Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery)

by Lyla Payne

  It would be nice to tell her to knock it off, that she’s worrying for nothing, that this lawyer friend of Beau’s is going to make everything magically okay. Amelia and I don’t lie to each other, though.

  We leave the house, climb into the silver sedan her sweet father delivered a couple of days ago, and I sneak a glance her direction. It’s hard not to wonder if I’m the only one keeping to that code, loyal to the promises we made each other years ago. Because there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by lately where I haven’t ask myself at least once what my cousin is hiding.

  The lawyer’s office is in Charleston, and we make small talk about the changing season and when we think the pink camellias will bloom over the hum of the radio. We find the address easily enough with GPS, pay to park the car, and walk the three or four blocks to a historic building with an engraved wooden sign out front: Rice, Rice, and Britton, Attorneys-at-Law.

  “She’s one of the partners?” Amelia sounds like she’s not fading away for the first time today.

  “Her name is Phoebe Rice, so I guess?”

  “Beau is a miracle worker.”

  “And you haven’t even been to bed with him.”

  The comment makes Amelia shake her head, but the hesitant smile is what I was going for. “Don’t be crass, Grace. It’s not becoming.”

  “It’s not becoming?” I stop walking, hands on my hips as she holds open the door. “Have you been possessed by your mother? Have I been confiding to Aunt Karen this entire time?”

  She snorts, tipping her head. “Are you done? Can we go inside now?”

  “I guess. But I’m asking Daria about exorcisms later.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We settle down, awed by the grandeur of the lobby. It’s exactly the sort of building I love, designed to highlight the gorgeous original floors and fixtures but still incorporating clean, modern lines into the space. The receptionist looks like she might be a college student, with a mousy brown ponytail and bright red lips stretched into a giant smile.

  “Hi,” she squeaks in a chipmunk voice that I don’t think she’s putting on. “Welcome to Rice, Rice, and Britton. Do you have an appointment?”

  Christ Almighty, she belongs under the heading perky in the dictionary. Or possibly out on a ledge somewhere. It’s too early in the morning for me to respond without cringing, and my cousin steps up, clutching her hands together as though she’s hoping to hide the fact that they’re shaking.

  “Hi, yes. Amelia Cooper for Ms. Rice.”

  The girl nods, typing loudly into the giant Mac desktop for about ten seconds before looking back up with a manic sparkle in her brown eyes. “Fifth floor. Her secretary will be expecting you.”

  “Thanks,” my cousin murmurs, eyes on the elevator bank.

  I follow her through the all-white, marble lobby, happy to leave the disconcertingly peppy receptionist behind. Maybe she is the sort of person who should have a job greeting perfect strangers wandering in off the street, but for me, anyone who can make that much glee seem natural probably needs medication. Or needs to tone down her current dosage.

  The elevators open as soon as Amelia presses the button, and the doors slide shut behind us without a sound. Our images are reflected in clean, polished mirrors as the car zooms upward—opposites in just about every way except for our green eyes. My brown hair frizzes slightly despite my best efforts while Millie’s gold waves tumble smoothly past her shoulders. She’s petite, more than two inches shorter than I am, but inside, we’ve always been more alike than different.

  I reach out and give her hand a tight squeeze before the doors open and reveal us to whoever waits on the fifth floor. “We’re going to get through this, Millie. All three of us, and life is going to be boring like it should be and we can finally start looking forward together.”

  “I love you for saying that, Grace.”

  “I’ll love it when you start believing it with me.”

  The smile she gives me is sad. Then we’re facing a second reception area as posh as the one downstairs but softer and more inviting, and there’s no time left for us to confer alone.

  There are three closed wooden doors that look heavy and expensive. The carpet is off-white and so thick our footsteps make no noise as we examine the names outside the separate offices until we find the one for Ms. Phoebe Rice, Attorney-at-Law among the other two, one for a Mr. Randall Rice and a Mr. Garrett Britton, and push it open.

