Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6)

by Lyla Payne

“Sure. That Malala girl who won the Nobel Prize was shot by the Taliban for doing the same thing in Afghanistan.” I chew on my bottom lip. “It feels like a giant coincidence, though. Two people we know were aware of the underhanded drug testing at Allied are both taken out after they threatened to speak up?” Just thinking the word coincidence for the tenth time in half as many days makes my skin crawl. It’s impossible. All of this is connected, and we all know it. We just don’t want to admit it.

  “One of us needs to talk to Beau.” Brick turns to me with a wavering gaze. He’s not sure whether it should be me or him, obviously, but it can’t be Amelia.

  I blow out a breath. “What do you think?”

  He shrugs, picking at his bread again. “I think…it’s a shady area as far as my legal duties to the Middletons. If I talk to him about their business dealings, I mean.”

  “Wait, you still care about your legal duties to them? Screw that!” Amelia jerks her hand away, folding her arms over her chest. “They don’t deserve any respect.”

  A small smile toys with the corners of his lips as he gazes at her, something bright in his eyes. “Well, this is America, Amy. Everyone’s entitled to an attorney, but that’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point, then?” she retorts, still not ready to give in to the look of adoration he directs at her.

  “The point is that I can’t do anything that puts me out of their good graces. Not yet, not when they still hold all the cards against your friends.” He reaches out, and she lets him cover her hand. “That’s why we’re doing all of this. It’s the first priority.”

  I feel sick, and I’m not sure whether it’s because people are dying, we’re putting our friends above kids being exploited overseas, or my cousin is clearly falling head over heels for a Drayton while I’m letting another one go. Probably a combination, because I can’t believe I’m selfish enough to pout over my own floundering relationship when the rest of this is so much bigger than me, or even us.

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Are you sure?” Worry glints in my cousin’s green eyes. She’s the only person who really knows how hard the past couple of days have been on me. The house isn’t so big that she would have missed my poor-me sob fests.

  “Yes. It’s a small town. We can’t avoid each other forever.”

  While that’s true, we all know that going to talk to him about Lucy isn’t going to be easy. I told myself that I wouldn’t go to him asking for another shot until I was one hundred percent sure that there would be no secrets between us. Now that he knows about the curse Mama Lottie is using me to enact and I know about his past with Lucy, I can’t imagine what we would keep from each other. That said, it still doesn’t feel right.

  It’s not only about secrets, but the fact that nothing has changed. I’m still feeling hesitant about jumping into a relationship with both feet not only after what happened with David but with everything that has changed for me since returning to Heron Creek. I can’t speak for Beau, but I have a feeling that learning new information about Lucy will convince him that perhaps he hasn’t faced all of his issues regarding her loss, either.

  “Okay, well…” Brick swallows. “I guess let us know what he says or if he can think of anything that could help us.”

  “Okay.” My throat feels scratchy, closed up. This is a nightmare—I’m not sure of anything except that I’m not ready to confront Beau. Not today, maybe not ever, but with Leo and Mel depending on us to help them out of a sticky situation, there’s no choice.

  By the time work is over for the day, I’ve convinced myself there’s no point in putting off my visit to Beau for even a second longer than necessary. Amelia tried to extract my feelings about seeing him all afternoon, but I thwarted her for a couple of reasons: one, I don’t want to talk about it, and two, I don’t want to talk about it.

  The real reason is that in order to talk about my feelings, I’d have to access my feelings, and that seems like a bad idea. At the moment, they’re sealed up pretty well, with the occasional escape late at night or in the shower. If I start talking about what happened with Beau—how I’m coping, what I think about the future, and how it’s going to feel to look him in the eye today—Gracie Feelings will be splattered from here all the way to Charleston.

  No one wants that, especially not me.

  That said, the struggle to hold it inside as my car makes the familiar turns, bringing me closer to the governor’s mansion on the river, takes monumental effort. It’s so easy to see how things could have been, or could still be, if our lives weren’t the shitshow they’d turned into over the past couple of months. I think about the girl I’d been when I lived here before, when I’d loved Will.

  If I’d met Beau then, what would I have thought? Would my feelings have been the same, or would I even have given him a second look, stars in my eyes the way they were?

  I shake my head, dispelling the fanciful, philosophical thoughts. Life can’t be lived in hindsight. If I hadn’t fallen in love with Will and then gone through everything that came after, I wouldn’t be the woman I am now. The woman who’d been swept off her feet by Beauregard Drayton, despite her best efforts.

