by Lyla Payne
The article is short, and there are no follow-ups in the issues that came after. The lack of additional stories leads me to believe that the case was, in fact, ruled a suicide, since surely it would have been reported on if any new evidence had come up.
The mention of Brick going to school with the dead girl interests me more than a little, and makes me relieved that I didn’t bring it up to Beau yet. Surely he would remember a girl who killed herself on their property, a girl who may or may not have known his brother.
Except she said she didn’t kill herself, and I don’t know why a ghost would hang around all this time just to lie to me. They never have before, at least not as far as I know.
I cringe a little at the normalcy of my thoughts regarding the spirits that have taken to haunting me. It started with Anne Bonny, then Henry Woodward had shown up just before Glinda. I’d picked up Dr. Ladd down in Charleston, and now this girl. Nanette Robbins. She’s number five.
Maybe taking Daria up on her offer to tag along on some of her calls wouldn’t be a bad idea. I wonder if she’ll warn me next time she’s going to show up looking like a bizzaro version of Jessica Rabbit. Fashion statements are great, and being unique is fine and dandy, but her weird appearance today is going to earn me additional side-eye.
The fact that I’m some kind of psychologist-slash-detective for the local ghosties is unique enough for me. The sense of purpose, the level of comfort the spirits have started to provide, is going to take some getting used to. It kind of feels like easing into a bath you accidentally drew too hot—you can get used to it if you get in slowly enough but it’s still going to leave its mark. Being the oddest girl in a town full of Southern oddities is the reddened skin I’ll be living with if this really and truly becomes my life.
“Hey! What are you looking up?” Amelia peers at the computer screen over my shoulder, trying to maneuver her swollen stomach to get herself closer. It doesn’t really work, aside from cramming me against the desk.
“Hey. That hurts.”
“Whatever, Skinny Minny. Suck it up.” Her eyes light up. “Is this about the ghost you saw? Did you find her?”
It’s nice to hear excitement in Millie’s voice about something. Score another point for the ghosts.
Still, I can’t help but glance around, making sure no one sauntered in and overheard her question. The library is as empty as a tomb, but it won’t be for long since story time is this afternoon.
“I think so,” I reply in a hushed, much more library appropriate tone. “Her name was Nanette Robbins and she died in 1999. They found her hanging from the big tree out front—you remember the one?”
She nods, the details of the death erasing her delight. “Why’d she do it?”
“It doesn’t say. There aren’t any follow-ups in the Charleston papers, but the girl—Nan—told me, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t kill herself.”
“But she drags a noose everywhere she goes? How does one die that way by accident, exactly?” Amelia purses her lips, but it doesn’t take long for the only other option to become clear. Her cheeks pale. “Someone hung a fourteen-year-old girl from a tree?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I mean, if she’s telling the truth.” I nudge the monitor so that my cousin can get a better look without damaging my diaphragm. “And look at the only other name mentioned in the article.”
Her eyes go wide before she turns her gaze on me. “Brick? How can that be a coincidence? They went to school together and that’s where she dies?”
I press my lips together, unwilling to incriminate even Brick Drayton with such loose connections. It’s almost as if I’m learning actual detective skills. Ole Nancy Drew would be proud. “I don’t know. It’s not like the Draytons lived there—they haven’t for decades.”
“Still. It’s pretty weird. And why do you think there’s no mention of her parents or their statements or anything?”
“Their daughter just died, Millie. Maybe they didn’t want to talk to reporters.” Her question gives me an idea, though. Now that we know her name we can search the obituaries, and hers is easy enough to find with a few clicks of the keys. “Here. It says she’s survived by an older half sister. No mention of parents or grandparents. Sad.”
“The whole thing is sad.” She winces, then stands.
My worry for my cousin leaps to high alert. “You okay?”
“I’m as fine as I’m going to be until I get this baby out of me. My back hurts, that’s all.”
“We’ll get out Grams’s old corn heating pads when we get home.”
“Between tennis with Leo and your big date night with the mayor?” She gives me a knowing smile. “You’re rebuilding your life here, Grace, and I am so happy for you.”
For some reason, the scratch of her voice makes me want to cry. “You’re a part of that life, you know. The biggest, most important part.”
“I know. I also know you’d be happier even faster if you’d stop worrying so much about what everyone in town is going to think of your new…abilities. People love you. It’s a gift you got from Gramps.”
“People love you.”
She shakes her head, blond strands of hair whispering over her pink cheeks. “They loved sixteen-year-old cotillion Amelia Anne Cooper. This girl? They can’t love her, Grace. They don’t even know her.”
I grab her hands. “You have to take your own advice, then. Trust them.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
There’s a sheen in her eyes, though no tears fall. My throat burns. Her hands tremble underneath mine and I squeeze harder, wishing my new abilities included telepathy and I could crawl inside her brain and root around until I knew everything to say and do to make her better.
“Because I don’t even know me, Grace. I’m lost.”
