.” He pauses. “Not that anyone would believe a lunatic, anyhoo. I reckon we’re in the clear. We are going to have a drink, though.”

  His reasoning makes sense, as much as I’d like to argue it. If I went into town and started parading on about moonshiners in Berkeley County—one of whom had been our recently and dearly departed hairdresser—people wouldn’t pay me any mind. But it would give them one more thing to talk about at dinner.

  “Why are you insisting on that drink? If you’re not trying to poison me, like you say.”

  “You’re gonna piss me off, insulting my product, callin’ it poison. This here’s the best moonshine in the state, you’d better believe it. And drinkin’ some together’s the way we seal deals in the hills.”

  “Like smoking the peace pipe with the natives, huh?” I still don’t want to sip that nasty shit, but getting rid of Clete and not pissing him off in the process sound like two pretty good options to me. “Fine. You go first.”

  He takes a giant gulp of the clear liquid, then another, before holding the jar out to me while he wipes his hairy wrist over his upper lip.

  I take the jar, holding my breath so none of it goes up my nose and makes me sick before we even get going. For someone who had been dead set on alcoholism as a pastime just a few months ago I’m being a huge baby about a few swigs, but vodka and grain alcohol are not the same thing.

  Even so, I take a deep breath, tip the jar against my lips, and swallow.

  My mouth is on fire. So are my insides all the way down, until my stomach bursts into flames. The remainder of the liquid in my mouth spurts out in a sprayed arc, and Clete moves pretty damn quickly to get out of the way.

  “What in tarnation, girl?”

  “I’m burning alive,” I moan, swallowing as much spit as I can muster while the flames in my stomach calm to glowing embers. This is going to result in a massive intestinal issue by tomorrow morning, no doubt in my mind.

  “I don’t know if I like it much, being seen with a girl who claims to see the ghost of a nosy old woman and can’t hold her liquor.”

  That hits my pride. “Hey. I can hold my liquor. It just surprised me.”

  To prove my point, I take another drink and succeed in controlling my reaction to the smallest grimace, even though tears prick my eyes. It’s the force of how it hits the first time that got me. Clete looks appeased, at least. “Don’t worry, Mr. Raynard, I—”

  “Clete.”

  “Fine, Clete. I have no intention of telling anyone where they can get their moonshine direct from the distributor.” Not anyone I don’t want to kill with intestinal fire, anyway.

  His newfound lack of respect for any threat I might pose gives me an idea. Let it never be said that Gracie Harper can’t take advantage of a situation. “Maybe since you and I are all friendly-like now, you wouldn’t mind if I come out and take a look through the Davis’s cabin?”

  I turn on my most charming smile while he narrows his gaze on me again, apparently using his people skills to intuit whether I’m trying to pull some Spanish moss over his eyes.

  “I don’t suppose that would be too much trouble. Could be I’d even have Glinda’s man Cooter meet you at the gas station first thing Sunday morning and be your escort.”

>   It crosses my mind to ask why Sunday, but he’s being generous, and, to be honest, going out there alone wigs me out even without the potential of him sending someone to kill me.

  Of course, there’s no way to know whether or not this Cooter is really Glinda’s man or secretly one of Clete’s—or he could have been both—and the country thug has decided to get rid of me after all. It’s enough to make my mouth go a little dry, the idea of allying with the likes of Clete, but the thought of Glinda watching my every move until the end of time sounds like a way worse option.

  “Okay, fine. But don’t think I’m going out there without telling someone where I’m headed. You’ll be in trouble if you make me sleep with the fishes.”

  That makes him let loose a chortle. “You can tell ‘em in general, but anyone else shows up on my property, you and I are going to have a decidedly less friendly chat.”

  “If that means sans moonshine, I’m all for it,” I reply.

  He doesn’t give me much of a reaction, just shakes his head on his way past me and down the street. Right toward Mrs. Walters’s house.

  Oy vey.

  “I’m not a mobster, Miss Harper. Not in the strictest sense. And given that I’ve told you you’re no kind of threat to me and mine, you have nothing to worry about. Hell, you and I might well end up being friends.”

  Somehow I doubt that’s going to be the case, but what the hell. There’s some saying about having friends in high places, but in the business of helping ghosts and unearthing secrets some people think best left buried, maybe having friends in low ones will serve me just as well.

  It’s not until he’s gone and I’m safely behind locked doors that I realize I should have taken more of advantage of our newfound…if not alliance, at least understanding I should have at least asked what the feud between him and the Davises was about in the first place.

  I suppose what started it doesn’t matter now. Merle’s dead, Glinda’s dead, and whether or not Clete had anything to do with it is beyond my ability to uncover.

  It’s harder than I expect to accept that, because even though I know everyone’s right about me not being a detective and that I’m way out of my depth, I can’t just look her in the face every day and do nothing. She might not have been at the top of anyone’s Christmas card list, but she was a fixture in this town and everyone loved her in their own way. It seems to me that looking the other way now is as bad as helping take her life in the first place.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Oh my heavens, Grace. That man could have killed us both and not blinked an eye. He’s slicker than owl shit.” Millie’s face is pale, and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead and upper lip. She’s hot all the time, even though the temperature in the house resembles a walk-in freezer specially designed for a serial killer, so her sweat may or may not have anything to do with Clete showing up to chat. Even so, I feel badly for having caused her more distress.

  Then again, maybe it’s not such a bad thing to give her something to focus on that’s not what happened with Jake, what might still happen with the baby growing in her belly and Mrs. LaBadie, and just the general shitshow her life’s turned into over the past several years.

  “He’s not going to do anything, at least not now. I get the feeling he thinks of me as an amusing new pet, since I had to tell him I see ghosts and everything.”

