by Lyla Payne
I follow her into a conference room. Twelve chairs ring a rectangular mahogany table, and there’s a screen hung on the wall at one end, but other than that, the room is empty.
“Have a seat, hon. I’ll get you the transcript. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
“Sweet tea?” I ask with a smile. No need to be distracted by a dry throat and an empty stomach, and sweet tea can pretty much make anything better. Even reading council minutes.
“Of course, sugar. Be right back.”
I wander to the rear of the conference room to wait and check out the view from the third floor, since windows make up the entire back wall. Heron Creek charms me, as it always does, with the highest points in the town being our three church steeples, keeping watch over all of the houses and streets and green spaces hugged by the Charles River to the east and south.
“It’s good to see you again,” comes a vaguely familiar, whiny voice from behind me.
It makes me jump and I reach out, leaving a sweaty handprint on the clean glass that’s probably going to drive poor Karen nuts, before whirling around on unsteady legs.
The man with one hand on the doorway and a genial smile on his face looks familiar. It’s not until he walks forward, hand outstretched, that it clicks in my mind. “Oh, we met at Beau’s birthday party.”
“Yes!” His face lights up, deep wrinkles appearing around his eyes. “Randy Wideman. I’m in charge of constituent services.”
Whatever that means. “I remember. Graciela Harper.”
“Of course. You’re dating Beau. The ghost girl.”
I flinch, even though he says it as if he’s delighted and not as if he thinks he’s talking to a flat-out lunatic. “That’s me.”
“Fantastic.” He glances around. “So, what are you doing here today? Can I help you with something?”
Before I can tell him why I’m here—his title makes me wonder whether or not he’d be able to answer my questions at least as well as Beau can—Karen hustles back in with a binder-clipped stack of papers and a sweating glass of sweet tea with a lemon wedge on the rim.
“Oh, Councilman Wideman, I thought you were gone for the day.”
He watches her like a hawk as she sets my materials and my drink down on the table. “I wanted to stop by and get the contact information for the contractors we’re deciding on for the park project.”
“Oh, well, that’s what Miss Harper here is curious about—she’s going to read through the transcripts from the meeting.”
For some reason, the way he looks at me feels like cold slugs crawling on my skin. Nerves flutter in my belly and emerge in sputtered words. Of course. “You know, I’m an interested citizen. Concerned, really; I just want to hear what’s happening in Heron Creek and all.”
Karen gives me a look, the look I’m used to, the one that promises now I’m being weird. It makes me giggle, which might sound insane but at least it’s not more babble.
“You have some particular interest in the park renovation?” Randy asks, his wide eyes somehow more innocent than his question.
Come on, brain. Do something productive. “Well, I don’t know if it’s particular, but I have a friend from college who’s an up-and-coming sculptor. I told her I’d see if I could find out what kind of artwork the Council is looking for in the new park, maybe pass along the information in case she wants to make a bid.”
“What’s her name?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure y’all are going to want to go with someone local and all.”
“Perhaps.” He eyeballs me a moment longer, none of his bemused good humor present any longer. He seems more perplexed by me now, maybe even a tad irritated.
It’s not as though people don’t have those reactions to me on the regular, but for some reason this guy is making me feel as if what I’m saying or doing, or even the fact that I’m here right now, is an affront to him specifically.
“I can help you find the information you’re looking for, Randy. We’ll leave you alone, Graciela, and I’ll make sure to tell the mayor where you are.”
“Thank you,” I reply, flicking a nervous glance toward the uptight councilman.
I wonder whether Beau brought him here to work for him on purpose or if he’d come with the office. His last name sounds familiar, as though he might be from a local family, but I definitely didn’t know him as a child.
They leave, and I blow out a long breath, willing my heart to slow down. The tea is sweet and cold, relieving some of the stress as it slides down my throat and puddles in my belly. My knees feel even better once I sink into the chair, and focusing on the pages helps takes my mind off the odd confrontation with Randy Wideman.
I’ll have to ask Beau what he knows about the guy and hope he doesn’t feel as strongly about that relationship as he does about his friendship with Jasper. I’d rather not drive more than one wedge between us. I have no idea what two would do, but I’m guessing nothing good. We’re at the point where we should be all rainbows and orgasms, but all of these roadblocks keep popping up.
Maybe it’s a sign, but ignoring those kinds of things is my specialty.
I glance up to find Glinda sitting in the chair next to me, trying her damnedest to pick up my glass of tea. “Jesus H. Leave that alone.”
She scowls when I move it away from her, and I wonder why she can’t touch it. Anne Bonny touched my keys once, forcing me into a very ill-advised road trip, but Glinda’s never asserted herself in the physical world at all.
Then again, Anne had been a ghost for a long time. Maybe it takes practice to be able to wreak havoc on the real world, but if I know Glinda, she’ll be pissing people off in no time.
She pisses me off right now when she raises a finger and points toward the door.
“What?” I hiss. “You want me to go somewhere right now? Where?” No response, and frustration climbs into my chest and throbs. “Let me guess, back to the house in the hills? I don’t want to go back out there without permission, Glinda, and we don’t have a key for that damn door, anyway.”