  Inside, we find a second secretary who looks up with an expression that is polite but more tolerant than thrilled. “You’re Amelia Cooper?”

  My cousin nods. “Yes.”

  “Ms. Rice will be with you in just a moment. Can I get you a cup of coffee, tea, or a coke?” Her gaze falls to Millie’s bulging waist. “We have decaf options, of course.”

  We both refuse. I don’t want to chance spilling it on the carpet and Amelia’s still tied up in knots, if her fidgeting is any indication.

  It turns out not to matter, since a second dark wooden door swings open a moment later to reveal an inner office—and a woman—who can only be described as stunning. She’s tall, probably five nine or five ten, with sleek, midnight hair cut into a bob that lands just below her chin. She’s wearing a lavender sheath that must have been custom tailored to land at a very appropriate inch above her knee. There’s not a stitch out of place, not a pound that’s not needed to contribute to her perfect curves, and when our eyes meet it’s hard to imagine a lighter shade of blue.

  Ice. That’s the impression she gives off. And while a woman like Phoebe Rice would normally make me cross the street out of pure intimidation, it’s clear in an instant that she’s exactly the kind of woman we want on our side in a courtroom.

  She extends a slim hand—complete with manicured nails—toward Amelia, seeming to know without being told which one of us is her client. “I’m Phoebe Rice. You can call me Phoebe.”

  “Amelia.”

  In the back of my mind, which is still recovering from the shock of seeing Beau’s attorney friend for the first time, my devils start to wonder how close she and Beau are. Or how close they might have been in the past. Or whether it’s possible for any man to get within five feet of Phoebe Rice, Attorney-at-Law, without drooling.

  I resist the urge to tell the devils to shut up since my cousin has made clear, on more than one occasion, her feelings about me talking to myself out loud and in public.

  A nudge at my hip startles me out of my head, and Millie frowns at me. I realize the manicured nails are now held out toward me, and I jump to shake her hand. “Graciela.”

  “Yes, Beauregard’s girlfriend.” Her cold gaze flicks over me. “Interesting.”

  There’s no time to wonder what the hell that means or get my dander up because she turns, leading us into her office in three-inch, nude, patent leather heels. Her office reminds me of Brick’s, except the view of the city through her giant picture window isn’t nearly as impressive. The deep cherry furniture is stylish, understated, and almost certainly cost more than I make in a year.

  The effect, however, is relaxing. Amelia’s shoulders fall from where they’ve been hunched up around her ears, and for the first time all day, I can’t hear her breathing. We sit in two matching chairs, and Phoebe perches primly in the swivel chair behind the desk, folding her hands.

  My head is jammed with a million questions, but this isn’t my appointment. Before the lawyer can get out a single word Amelia leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. The straight posture, the fire in her eyes—this is the Millie who used to break rules with me, who was always the last one to drop her firecracker, always the first one to strip down naked and leap, squealing, into the river.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Phoebe spreads her hands in a gesture of open invitation. “Of course.”

  “Why are you so willing to take on my case when every other attorney in town laughed us out of their offices? Aren’t you afraid of the Middletons and what they can do?”


  “First off,” she starts without hesitating, her gaze lingering on me, “I’m willing to take your case because Beauregard asked me to take your case.”

  Her tone, the silky softness of it, leaves me wondering what else she’s been willing to do just because my boyfriend asked her.

  “As far as your second question, I’m not afraid of anyone.”

  She and my cousin stare at each other for ten seconds, fifteen. Then Amelia nods, sits back, and crosses her arms. “Great. So where do we start?”

  “Well, I’ve spoken at length with Beauregard and requested discovery from his family’s firm, which they’ve provided.” She motions with a lazy finger toward a file box under the window. “The first thing you’ve got to do is stop seeing that quack therapist in Heron Creek.”

  Millie sucks in a breath, and my heart sinks.

  “I-is that necessary?” The tremble in her voice confirms all the worries that invade my nights.

