Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “It’s not open, either,” I inform him. “And your hair looks fabulous.”

  He shakes his head this time, pursed lips indicating that he’s growing tired of my mouthiness, and stabs his finger the same direction.

  “Fine. But let’s walk, huh?” The parking spot by the bank is within easy walking distance of the library and it’s not metered. Being able to leave it here all day and not end up with a ticket might be at least one good thing to come out of this morning’s wild goose chase.

  A stroll seems to agree with him, and why wouldn’t it? That was the main source of entertainment during his time, other than shooting holes in your friends-slash-enemies in foggy alleys. Apparently.

  We amble down the quiet block together, and I check the sky every few minutes in anticipation of rain. Thunder rolls in the distance and it’s clear that my umbrella should be in my purse and not in the car, but I haven’t changed that much since coming back to Heron Creek. I’m still not the kind of girl who has an umbrella handy when she needs it. Maybe that should be some kind of defining goal for me.

  He stops walking when we get to Sonny and Shears, but he’s not pointing at the hair salon. Instead, he pokes at the sign in the lower corner of the window.

  “Manda’s Manicures?” I read. He nods, anticipation in his blue eyes as he watches for my reaction. Waits for me to understand. It falls away when I shrug, assuming he doesn’t need to work on his cuticles. “I don’t get it.”

  He makes a movement like he’s huffing a giant sigh, but of course, no sound comes out. The ghost seems stumped as far as where to go next. As a couple of fat raindrops plop like polka dots onto the sidewalk at my feet, I make a decision for the both of us.

  “Well, it’s been super fun getting out of bed early and wandering around aimlessly with you this morning.” He gives me a look at the intimation that our outing was aimless, and I shrug again. “If you’re out of ideas for now, I’m going to get a hot cup of coffee before the library opens. I’ve got to double-duty today.”

  Dr. Ladd watches me, looking a little forlorn and a lot lost, but then shrugs back. There’s no reason to continue until we can find a better way to communicate. To my surprise, he follows me for two blocks toward Westies, only disappearing when a couple of teenagers dressed in workout clothes burst through the doors with to-go cups, headed toward the high school.

  The café is crowded, as usual, but unlike the other night, I don’t run into anyone I know. No Will, no Mel. Rain means no Leo crooning for extra cash out on the sidewalk. Even so, there’s not a single person in the shop that’s a stranger to me. The faces are familiar after three months back in this small town, some from my childhood with names attached, others I’ve seen here or there but haven’t met yet. They wave and nod, we exchange hellos, and today the tight-knit community pushes all the right buttons in my heart.

  I order my café au lait and trudge outside, deciding it might help me climb back into Mr. Freedman’s good graces if I get to the library early. The kids—including Marcella, hopefully—will be in for story time this afternoon and the prospect lightens my step the tiniest bit. It won’t be such a bad day, with them and with Beau coming for lunch.

  The pick-me-up is much needed, because despite my flippant responses to Dr. Ladd’s specter this morning, frustration tightens my grip on my cup as I hurry down the block. Not only has he mostly been respectful and nice, every time I think of his story I feel sorrow. I want to find out what he needs and help him get it, but not as much as I want Amelia to get better.

  Not as much as I want to help Beau get justice.

  I also want Henry Woodward to clear out, me to find a more rewarding career, and my emotional life to stop being so stupidly immature, but that seems like a whole lot to ask from a Tuesday.

  Dr. Ladd surprises me by showing up again as I let myself into the library. Mr. Freedman would never be here this early, if he’s even coming in today. He said he is, since according to him, he can no longer trust me to operate unsupervised. We’ll see.

  “Welcome to the illustrious Heron Creek Library,” I murmur to the Whistling Doctor as I set my coffee down on my desk and flip the switch to turn on the computer. My chair spins a bit under my weight, and when I get situated, Dr. Ladd is trying to pick up my to-go cup. “Hey! I don’t think so, handsome. You’re long past caffeine doing you any good, and I don’t share.”

