Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery)

by Lyla Payne

  “It’s okay.” Mel’s still scared, but she’s gone still. “I’m okay. Nothing’s more important than Amelia getting to keep Jack.”

  Millie reaches over, closing her hand around Mel’s. “Thank you.”

  “Until the end.”

  “Longer.” Amelia’s eyes are watery.

  Phoebe clears her throat, looking uncomfortable in the midst of all the love and emotion zinging around the room, as though it’s going to get on her and cause an infection of sweetness. Though it seems doubtful she has much to worry about there.

  “I’ll let you know what they say as far as a silent agreement before the hearing, but in the meantime, make sure you make it to both your psych evaluations. Let’s not give the judge any reason to ignore their wishes when they ask for visitation only.” Phoebe stands up, walking over to the door in a clear dismissal.

  We follow her in an orderly line, hesitant glee wrapping around us. Amelia’s the last one out and manages to do what I can’t. She stops, pulls Phoebe into a stiff hug. “Thank you, too.”

  It’s after six by the time we’re finished with Phoebe. Mel needs to get home to Grant and Will, and even though Amelia offers to come with me to visit Leo, I send her home, too. It’s too risky to have her anywhere near him, just in case. If the Middletons or the cops connect him to the breakin, it will look bad enough that he’s from Heron Creek and that he and I are close friends. The last thing we need is for Millie’s in-laws to think she sent him to do her dirty work.

  Even if she did, in a roundabout way.

  The hospital on Calhoun Street is quiet, with only a few civilians milling around between nurses and doctors in scrubs and lab coats. Leo’s in a regular room on a normal recovery floor, and his hallway offers nothing but more silence.

  I take a deep breath and push open his door, relieved that he doesn’t have a roommate. Relief number two is that he’s alone—Lindsay had picked up Marcella before the library closed, but I’d been too chicken to ask her if she was coming back to the hospital tonight.

  Leo doesn’t see me come in, and I take a moment to study him. He looks good—bored, mostly—as he flicks channels on the little mounted television over by the windows. His thin gown drapes awkwardly over his strong, lithe frame, but other than the fact that he’s in a hospital bed, he doesn’t appear half-bad.

  “Hey. You look pretty good for a guy who just got shot.”

  His face lights up, blue eyes glowing for a half second before he remembers that he told me not to come here. Then they narrow. “What did I say about visits, Bugs?”

  “That they’re not good because they ruin your chances to hit on the nurses?”

  “Please. I’ve got game for days.”

  I can’t help but snort, even though it’s totally true. At least, I assume it’s true based on the fact that Leo never had—or has—any trouble getting a date when he feels like it. Though he’s never dropped any of that so-called game on me, so I can’t vouch firsthand.

  I pick up an empty container of green Jell-O and make a face. “How can hospitals feed people stuff that’s not food? It’s like, ground-up glue and horse hooves. Shouldn’t they be giving you healthy shit?”

  “Gracie, please. I just ate that.” He shudders. “It’s not like I had much of a choice. I don’t suppose you smuggled any Ho Ho’s or anything in that purse of yours?”

  “Ho Ho’s? No. I’m not sure they’ve made those since the 1990s.” I peer into my bag, which is usually good for hiding some sort of sustenance or another, and come up with half a Hershey’s bar and a smushed granola bar. I hold them both up. “Either?”

  “I’ll take the linty chocolate.”

  “I think it gives it that little something extra.” I sink down on the edge of the bed as he takes the Hershey’s from me, and cover his free hand with mine. “Leo, I—”

  “Bugs, I swear to God, if you say you’re sorry one more time I’m going to call the cops and confess just so I don’t have to hear it.”

  “Fine.” I make a face. “Am I allowed to ask how you’re doing?”

  “My shoulder hurts. I gather that’s normal after having a bullet dug out of your flesh with a scalpel, but it’s nothing unbearable.” He sighs, putting the candy down on the table and a hand over mine, so it’s in the middle of a Leo-hand sandwich. “I’m fine.”