A group of four kids—close in age and all belonging to the same harried mother—choose that moment to burst into the library for story time, shattering the force field of tension that had bubbled up around us. Amelia turns away, fixing a bright, greeting smile on her face as the children swarm around her and their mother almost collapses with the relief of having a break.
It takes me longer to shake off the cold, heavy feeling of dread, the absolute certainty that whatever Millie needs from me, from those hours of therapy, from her family, she’s not getting it. I glance back at the computer screen, staring at the image of that tree in the photo for a moment before clicking it closed, remembering the braided noose around the neck of Nan’s ghost.
A chill shoots down my spine, twisting my stomach into a knot. As hard as I try to shake it off, as many times as I tell myself Amelia would never leave me alone that way, I have to admit that I’m not sure.
Not anymore.
The last people to arrive for story time are Lindsay and Marcella Boone. I haven’t seen either of them since Lindsay moved back, though Amelia gave me a full report after she ran into them at Waterfront Park the other day. She said they looked great and it’s true. Lindsay’s midnight hair shines around her shoulders and she looks relaxed in a pair of olive green shorts, a beige tank top, and worn brown sandals. Our eyes meet and she gives me a slight nod of acknowledgment before herding Marcella into the nook where Amelia is reading aloud.
There’s no one else waiting to be helped, and my mind needs time to process the information about Nan and decide what exactly to do with it, so I tiptoe over to the group and settle next to my old friend Mel, managing not to interrupt or cause a scene. For once.
“Hey,” she whispers, smiling. It’s not quite right, not quite Mel, but not as wrong as Millie.
Mel and Will’s son whips his little blond head around, so in tune to his mother for a three-year-old, and grins when he sees me. Grant waves, I wave back, and then he returns his attention to Amelia. It almost makes me laugh, how much he’s turning out to be like his father in more than looks. Will never broke a single rule or put a toe out of line, and he would have died of shame if he’d gotten
in trouble with any adult in the near vicinity.
“Hi,” I whisper back. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.” She pauses, checking Grant again, but his attention doesn’t waver. Her head tips away from the group, out of the stacks.
I get the hint and nod, standing up. Her footsteps follow me back to the front desk, the spot where I spend almost all my time in the library, except when I’m digging in the local archives. The room is one of my favorites, but its contents don’t reach into the twenty-first century. Not so helpful as far as information on my current ghostly visitor.
Maybe I’m worrying for nothing. Nanette didn’t follow me from Drayton Hall. Maybe she doesn’t want anything more than someone to hang out with on the property. Maybe she just wants someone to talk to her. Someone to see her.
I sit on the edge of the desk and Melanie stops a few steps away, dropping her purse on the floor. Her belly is about the same size as Amelia’s, even though her baby girl—Mary—is due a little later. She also looks as worn thin as my cousin, and I motion to the semi-comfortable spinny chair behind the desk. “Sit.”
“Thank you. Good Lord above, my feet are killing me.”
“Millie’s complaining about her back.”
“Oh yeah. Will’s on nightly massage duty from here on out.” She frowns, as though mentioning her husband’s name leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
We’ve pretty much dealt with all the weirdness stemming from the fact that he and I were each other’s first loves, so that can’t be what’s bothering her now. It’s hard to say whether my asking about him, or them, or even just what’s wrong will cross some kind of invisible trip wire, but what the hell. Mel’s not one to beat around the bush any more than I am.
“Everything else okay at home?”
To my surprise, tears gather in her chocolate eyes. She dabs at them with a tissue she pulls from her purse and refuses to meet my gaze until they’re gone, but crying is definitely not Mel’s shtick. Amelia was the crier of our group, or occasionally Will, rarely me, and never Mel.
“What’s wrong?” I round the desk, sitting on the other side so we’re huddled closer together. It gives us some privacy, but in this strange, unfamiliar moment with a woman I would have said could never surprise me, it also provides the slightest bit of comfort.
“Nothing that should turn me into a big ole bawl-baby.” She sniffs, still too embarrassed to look at me. “Will got fired. For changing that stuff for Clete.”
My heart drops into my gut. Shame floods my veins, heating me to an unbearable degree, and in that moment, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to turn back time. I got Will involved in the whole scheme with the moonshiners, promised them things I couldn’t deliver in exchange for information that helped me clear Beau’s name. It should be me suffering the consequences, not him.
“Shit. Shit, Mel, I am so sorry. This is all my fault.”
“You can stop it with that nonsense right now. I don’t blame you for Will’s actions. The man does what he wants, and besides, I think he’s pretty happy to have a reason to make a change.”
That takes a moment to sink in. Melanie—and Will, for that matter—aren’t ones to hold grudges, which probably accounts for the considerable longevity of our friendship, but this seems like too much.
“But if I hadn’t gone out there looking for Clete’s help…”
“Seriously, you’re going to make me sorry I said anything if you don’t shut your trap.”
“Fine.” I bite my lip, rearranging my thoughts into something more helpful than what I want to do right now—fall apart. After a big swallow, the right questions show up. “What’s he thinking about doing now?”
“I don’t think he knows for sure yet, but I got a job working for Harrington. Just an assistant, for now, but once I pass the CPA exam it will be more money.”