  His light eyebrows are drawn together in concentration but his hand keeps going right through the recycled paper. It would make me laugh if I didn’t realize how freaking frustrating it must be to not be able to physically or audibly interact with anyone or anything in the world around you. I pull it toward me and spin it around, noticing that he’s pointing at something.

  That’s when I realize that I’ve grabbed someone else’s drink. Instead of Graciela being scrawled on the cup in thick black marker, I’ve acquired the drink for someone named Amanda. I rack my brain but no one comes to mind. There was an Amanda a few years younger than me when I was a kid, but I can’t remember her last name and have no idea if she lives in Heron Creek now.

  Even so, the name mix-up seems to be what’s caught Dr. Ladd’s interest.

  “Yeah, oops. I hope Amanda has good taste in coffee.”

  He seems annoyed with my response, but the bell over the door tinkles right then, distracting me and forcing him to disappear. Mrs. Walters clomps her way into the library. There’s no way the old snoop didn’t hear me talking. To myself. Again.

  I close my eyes and prepare for the onslaught.

  “Well, I see you’ve decided to stop traipsing around with that man of yours in the middle of the night and actually come to work, Graciela.” Mrs. Walters sniffs, as though my incompetence has a specific, distasteful odor, and raises her chin. “I can tell you I don’t appreciate your bringing those mountain ruffians into town, neither. Bet the new detective would be mighty interested to know who’s been calling.”

  I bristle, too many important issues going on in my life to mind my tongue. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Oh, it’s everyone’s business when you’re bringing lawlessness to town. And you and I both know you’re an expert at that.” She raises a drawn-on eyebrow. “Not to mention you shouldn’t be the one takin’ care of that poor cousin of yours, considerin’ you ain’t all there yourself. Talkin’ to thin air.” She sniffs and shakes her head, backing up a few steps as though crazy might be catching.

  At least she still thinks I’m talking to myself. Knowing Mrs. Walters, she doesn’t believe in ghosts, or claims she doesn’t, so she’s not buying the rumors that I’m actually running my mouth to someone or something she can’t see. Thank goodness for small-minded people.

  At least in this situation.

  “Amelia and I are going to be fine. I’ll be friends with whomever I damn well please, and any police officer in his right mind isn’t going to take advice from a woman who spends more time watching my house than a burglar would casing the joint.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, long enough for the image of Grams’ disappointed face to scold me into remembering my manners. “Ma’am.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Is there something I can help you find?”

  “No. I was just over at the bank and that sweet Amanda Jennings recommended me a new book by Nicholas Sparks. I can find it on my own.”

  So can everyone else in the world.

  She thumps off, but she hasn’t disappeared into the stacks before the rest of her statement worms its way into my brain. “Wait! Mrs. Walters, did Amanda Jennings grow up here?”

  She pauses and peers back at me, her mouth set in a line as though she’s trying to figure out what I’m up to. Because I must be up to something and not just asking a normal question. “No. She’s from Connecticut.” Mrs. Walters makes a face, as though Connecticut is the same as communist Russia. “Married Cody Jennings. You remember him.”

  Not really, but I nod. The nonresponse makes her lips twist as she turns an
d walks back into the stacks, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. I sit back into my chair, picking up my coffee cup and staring at the name Amanda. Then the pieces start to click. Manda’s Manicures. Amanda Jennings at the bank. Amanda who has my coffee.

  Dr. Joseph Ladd who had been in love with a girl named Amanda.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rain pours down on Heron Creek all day long. Beau dripped halfway across the lobby when he showed up for lunch. The town’s gutters have turned into rushing rapids filled with rocks and pieces of junk, and the thunder hasn’t let up since it began this morning. It’s been a long, slow day. Most parents didn’t venture out with their little ones, and without even Marcella to keep me company, I’ve been watching the clock since Beau went back to work.