  Hell, I might not have become the out of sorts, hot mess of a woman who apparently commanded his attention on the sweltering summer streets of Heron Creek all those months ago. There’s no point in wondering what might have been, not ever. Dealing with my complicated feelings about Will had taught me that, but so had meeting the ghosts who had visited me. A person could only deal with the problem in front of them.

  I stand on Beau’s porch, my hand raised to knock, focusing hard on that belief. And the problem in front of me is getting Leo and Mel off the hook as far as the Middletons. If we’re going to take this thing further, we need to know more about Lucy and what she might know—hell, maybe we need to talk to other people at the aid company.

  We can’t do any of that without checking with Beau, or at least cluing him in. It would upset him too much, and I’ve already done enough of that to last a lifetime.

  No more secrets, I tell myself in a stern voice, then rap on the thick, wooden door.

  Maybe he won’t be home. That would be okay. I could leave a note and put this awkward moment off for at least a couple of hours.

  The sound of heavy footsteps, followed by the porch light flickering to life, puts an end to that brief fantasy. I squint in the sudden glare, wondering too late why I didn’t take the time to at least look in a mirror. We haven’t seen each other in three days, the longest we’ve gone since things got serious between us. It wouldn’t have killed me to at least look like a woman he’d consider letting back into his life.

  The look on his face when he opens the door and sees me is part sorrow, part anger, and all regret. The same emotions pump through me, speeding up my heart and shoving it into my throat at the same time. We stare at each other for long enough that the awkwardness threatens to swallow me whole.

  Finally, he stands aside, a wordless invitation into his house. In the foyer, I shrug out of my coat and his hands are there, like always, to help. He turns to hang it in the front closet, and I take advantage of the moment to torture myself with a close examination of his familiar frame—strong shoulders, narrow waist—and his handsome profile, all so dear to me now.

  The scent of his aftershave and shampoo mingle, and the damp curl of his chestnut hair at the nape of his neck suggests that he’s been in the shower. I focus on the worn blue jeans and flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, to avoid thinking about Beau naked. My stomach doesn’t know whether to flip or vomit or run for the hills, which I imagine makes for an interesting expression.

  I rearrange my face into a mask of apology in an attempt to get myself under control. There had been a plan in the car on the way here. Stick to it, Gracie. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I know you said you need time and space and thinking and all of that, and I respect your wishes. I do.”

  He fi
nishes hanging up my coat and turns back toward me, crossing his arms over his chest. The look on his face isn’t angry at all now. It’s mostly wary, but his hazel eyes reveal the slightest bit of amusement. It always makes him smile when I can’t shut up.

  “Yes, I can see that,” he comments, then tips his head toward the kitchen. “I was just making some tea. Let’s go into the kitchen, and then you can tell me what’s trumped my request.”

  I cling to the fact that he doesn’t seem mad. Yet.

  In the kitchen, I find myself perched on the same stool I sat on the first time I came over. Above me is a rack that holds his copper cookware, one that’s always made me concerned for my head. That particular body part might not always be on my side lately, but that doesn’t abate my fondness for keeping it un-dented.

  “It’s important, why I’m here.” I swallow, trying not to stare at his butt as he removes the kettle from the stove and preps two mugs of tea. The scent of blueberries fills the kitchen. “And it doesn’t have anything to do with the two of us.”

  He spins toward the island and pushes a mug my direction. I reach out and take it, daring to meet his eyes for a brief second. Any longer is impossible; it hurts too damn much.

  “Oh.”

  Is that disappointment in his face? Does he want this to be about us, for me to be the one who couldn’t wait, couldn’t last?

  I am that person, Beau. I miss you so goddamned much.

  The specter of Lucy, so much more real than she was this morning, stills my tongue. She’s the reason I’m here, and no matter how bad I want to let Beau wrap his arms around me, even that won’t make the trouble in my life take a hike. It never could, and maybe I let myself believe in fairies for far too long.

  Then again, ghosts are real. I glance around and over my head, wondering for a second if I just killed one of Tinkerbell’s cousins by saying I don’t believe.

  I mean, she was kind of a bitch, but no one deserves that.

  I shake my head, pressing my lips together in an attempt to focus on the present.

  “Okay. This is going to be weird, so I’m going to tell you everything and then you can ask questions.”

  “Same old Gracie—giving orders.” He sips his tea. “I’ll bite.”

  “You know that during Amelia’s custody case, my friends and I were looking for dirt on the Middletons. Anything that would shed light on their poor character and inability to raise a child.” He nods, his eyes never leaving my face. “We talked to the nanny, and that man, Paul Adams, who worked for Mr. Middleton when he owned Allied Pharmaceuticals.”