“That’s good.” It is, because they need the money, but in my heart I know being an accountant isn’t Mel’s dream. Not that working for the state was Will’s.
We’re too old for dreams, maybe, or at least for getting bent out of shape when we’re forced to let them go. They’re what get us through high school, push us through college, but now, standing on the precipice of all the rest of it, dreams seem like silly things. No more substantial than dandelion seeds we blew into the wind as children, never to see them again. Never to know if any landed or took root, and not caring one way or another, really. The beauty had been in the scattering. Reaping took dedication, attention, work, timing. Luck.
Dreams were like those seeds. Without keeping hold of them, making sure they get what they need to grow, they just… I don’t know. Not die. Just disappear, I guess.
“He’s thinking about applying at the police department since Mr. Wilkinson retired.”
“What?” My eyes go wide at the idea.
“I know.”
My first thought is that he’d be in danger if he did that. It’s the thought of a girlfriend, maybe, not a friend. Another remnant from a disappeared world.
My second thought is that it kind of makes sense. Who better to enforce rules than the man who loves them more than anything?
“He’d be good at it,” I offer honestly. “He believes in rules and order and all that. Plus, you and Will are both the kind of people who can tell a person to go to hell and they’ll end up looking forward to the trip.”
That makes her laugh, and I can almost feel the weight lift off my shoulders. Off hers. We’re Mel and Gracie again, gossiping about Will behind his back—kind of different but kind of the same.
“That’s true. I never thought of it that way.” She chuckles again, then sobers, a thoughtful expression taking hold. “You’re right, of course. And it will be nice to have him in Heron Creek instead of gallivanting all over kingdom come with those criminals.”
Those criminals. Clete and the other moonshiners aren’t going to like losing their “in” as far as the state of South Carolina is concerned. Will got fired, though; he didn’t quit. Not that people like Clete are too big on technicalities.
As much as he helped me during the whole situation with Beau, it gives me a strong case of nerves to think about the moonshiners staying in our lives. It would be best to walk away, and now that Beau has been cleared of all charges, and Lindsay is home, there’s no reason to think we can’t.
No reason that comes to mind, anyway.
Mel’s watching me too closely so I shake off the worry and smile. “I certainly can’t argue with that.”
“Maybe you could talk to Detective Travis?”
“Since it’s my fault Will’s looking for a job—it is, Mel, I don’t care how nice you’re being about it—I’d be happy to.” The memory of this afternoon’s conversation makes me cringe. “Though, uh, maybe we should ask Amelia to do it.”
“Oh dear sweet Jesus, what have you done this time?” Mel sits up, interested despite her chastisement.
I can’t help but laugh. “Nothing. Travis just hasn’t learned that bossing me around doesn’t work.”
“Accomplishes the opposite, mostly.”
“Is this a secret meeting? Is there wine? God, I could use some wine.” The woman’s voice whooshes out in a tired rush. I look and see LeighAnn Kopans, the harried mother of four and the matriarch of the only Jewish family in Heron Creek.
Mel laughs. “I wish. At least you can drink your way through the day.”
“Trust me, once you add another couple to your brood, you’ll be counting down to happy hour, too.”
“I count down to happy hour every day,” I chime in, “and I don’t even have kids.”
We all laugh, and LeighAnn’s appearance rounds out our little group in an unexpected way. It makes me think about what Millie said earlier, about me finding my place in this town again. For the first time it feels as though maybe, possibly, when I look at it through squinted eyes, she might be right.
“The only time I take for myself is yoga or kickboxing in the mornings. And that’s mostl
y before the kids get up.” Her eyes light up. “You guys should come to yoga!”
“Heron Creek has a yoga studio?”
“Of course not, Graciela, don’t be silly. But we do have a yoga instructor—Taylor Nash, the cute gal who took over the reporter job at the Sun?”
Her name rings a bell. It takes a second for me to remember that Leo asked her out on a date. And that she agreed, according to him. Yoga had better at least triple a person’s ability to zen if she’s going to date him.
“Huh.”
“She teaches us down by the river when it’s nice outside, but otherwise we snag the hall at the Moose Lodge.”
“Eagle Lodge,” Mel corrects. Because, of course, Will joined, just like his father and his grandfather.
Like my grandfather.
“Whatever. Anyway, it’s at five thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Ha! Good luck getting Gracie out of bed before ten.” Mel snorts. “But if Taylor has some sort of giant belly work-arounds, I might be interested. I could use a little zen in my life.”
“Hey, maybe I’ll come, too,” I say.
Mel raises an eyebrow at me. “Right. And monkeys might fly out of my butt.”
“Cripenanny, Melanie, you need to bring your comebacks out of the early nineties.”
The sound of singing and squeals from the stacks distracts all three of us. Both Mel and LeighAnn hurry off to collect their kids, who together make up over half Amelia’s group. Lindsay walks out into the lobby a few moments later, Marcella in tow. The little girl’s other hand clutches three hardback picture books, two of which we’ve read together on several occasions, and a smile creeps over my face.