  “I know. I’m not even worried about you. Sheesh.”

  “Right.” He grins. “Can you imagine if we went back in time and told our ten-year-old selves that one day we’d be friends or crime buddies or whatever? Man, Little Leo would be so pissed. He spent a lot of time thinking up ways to make your life hell.”

  “Well, Little Gracie wouldn’t care because she lived for hell.”

  “That’s easy to believe, since she created plenty of it in that little town.”

  We smile at each other, lost in the past and what’s become of the present for several heartbeats. Then Leo frowns and reaches up to tug on the end of my ponytail. “What are you doing here? Just had to come get a glimpse of me in this gown, didn’t you?”

  “Actually,” I start, remembering that I did actually come here for a reason, “I came to tell you that Melanie found some incriminating information about those accounts. It looks like the Middletons are either skimming money off their pharmaceutical company or maybe using the accounts to pass bribes or clean funds that came from suspect sources.”

  His shoulders slump with relief. “And Amelia’s lawyer can use that?”

  “Not officially, but she thinks it will be enough to convince them we have real proof and that we could pass it along to the IRS or FDA so that they back off asking for full custody.”

  “That’s great. That’s really great, Gracie. We did it.”

  Those words have no sooner left his lips when there’s a knock on the open door behind me. I turn around to find two Charleston police officers—neither of whom I know, thank the stars—with their hats tucked under their arms and wearing twin serious expressions.

  “Mr. Boone?”

  I whip back around, glaring at Leo. He gives me the wide eyes, communicating that he didn’t have a choice other than to tell them his real name.

  “Yes?”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your mugging the other night.” The cop speaking is a walking stereotype—crew cut, protein-shake shoulders, a scowl underneath unkempt eyebrows. The kind of cop who wanted to be a Marine but either couldn’t make the cut or was too chickenshit to even try.

  “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

  The second cop is watching me. Not with any suspicion or animosity, just…watching. The attention reminds me that my face is still injured. It’s probably enough to make him remember me, which isn’t ideal.

  Rambo pins me with a stare that makes me feel sexually assaulted. “Do you want your girlfriend to stay?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend and she’s not staying.” Leo gives me a nudge with the arm that’s not bound to his chest. “Go.”

  Both pairs of cops eyes are on me, now. They make my skin itch. Leaving Leo here to deal with them alone makes my stomach hurt, but he’s right. Having them learn who I am, possibly connect Leo to my family to the Middletons, wouldn’t be good.

  I lean down and give him a squeeze around the neck, letting my lips brush his ear. “I’m calling Lindsay and having her hire a lawyer. Don’t tell them shit.”

  He gives me a tight nod when I pull back, a hot spark of something mysterious in his blue eyes.

  “I’ll call you later,” I promise.

  Leo might have kicked me out of the room, but he can’t force me to leave the hospital. I linger outside the closed door, wishing for superhuman hearing or that the cops would talk just a little bit louder. Rambo has taken a backseat for the questioning and the other guy, the one with the curious stare, is more soft-spoken. I can catch most of what he’s saying but just barely.

  “Mr. Boone, if you could go over with us what happened two nights ago when you were shot, we�
��d appreciate it. For the reports, you understand.”

  Leo gives a short and sweet recap. He was out walking after dinner, waiting for one of his buddies to come pick him up because he was worried he’d had one too many, when a guy came up with a gun and demanded his wallet. They got into a scuffle, and the gun went off. The guy took his wallet. End of story.

  “So why did you give the intake nurse a different name when you checked in originally? And how did you get here? Quite a walk from any restaurants.” It’s Rambo again. Apparently he’s Bad Cop. I wonder if that’s by design or it’s typecasting.

  “I didn’t. They must have put the wrong name down on my paperwork. I was pretty out of it. And it was quite a haul, but no cabbies would pick me up because I didn’t have any money.” Leo chuckles, a sound that’s fake to my ears but probably not to the cops. Hopefully. “Or maybe it was the blood.”