  I’m not thrilled at the prospect of getting drenched; I am thrilled at the prospect of getting out of this library. I’m worried about Amelia, even though I called Aunt Karen on my morning break to double-check that she’d arrived.

  I looked and looked for more information on Dr. Ladd’s Amanda but came up empty. Most of the “evidence” regarding his personal life is anecdotal at best—had the man not been looking me in the face, convincing me of his honest soul every chance he got, I’d be inclined, as a historian and archivist, to conclude that we can’t even prove there ever was an Amanda. Dr. Ladd could have left Rhode Island for any number of reasons, though the newspaper archives do give credence to the assertion that he was basically run out of town on a rail. Whatever that means.

  As anxious as I am to get home and see if my cousin needs rescuing, there’s something else I need to do first. My fingers twitch over the keypad on my phone, unsure how this is going to work out but positive that talking to Will is the only way I can even begin to figure out how to deal with Clete on this whole Beau-being-set-up thing.

  I also decided while stuck in my own head at work today that maybe chatting with Leo would answer some questions. He could at least tell me the name of the ADA who tried Lindsay’s case. He or she might not be our criminal, but at least it would be a place to start.

  My gut doubts whether Leo will talk to me about the case at all. There’s no harm in trying, even if he’ll most likely clam up at the mere suggestion that Beau isn’t to blame and/or accuse me of grasping at straws,

  Which maybe I am. Why should I believe Clete, a known outlaw? Why would he have heard anything about dealings in the Charleston County prosecutor’s office that took place almost six years ago now? For all I know he’s just dangling a carrot in front of my nose because he suspects I’ll do anything to help my boyfriend. And he’s right.

  Hey. Any chance you have time for a quick drink after work? Pete’s?

  Asking Will to get involved is going to take more fuel than a cup of coffee, and Pistol Pete’s is over by where Dr. Ladd and I parked this morning. The pub has a decent happy hour. It’s owned, oddly enough, by a guy named Walter.

  The little dots on my screen promise Will’s in the process of responding, and a few seconds later his response flashes on my screen.

  Sure. Half an hour?

  See you there.

  I breathe out a sigh of relief at the prospect of being able to take some kind of action today and set about cleaning up the mess I’ve made in the archives and at my desk. In the spirit of professionalism and contrition and a bunch of other adult words, I trek back to Mr. Freedman’s office. He’s still in the building, which is some kind of miracle, and raises his head at my light knock on the open door.

  “Grace. Hello.”

  He’s never bothered to learn my name but, in my experience, sometimes bosses who mostly leave you alone are better than the ones who want to get to know you.

  “Hi.”

  “What can I help you with this afternoon?” He glances at the clock. “My goodness, it’s time to lock up. Is there a problem?”

  His formal tone promises he’s still sore at me for yesterday. Fewer than two thousand people call Heron Creek home and less than ten show up in the library on a daily basis—and that’s on a good day—so there’s not a single doubt in my mind that Mrs. Walters is the one who complained. There’s also not a doubt in my mind that she didn’t patronize the library every day before I started working here. The woman strikes me as a hoarder. I bet she used to check out as many books as she was allowed so she wouldn’t need to leave the house and her spying antics for days on end. Now she comes here to spy on me.

  Of course, none of that excuses my not being here.

  “No, sir. I just wanted to apologize again for yesterday. I thought Amelia was covering but we had a, um, miscommunication. I know it’s my responsibility, though, and it won’t happen again.”

  He gives me a tight smile, but it’s enough to make me believe he’ll forgive me in time. If I need a reference one day, Mr. Freedman is still in play. “Thank you. I’m sure that it won’t. You’ve done a fine job since coming to work here, and the transition has been seamless since the … departure of your predecessor.”

  “Thank you.” The last thing I want to do is stick around and keep remembering how Will and I were almost killed in this very office, so I call the conversation successful and say a quick good night.