  That makes her snort, and the tension on her face relaxes in the process. Her fingers rub tiny, absentminded circles on her belly as she closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths through her nose. “I would have loved to have seen his face when you told him about poor Glinda.”

  “He thought it was hilarious. In fact, he’s so convinced no one would believe someone whose marbles are scattered to the ends of the earth that he’s going to let me go through Glinda’s cabin later this week.”

  “But you don’t even know where to start,” Amelia protests, her emerald green eyes snapping open. “And don’t even think about going out there alone. I’ll come with you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ll take Leo.”

  “Grace, come on. That man won’t take kindly to you showing anyone else where his well-hidden hideout is, and you know it. But he knows I saw him and probably figures I asked questions.”

  “That doesn’t mean he wants you to know where he lives.”

  “Okay, so take Will, then.”

  It’s tempting, but after my confrontation with Mel and all of the subsequent promises to be more sensitive to her feelings and the troubles that are plaguing their marriage, it feels wrong to even consider asking him.

  “I’ll think about it, okay? But I really think Clete and I have reached an understanding. I’ll make sure my phone is charged and with me, and I’ll check in before I leave the car and as soon as I get back. We can even set up deadlines, so you can call in the cavalry if I miss one.”

  “Beau’s not going to like it.”

  “That’s why we’re not going to tell him.”

  He’s not going to like that, either, and he’ll want to know why I just don’t talk to his friend Jasper and take a police escort out to Berkeley County. But involving any kind of authority at this point would be about the worst thing for the understanding between Clete and me. It makes sense to me; convincing Beau would be another matter altogether.

  “I know recent experience has rendered me pretty much useless when it comes to relationship advice, but I have to say, omitting things like becoming buddies with moonshiners can’t be the best thing for you two. And given the few juicy details I’ve managed to pry out of you, you don’t want to ruin things quite yet.”

  “That’s true. I suspect the mayor has many more layers of goodness that need to be unwrapped.”

  Amelia rolls her eyes. “You are one serious nerd.”

  “You love me.”

  Her expression grows serious. “I do love you, Grace. As much as I tease you and am used to you running around pell-mell and getting into trouble, I worry about you. Your little cousin and I can’t do this life thing without you. So, please be careful.”

  “I promise,” I manage through a sudden burning in my throat.

  “Good. Now, enough of that sappy crap. Can we order that pizza? The game’s going to start soon.” She pushes to her feet with more effort than it took a month ago.

  Her imbalance makes me snicker and earns me an impressive glare. “You’re going to make a great mom, Millie.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Half pepperoni and half everything they’ve got in the fridge. I’m going to pee.”

  We’re settled in front of the television, pizza box flopped open and the contents decimated, mostly by my cousin. I wanted a third piece but feared she might eat my hand.

  The Braves game flickers on the screen, the sound turned down so that the voices of the announcers, almost as familiar as family, are a humming soundtrack to the evening. It’s sad for the two of us to be here without Grams and Gramps but there’s something peaceful about it, too. Something right, that it should be the two of us together in this house, as though this is the way it was always meant to end up.

  Life goes on, no matter how hard we try to freeze it. Even after the mostly terrible events of the past six months, I wouldn’t trade a single one of them if it meant losing Amelia’s friendship all over again.

  “Well, that was pretty good.” She flops back against the cushions on her side of the couch, propping her bare legs and feet into my lap.

  I toss my paper plate onto the table and settle back, too, basking in the simple comfort of our familiarity. “You know, I think living with you could be a really good diet plan. Maybe I could market it. Ow!”

  She dug her big toe between my ribs but lets up after making me squeal. “You try growing a person. But seriously, it is so fucking hot in here, and my back hurts, and I’ve pretty much stopped sleeping. Can you think of something to entertain me?”

  “You want to play cards?”

  “No. All two-person card games are wort
hless.”

  “You’re so cranky.” I shift, leaning forward to grab my phone without dislodging her feet. There’s a text from Beau asking how my evening’s going and I reply while Millie pouts.

  “Hey, I know! Let’s work on finding out about your other ghost some more.” Her eyes sparkle like they always have when there’s a mystery firmly in sight.

  Amelia’s been more into trying to figure out who he is than I have, especially since Glinda showed up. One ghost at a time is more than enough.

  “Ugh. I can’t think about it anymore.”

  “Please? Indulge me. Draw a picture again”—she’s forced me to try several times—“but this time try to make it look like someone over the age of eight was holding the pencil.”

  “Fine.” I push her feet away and trudge into the kitchen to grab the notepad by the phone and a pencil from the stained coffee mug that doubles as a caddy.

  “And put some details in this time,” she demands from the other room. “Oh, and can you bring me a diet Sprite? I’ve got so much reflux I feel like I’m gargling acid.”

  “That’s a pretty picture,” I say, coming back into the room. I sit down on the couch and pull the coffee table closer so it can double as a drawing surface.

  Millie cracks open her soda and watches the baseball game, which is in the bottom of the sixth and starting to get interesting. Gramps always said pitching is the most important piece of the puzzle, but good pitching can mean some snoozefest, actionless contests, especially without him here explaining what pitches are being thrown, and why, how, and when mistakes are being made.

  I’ve learned enough to analyze it on my own, and so has Millie, but I don’t have the heart to get into it. Not tonight.

  I’m making a fruitless effort at sketching the man-ghost who’s haunting me. I draw him wearing a mishmash of Spanish, English, and pirate clothing but that’s about where the realism ends. Drawing is not my strong suit. He’d look more like a human being if I gave him stick limbs, but I figure that will just make my cousin tell me to start over.