At the last part she nods her head emphatically, which I guess could mean she can show me where the key is if we’re there alone. The thing is, I don’t see how I can get to the house without being seen and intercepted by Clete’s cronies. Finding it isn’t a problem now that I’ve been back there and paid attention to Big Ern’s direct path, but somewhere along the way Clete’s become pretty much omniscient, at least in my mind.
Glinda’s spirit keeps nodding until her head looks like a streaky blur. She reaches out again, and this time her hand connects with my tea glass, sending it flying into the wall. It shatters, splattering brown liquid and sugar onto the paint.
My mouth falls open. “Well, no one’s ever accused you of being a slow learner. But you normally hate messes.”
I stare at my lemon where it lies on the carpet, torn between trying to explain what happened to Beau and Karen or taking my chances following Glinda again. The latter wins out, and I grab the files and leave the office, thankful that neither Karen nor Randy are in the reception area when I pass through, and take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.
Beau’s going to inform me I have some ’splaining to do later, but I can handle telling him about Glinda’s Ghosts Gone Wild audition as long as no one else is around to hear it. In the meantime, I’ll appease her, check out what’s behind that damn door, and hope that when Clete or one of his henchman discover my presence in the woods they’ll be as amused by my ghost made me do it excuse as he was the other day.
Fingers crossed.
Chapter Twenty
My hike is pleasant aside from the fact that every snap of a twig and every breeze that sounds suspiciously like a breath makes my mouth go dry and my heart make a U-turn and try to gallop back to the car without me. The evening is cooling off as clouds roll in and kick up a brisk wind that tugs on the ends of my hair, tangling them into knots.
Responsible trespassers probably
check the weather report before following dead people into the woods, but not me. I guess there’s a learning curve to helping people cross over into the light or whatever. Honestly, that there’s anything important enough or strong enough to keep Glinda from eternity comes as a surprise. That woman could shake the chandeliers in church on Sundays when she took to yelling, and it was her favorite pastime.
She’s here now, blinking in and out of sight among the trees and ferns, always a little bit ahead and looking back with her hands on her hips, as though I’d better pick up the pace.
“I’m coming, sheesh.”
Several stumbles, a bloody knee, and two scraped palms later we’ve almost made it to the cabin. It’s weird to think we’re home free, and my heart lifts in my chest, hopeful, at the exact same moment that the sound of men’s voices sends it crashing back toward my toes.
“Just leave the money in the can like we always do, straight ahead.”
“I am, but I’m just saying I think we should stick around and make sure the right person’s picking it up. What if something happens to Clete down the line and none of us knows where the money’s goin’?”
The second voice doesn’t sound familiar, but I’m sure the first one belongs to Big Ern. They’re coming toward me, and with the general direction of “straight ahead,” I’m thinking moving would be the best thing for me and my skin.
Glinda’s disappeared, conveniently for her, and this time instinct sends me scrambling up the nearest tree as fast as my limbs will carry me. I haven’t climbed a tree in years, probably since I left Heron Creek for college, but it’s like riding a bike. Kind of.
I’m not dressed for it, and my bare calves and the insides of my thighs where my dress hikes up take the brunt of the beating as I haul myself up to hide in the branches. The live oaks, cypresses, and cottonwoods prevalent in this part of the country are made for climbing, with twisted, low-hanging, sturdy branches that almost brush the ground in many instances. This one’s no different, and I thank my lucky stars I’m not in Iowa trying to climb an oak or an elm.
I go still when two figures appear beneath me. One is, in fact, Big Ern. His overalls are stained now, leaving me to wonder when and how he manages to wash them. The other man is a stranger—just as big and broad but wearing a red-and-black-checked flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, jean shorts, and some kind of scuffling work boots.
The second guy leans over and digs a filthy coffee can from the crook of a live oak, wiping off the worst of the moss before prying open the lid and holding his hand out to Big Ern. My old buddy sticks a grubby hand in his back pocket and comes out with a wad of wrinkled cash, which goes straight into the can.
They replace it in the tree, and I don’t know if I could spot it while walking past, even having seen them get it out and put it back. They continue to argue over whether or not to stay and spy on whoever is being sent to gather the bribe or payoff—or whatever the correct term is—as Big Ern steers the other, mouthier guy back the way they came.
Their voices and footsteps disappear before they reach a consensus on the matter, leaving me to worry that the stranger won and the two of them are hiding. I’m also hesitant to get down and run into the party who’s doing the collecting. It seems like common sense that he or she has more to lose and therefore will be less likely to find my presence hilarious and/or charming.
So I stay put, trying to breathe quietly, to not rustle anything as I pull my cell phone from my back pocket and make sure it’s on silent before shooting Millie a text to let her know where I am and what’s going on. We’re in the middle of a heated discussion on whether or not she should call the cops when the sound of a second set of heavy footsteps almost make me fall and break my neck.
I wonder what Glinda would do then. Or the sulky historical man.
The errant thought grips my insides with a sadness poignant enough to surprise the heck out of me. I have no idea when I started to feel a responsibility, an empathy, for my ghosts. I mean, it happened with Anne, but she’d been a sad spirit, full of regret and terror, and our lives were linked.