  That she’s even less okay than anyone knows.

  “Yes. We need you to be viewed as a fit mother and fit mothers don’t see shrinks.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” I interrupt, offended. “Half the people in America see therapists and the other half probably need to.”

  “We’re not discussing America, and while I don’t disagree with your opinion on our need to remove the stigma from mental health care, the fact remains that there is one.” Her cool gaze shifts back to my cousin. “I do not think you’re crazy. You’ve been through more in the past six months than most people will go through in their whole lives, and you deserve to pout and talk it out and whatever else makes it a little bit better. But we’re trying to make sure you keep your kid, and I’m telling you that your record of hospital admittances, therapy records, and arrests isn’t going to play in your favor. We need to fix all of that, starting now. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Millie says softly, her jaw set and expression determined. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Second, I’m not sure that, even if we can make you out to be the most fit parent in the world, it’s going to be enough at this point.”

  Phoebe shoots a look my direction that straightens my spine. She must have been a drill sergeant in another life or something because this girl has presence.

  I get a sudden mental image of her in a sexy uniform with a whip, but banish it before I trip down that path. Surely Beau would have mentioned if they’d ever been involved…right? And at least her name isn’t Lucy, the mysterious ex his sister Birdie mentioned when she thought I wasn’t listening, but that he still hasn’t brought up.

  “We’re going to need more, especially if you’re set on them only having limited visitation rights.”

  “I don’t want them to have any rights,” Amelia spits. “They knew. They always knew what their son was, how he treated me, but they didn’t care. They only cared about him.”

  The ice eyes melt the tiniest bit. “I understand how you feel, but one step at a time. You retaining full custody of the fetus is the primary goal.”

  “His name is Jack,” Amelia says, quiet but steady. Insistent.

  Phoebe presses her lips together, as though she’s trying not to say what she really thinks. She nods. “Of course. As I was saying, we’re going to need more. Ideally, some sort of proof that the Middletons were not good parents to Jacob, that they have money trouble, that they’ve committed morally ambiguous acts. Anything like that would help.”

  The lawyer raises her eyebrows at Amelia, as though waiting for an answer, but her blue eyes quickly fall to me again. They flicker, as though maybe if we were good friends I’d be able to discern some secret message, and then they’re gone.

  “I’ve heard plenty,” Amelia starts, slowly. “But Jake never said a single word against his parents, and they certainly never let me close enough to get any sort of proof.”

  It clicks then, as Phoebe stifles a sigh with a smile that does nothing to reassure anyone in the room that we have more than the barest chance of keeping my cousin’s baby away from those people. If she talked to Beau, if she did any sort of digging on her own—and she doesn’t seem like the type of woman to leave one single thing to chance—then it’s possible she knows about my proclivity toward snooping.

  It may usually have to do with some pushy spirit, but in this case, I’m more than willing to put my newly acquired skills to work if it means helping my cousin put her life back together. No problem.

  “You’re saying you want dirt on the Middletons.”

  “I’m saying we need dirt on the Middletons.”

  Chapter Five

  There’s no time to contemplate how I’m supposed to get dirt on one of the most prominent families in the state, because Travis has decided it’s time for us to have our little tête-à-tête regarding the recent breakins in Heron Creek. I knew the confrontation couldn’t be avoided forever, not even with Beau throwing a bit of weight around, but my limbs feel like lead and my mind races, then stumbles after our meeting with Phoebe this morning.

  So much for a relaxing day off, even if Beau and I are supposed to have a chill night in at his place later. I’m thinking about changing venues. Amelia shouldn’t be alone, and we have so much to think about and try to plan that taking an evening off is a luxury we can’t afford. It sucks that Beau and I still struggle to find time just for the two of us, but there’s nothing that can be done about it.

  Tendrils of smoke waft through my head, curl around my overworked brain. It smells of incense and earth, and refuses to let me forget about Mama Lottie and the decision that needs to be made about the curse.