  “Perhaps.”

  There’s silence for a minute, and I resist the urge to peer through the small window to see what’s happening.

  “Your blood alcohol content was very low.” Soft-spoken cop doesn’t fool me. He’s a dog with a bone.

  “What can I say, I’m overly cautious.”

  “Do you know Randall and Bette Middleton, Mr. Boone?” Rambo presses.

  “Can’t say that I do. Are they related to the princess?”

  I put a hand over my nose to stifle a chuckle. Trust Leo to bust out pop-culture references with perfect comedic timing.

  “I’m not entirely sure, sir.” Good Cop grabs the mic again. “So you weren’t at their house on Elliott the night you were shot?”

  “No. Can I ask why you’re questioning me about people I don’t know? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Are you guilty?” Rambo snaps.

  “Of what?”

  “Someone broke into their house that night. The couple was out at a benefit, but a member of their live-in staff heard the breakin and called the police. She shot the intruders as they were trying to escape.”

  “Intruders?”

  “Yes. A man and a woman.” Good Cop pauses. “The gun shoots the same kind of bullet that the docs pulled out of your shoulder.”

  “Same place the maid said she hit the intruder,” Rambo drawls. He sounds like he has a toothpick in his mouth.

  Or maybe my imagination is working overtime.

  “You got anything to say ’bout that?” he continues.

  “Nope.”

  “It’s also come to our attention that the Middletons are currently in a custody dispute with a woman who lives in Heron Creek. A Ms. Amelia Cooper Middleton.” Good Cop is back, his tone even and soothing.

  “So?” Leo sounds the opposite of soothed.

  “Do you know her?”

  “Heron Creek’s a small town, Officer. Amelia spent most of her summers there growing up, so sure. I know her. She’s been gone a long time, though, and just came back. Can’t say we’re anything like friends.”

  It’s not a lie, and it doesn’t sound like one.

  “What about her cousin? A Miss Graciela Harper?” Rambo grunts. “She the girl who was just in here hangin’ all over you like snot on a toddler?”

  This time, the silence goes on longer. The sound of footsteps shuffling this way and that tell me someone is pacing, and my chutzpah is worn about all the way through. If one of those cops decides to shuffle on out here to get some air or give his partner some time to work on Leo alone, they’re going to bust me.

  I know in my heart that Leo’s not about to give me up—if anything, he’s about to shut up altogether and wait for the lawyer I promised to have Lindsay hire—so getting caught eavesdropping can’t happen.

  I scoot down the hall and into the elevator, not daring to check behind me. My heart is still pounding when I get into my Honda in the parking lot. A giant, cold ball of dread lands in my belly.

  The cops have already made the connection between the Middletons and Heron Creek. Between Leo and me. It won’t be long until they get a warrant to test the bullet that came out of Leo, if they haven’t already. Then he’s going to be arrested.

  Slow down, Gracie. Breathe.

  I listen to the voice of reason, taking a few moments to suck deep lungsful of oxygen in through my nose, hold them a moment in my chest, then blow them out through my lips.

  When the world starts to clear in front of my eyes again, I pick up my phone and call Lindsay Boone for the second time in three days.

  “Is Leo okay?”

  “Do you ever say hello when you answer the phone?” I gasp a shaky laugh that probably does nothing to make her feel better.

  “When it’s someone I want to talk to.”

  “Okay. Well—” this is harder than I thought “—the police are talking to Leo. I think you should hire him a lawyer and get him over here straightaway.”

  “Why? What did you get him tangled up in this time?” She’s trying to stay cool, to act like she’s only angry at me, but the fact that her voice raised an octave betrays her.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t say anything else. Just…can you get him a lawyer please? Or should I call someone?”

  “Who, like your boyfriend?” She tosses the words out like a knife, one flipping end over end and barely missing my heart. It’s a reminder that my boyfriend is one of the reasons she herself needed a lawyer at one point in time. “I’ll get it done.”