  I go to grab my umbrella and my jacket and then realize I still don’t have either of those things. Son of a biscuit eater. The parking spot that seemed so great this morning because it’s free is now too far away in the downpour. I stand at the door and watch the raindrops. They seem to have fused into moving curtains as they pound the sidewalks, and I’m wondering how comfortable the chairs are in the break room when I notice the little can for umbrellas by the door. Someone left one behind—probably one of the harried mothers from story time, though how she could get out the door in this weather and not realize her umbrella was missing is beyond me.

  I shrug and snag it. Their loss is my gain, and for the briefest, shiniest of moments it seems as though perhaps the entire universe isn’t against me. Then I step outside, and a giant gust of wind almost pulls the umbrella right out of my hand, turning it inside out in the process.

  I’m soaked through within ten seconds.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, world!” I shout at the heavens, not caring who might overhear.

  A quick glance around confirms there’s no reason to worry, anyway, since no one in Heron Creek is part fish. I splash through puddles, water dripping down my calves during the two-block hike to the pub. By the time I step through the door my hair is plastered to my head. I resist the urge to shake myself dry like a dog. It won’t work, for one. For another, Walter, aka Pete, doesn’t have the nicest temperament in town and he’s bound to toss me back out on my ass if I make a mess.

  The restroom is stocked with paper towels and I use most of them wringing out my hair and my skirt, drying off my legs and wiping the runny makeup off my face. By the time my half hour is up—Will has probably been out there waiting for me for a few minutes already—I at least look like a drowned person as opposed to a rat.

  “I ordered you a whiskey rocks,” he informs me, giving me the eye as I shuffle up to the table he claimed by the wall. It’s the farthest one from the door, which should keep us relatively dry and warm, and for that, my clammy skin is thankful. “It looks like I guessed right.”

  I slide onto the opposite stool, the cracked leather poking the backs of my thighs. “Definitely could use the warmth,” I respond through clacking teeth.

  Will being Will, he whips his jacket off the back of his chair and settles it around my shoulders. It helps with my wracking chills but it smells too much like him to provide any kind of comfort. I’ve got to get over this whole regret thing. If only I could get rid of pushy ghosts and demanding moonshiners for more than a few days at a time, maybe I could actually focus on my own problems.

  A waitress, whose name I think is Penny, drops off our drinks and leaves again without asking if we need anything else. Pete’s food is worse than not eating anything at all, at least in
my opinion, and there’s a good chance Aunt Karen cooked something delicious to try to cheer up Millie. I’ll wait.

  “So, I suppose I’ll find out sooner or later, but what did you want to talk to me about?” Will asks, stirring his own glass.

  He’s drinking something clear, and it’s strange to realize I don’t know what.

  Will and I were never “Will and I” once we reached the legal drinking age. I know that when it comes to cheap beer he preferred Natty to Keystone, that tequila makes him naked and subsequently barfy, but not what drink grownup Will orders after work.

  I don’t ask. I need to focus on why I’m here. Clete. Beau.

  “I have a question about liquor distribution licenses.”

  That gets his attention, and despite not knowing what the other likes to drink, he knows me too well to be fooled by my casual tone. “What’s this about, Gracie? Are those guys still bothering you? Trying to get you to … what? I don’t know.”

  “It’s not like that.” I lower my voice after a quick glance around the room. It’s more than half full of damp townies. They’re huddled around tables, cradling drinks, shaking water out of their hair, and largely minding their own business. Of course, this is Heron Creek so not one of them has missed the fact that Will and I are here together. “We’ve just … kept in touch is all. I owe them for saving my life, and Clete happened to mention that he’s applied several times to be a legal moonshine distributor and has been denied. I just thought I’d see if you knew anything about it, that’s all.”

  The omissions spill out of me like tepid water, a little too thick and smelly to be missed. Like Amelia pointed out, I’m rusty. But Will wants to believe me. He always has, when it comes to things of questionable legality. Asking questions only gets him the truth, and when it comes to me and things I’m up to, he almost always wishes afterward that he remained ignorant.