This is different. Like, I could cry at the idea that if they didn’t have me, they would have nowhere to go for help. They would never finish whatever business they have on Earth and move on to wherever they’re going next.
I won’t pretend to have any clue where that is—whether there’s a heaven, or reincarnation is a real thing, or they just join their bodies in their grave, content to decompose in peace—but I know they go somewhere. Otherwise there would be a line out my bedroom door that stretches around the world, and that’s a scary thought.
The crunching, careless footsteps eventually bring a figure into view, and my fingernails curl into the rough bark so hard it makes me wince.
It’s Jasper Patton.
He’s dressed in his damn uniform, all khaki and black from head to toe, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. I guess he’s not crazy for thinking that way, now that I know he’s in cahoots with the moonshiners and that I’ve experienced firsthand how they stalk their territory like bloodhounds.
Sheriff Patton heads directly for the tree and pries the coffee can loose, pocketing the cash. I’m holding my breath and praying for the strength to be invisible, but a buzz in my ear pops my eyes open wide. I jerk, just enough to hopefully scare off whatever little bugger is tormenting me, but it has the opposite effect.
A sharp sting explodes on the back of my neck. As hard as I try to stifle a cry, it doesn’t fully take, and it wouldn’t matter anyway because I nearly fall out of the tree trying to make sure the wasp—I see him floating away—decides I learned my lesson the first time.
My fingers press against the throbbing pain as my eyes wander downward and meet Jasper’s. His beady gaze widens in recognition, then narrows as he seems to assess the situation. I have the high ground and plenty of time, but he’s got the ultimate advantage because I have to climb down for water and food. And booze.
“Well, what are we gonna do now?” he asks, brushing the dirt off his hands and resettling the coffee can in its nook.
“Um, you help me down and we go have a drink?”
“I’m not sure that’s going to work. You dating the mayor and all.”
“The mayor of Heron Creek,” I point out. “He doesn’t have any influence out here.”
“Right. Draytons don’t have power anywhere but Heron Creek,” Jasper snorts, his drawl dripping sarcasm.
A fair point. Beau’s family—which he and I have hardly touched on—are one of the oldest and most powerful in the South. He’s alluded to an unhappy childhood on more than one occasion, but we haven’t delved into it. Why bring up bad memories?
“Look, maybe we can work something out.” I say it in a suggestive manner, thinking that perhaps as someone swayed by cash he’ll believe that others can be, too.
It starts to work, his features rearranging from panicked to thoughtful, which works in my favor. Panic can decide to kill me in the blink of an eye, but thoughtful gives me time. I’m smart—smarter than Jasper and Big Ern and his companion put together, but I’m glad Cooter’s not out here. He’d give me a run for my money.
“Why don’t you come on down here so we can talk?”
I hesitate, because at the moment, the tree and my altitude offer safety. But Jasper and I both know I’ll have to come down sometime. There doesn’t seem to be any point in stalling.
“Okay, hold on.” I turn my back on him and try to send Millie a quick text to let her know what’s happening now, but my phone’s service has been spotty at best. The text sits there, telling me it’s sending, so I close the app, hoping it will go through eventually and turn on my phone’s voice-recording app instead. Its microphone should be good enough to hear through the front pocket of my purse.
Once back on the ground, missing a few more layers of skin here and there but otherwise none the worse for the wear, aside from the throbbing wasp sting. Jasper grabs my upper arm hard enough to
make me squeak. “Hey! I thought we were going to talk.”
“We are, just not out here. It’s a miracle there aren’t ten pairs of eyes on us already.”
I can feel them, too, and wonder again whether Big Ern and his friend stuck around to spy after all. “You don’t want them to know you’re the one taking the bribes that keep their operation going?”
He blanches at the word bribes but doesn’t respond, propelling me forward through the brush. There’s nothing to do but keep talking and hope for the best, and lucky for me, the first is right in my wheelhouse.
I’m still working on the second.
“You have a pretty nice house. How come you’re out here collecting petty cash and throwing in your lot with the guys you’re supposed to be, like, arresting? Just greedy?”
His fingers tighten on my arm, nearly pinching off my blood flow. “You don’t know anything, Graciela Harper. Nothing about me or my situation.” A nasty smile twists his thin lips. “Hell, you don’t even know anything about your own boyfriend.”
I let the comment slide, even though it burns its way through my ears and into my brain. He’s just trying to get to me, turning the conversation around to Beau to deflect some of the heat on his own shoulders. “Enlighten me.”
“How do you know what kind of house I have?” he asks, avoiding the question.
“Because I broke in the other night looking for evidence that you killed Glinda.” It might be silly to say that to a cop, but it’s not like he has jurisdiction and we’re alone. No one can prove I admitted anything.
He stumbles to a stop, honest shock slackening his jaw. “What? Why on earth would I kill Glinda?”
Doubt creeps in, tickling the edges of my mind. There doesn’t seem to be much of a chance the guy could fake a reaction like that, which can only mean one thing: I have been barking up the wrong tree as far as this moonshining angle goes.
It also means I’m in deep shit that I could have avoided altogether, because none of these hill folk politics are any of my damn business.