  Lindsay hangs up. I put my head on the steering wheel and let my brain settle back into some semblance of working order before turning on the car and pointing it home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I get home, expecting to find Amelia awake since it’s barely past dinnertime, but she’s curled up under her covers and dead to the world, instead. Beau has a late town council meeting and might drop by later, so it seems that, for now, I have the place to myself.

  It’s rare, actually, to have alone time. I’m not sure what to do with it so I pop some popcorn, grab a soda, and open my laptop out on the back deck. I could keep trying to find out more about Travis, but with Clete at a dead end on his side of things, there’s not much incentive. Tonight, I’m interested in learning what I can about witchcraft.

  There are too many variations, too little detailed information, for me to even hope to figure out what exactly Mama Lottie might be attempting to pull off with the Draytons. Still, the research is interesting enough that I mostly miss the sun’s disappearance and the rise of the full moon over the trees and the river.

  I stretch and check my phone after suffering half a dozen mosquito bites, surprised to see that it’s after eleven. Beau hasn’t called. The meeting must be running really late or his staff must have some motions to research, because even if he’d decided not to come by, he’d call when he leaves or when he gets home. He always texts to say good night.

  There’s nothing from Leo or Lindsay, either, a fact that grabs my spine with ice-cold fingers. The questions those detectives were asking weren’t the open-ended kind. They were questions cops ask when they already know the answers and are just hoping you’ll make it easy on them and confess so they can do the paperwork and move on.

  This is the knowledge I’ve amassed through twenty-six—almost—years of living. How to read cops, how to stay out of jail, how to kind-of-sort-of talk to ghosts. I’m pretty good at research and archiving, too, but only get to practice my passion when it coincides with my increasingly illegal activities.

  My mother would be so proud.

  I shake my head. Who knows whether my mother would be proud or not? After living here for months, listening to other people’s ideas about my mother, meeting Frank Fournier—the father she lied about me still having—I’m starting to think that I’m the last person who knows anything about her at all.

  There’s not much I can do about that tonight, or about anything else, for that mater.. It’s too late to call the hospital, and hitting up Travis or Officer Dunleavy in Charleston to ask about Leo would likely make matters worse, not better. We need to focus on t
he good that came out of today: Amelia’s likely going to keep custody of Jack. That’s no small victory.

  I gather my laptop and glass of water, along with my phone, and turn to go inside, almost running into Amelia.

  And she’s not alone.

  Next to her, holding on to her hand, is the little black girl with the apron and braids from the road. From Drayton Hall.

  The beads are back on the ends of her hair, but her apron is nearly rags, now. Filthy. She smells like earth and loam, with the faintest scent of incense burning in the air around her.

  “Millie?” I say, carefully, hardly daring to take my eyes off the child to check on my cousin. When I do, I see that her eyes are glazed over. Far away, how they were when she was sleepwalking all the time.

  She doesn’t respond to my voice or to the fingers I snap in front of her face.

  “She’s asleep,” the little girl informs me, the first time she’s communicated anything other than accusations.

  “Why? Did you do something to her?” My heart clogs my throat, fear sour on the back of my tongue.

  The ghost looks confused. “No. You did something to her.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just got home.”

  “You said you would help me. You didn’t help.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” My fingers twitch, desperate to reach out and grab my cousin back to my side. Everything in me screams that it would be a mistake. This little girl is in her head, somehow, and ripping her away could hurt Amelia.

  The child ghost cocks her head, two fingers playing with the frayed hem of her apron. “You said you would help with the curse. But you didn’t.”

  “I did,” I protest. “I left the things…” I trail off, what she said just registering through my panic. “Wait, who are you?”

  “Carlotta. I’m nine.”

  “You’re Mama Lottie.” I feel sick. It had been her the whole time. What did it mean? Who had the other ghost been that night at Drayton, the one fighting with this one?

  Who was telling the truth? Neither of them?