  It may not matter soon whether Beau and I have time for each other. If I help a powerful madwoman put a curse on his family, there probably won’t be a Beau and me at all.

  I shake off the dread, face the police station, and do my best to clear my mind. I’m not nervous about talking to Travis, mostly because I didn’t do a damn thing but also because the other balls in the air require all my focus. The breakins around town—at the hospital and then at the bank—can’t compete with Beau and Amelia.

  Travis is at his regular desk out front and one of the twins—Tom, I think—blinks up at me. He shoots a wary glance at his boss and, finding himself watched, doesn’t move. Apparently they had a talk about not manhandling me every time our paths cross and maybe especially not when they’re on the job and I’m a suspect in one thing or another.

  Which is the majority of the time.

  “Miss Harper,” Tom says in a serious voice that’s at least two octaves too deep.

  I roll my eyes, unable to stop a giggle, and perform the world’s most awkward curtsy. “Mr. Ryan.”

  He snorts, we crack up, and then he trips me on my way past. It only makes us laugh harder, and by the time I plop into the seat on the side of Travis’s desk he’s exuding a massive amount of exasperation.

  “You know, you’re not helping.”

  “Not helping with what?” I ask, my eyes too wide and my tone too clueless.

  Travis shakes his head, Tom covers a louder snort than the first one, and I’m pretty pleased with how this so-called interview is going.

  “I have a few questions for you about the bank robbery last week.” Travis puts on his business face, which isn’t all that different from the co-conspirator face or the concerned-about-Amelia face or the eating pie at the diner face. “Starting with where you were on that night between eight p.m. and midnight.”

  “At Drayton Hall.”

  “Working?”

  “No.”

  “Can anyone vouch?”

  “Daria.”

  His eyes widen slightly. “The medium?”

  “Yes. Is there some reason she’s not a reliable witness?”

  He coughs, then shakes his head. “No, I’ll check with her. I’m just…I don’t know. Surprised that you’re hanging out with her.”

  Irritation heats my cheeks. “Is this an interrogation or a role-playing game where you’re my big b
rother? You asked where I was when the bank was robbed. I was at Drayton Hall with Daria, and one of their employees can verify, as well, though I’d like to involve her only as a last result.”

  Having him interview Jenna Lee would force her to admit that she rearranged the cameras so Daria and I could avoid getting arrested again for being on private property off-hour, and that could lead to trouble. The last thing I want to give the restoration expert for her help.

  “No, the medium should be fine.”

  Travis is quiet for a moment, doodling in a notebook but not making any notes.

  Impatience curls my fingernails into my palms. “Was there anything else?”

  “For the record, I don’t think you had anything to do with the robbery, Graciela, but if there’s anything you do know, now’s the time to tell me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like where your father ran off to and if he broke into the bank safe before he left?”

  My cheeks grow hotter. “I don’t know the answer to either. I didn’t even know I had a father until about a month ago, so you’ll understand if he doesn’t share each and every illegal act with me.”

  “Don’t get your dander up. I have to ask these questions, given the circumstances.”

  “By circumstances, do you mean my father’s record or the fact that whoever is robbing these places is making it look like a ghost is doing it? Or maybe the circumstance is the fact that you can’t seem to solve a damn crime without my help…”

  A guffaw from the direction of Tom Ryan has Travis swiveling in his chair, ears crimson. “Get out. Go get a coffee, and find your damn brother.”

  Tom’s out of his chair and gone so fast I swear there’s a cartoon swirl of dust in his wake. Travis spins back to face me, his expression blank now. He can’t fool me, though. I pissed him off, but it’s hard to care. Especially when I did it on purpose.

  “I don’t give much credence to this ghost nonsense. That said, the rest of this damned town seems to think you’re normal as the day is long, so if you say you’re seeing ghosts, then you must be seeing ghosts. And if you didn’t rob that bank, or have something to do with robbing that bank, then someone’s setting you up.”