  “I remember.” He purses his lips. “He said something about illegal drug testing overseas, but it was back in the eighties and he had no way to prove it.”

  I nod. A sudden chill zips through me and I wrap my hands around my mug, letting the steam bathe my face. “Well, with Leo and Mel in trouble, we’ve decided to re-examine some of those accusations.”

  He peers at me, expression keen as he puts together the pieces. “You’re hoping to use the information to convince them to drop the charges?”

  “That’s the idea, yes.”

  “You’ll need proof. You’ve pissed them off too much for scare tactics to work this time.”

  “Brick said as much.” Beau’s eyebrows shoot up at the mention of his brother. “He’s helping us.”

  A low chuckle winds its way out of his chest and across the island, tickling my ears and warming my blood to a simmer. God, why does he insist on being so sexy?

  “What’s so funny?” I manage, attempting to get a hold of myself.

  “Brick helping you. This whole thing with Amelia. It’s not funny, exactly. I mean, not in a joking way.” He shrugs, taking another sip of tea. “It’s in more of an incredulous, happy-for-my-brother way.”

  I don’t comment. There’s no way Beau can be any happier about the blossoming whatever it is between Brick and Amelia than I am. It’s too awkward, the thought that we’ll be forced to stay in each other’s lives, even on the periphery, if things don’t work out with us in the long run. People should be able to split for good, if they want.

  If I had to continue to see David, even on an irregular basis, it would annoy me to no end, and the wound from this thing with Beau is fresher. If he dumps me for good, spending time with him would be like a cheese grater to the skin.

  You see Will, one of my devils protests. What does that mean?

  Will is different. We were friends before we were anything else. Our bond runs deeper than romance, holds us tighter than mere lovers. I’m starting to believe that people can be friends with their exes. If they were friends first.

  I choose not to comment on the whole situation. There’s no point in getting worked up about it when we don’t know what’s going on. It could fizzle out after the drama dies down. “Well, amusing as it may be—and that remains to be seen—he has been helpful as far as the Middletons are concerned. It turns out that they’re still majority shareholders in Allied Pharmaceuticals. Mrs. Middleton sits on the board.”

  He frowns, a wrinkle on his forehead suggesting he’s assessing that. Then, he shakes his head. “No way she’s more than a puppet for her husband. She’s a well-known pill popper.”

  I nod, wishing he would stop interrupting. This is hard enough as it is. I just want to get it over with. “Well, that’s not the only thing that hasn’t changed. There have been more complaints toward Allied, some as recent as the past five years, saying that the company is still recruiting people in third world countries to test their drugs—malaria, Ebola, whatever. Who knows what they’re really testing.”

  Beau frowns. “That’s awful. Have you thought about how you’ll get proof?”

  “There’s more… Most of the foreign aid organizations accepted money to keep their mouths shut, but there were volunteers here and there who were vocal about disagreeing.” I suck in a deep breath and meet his gaze. He goes still, obviously guessing that whatever I’m about to say isn’t going to go down easy. “One of the people who fought the hardest for the people in Iran was Lucy.”

  It feels as though all of the oxygen disappears from the room. We’re suspended in time, in a cloud of confusion that clears as my words find the correct order in Beau’s ears. He slowly lowers his coffee mug to the counter. His face shutters, closing his emotions off from me. Maybe from himself.

  No one knows better than I do that dealing with this kind of shit requires distance. Even from yourself.

  “My Lucy?” he chokes out.

  Something about the way he says that sends a harpoon straight into my heart. His Lucy. Am I his Gracie? Was I ever? Or did losing her leave too big of a hole in his middle to ever be filled?

  Thanks to my own insistence on hiding various truths from him, I may never have the chance to try.

  I swallow, then nod. “Yes. She was working for a school in Iran, and some of the girls went for drug testing. They got sick, and she kept trying to find out where they’d been. She wanted to report Allied to the World Health Organization and probably a dozen other places. Before…”

  “Before she was kidnapped.” He runs a hand through his thick hair and starts to pace. “So maybe it wasn’t the Taliban or ISIS or terrorists that grabbed her at all.”

  “Or maybe it was.” I want to believe that, as bad as it sounds. I don’t want to think that a Fortune 500 company would have someone kidnapped.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  I pause, still stung from his words, pained by the twisted, tortured expression on his face and my inability to say or do anything to make it better.

  Be honest.

  “No, I don’t. Paul Adams is dead, too. Hit by a car outside his house a few days after he talked to Will and me.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Beau rounds the island and sinks onto the stool on the end. “Jesus. Gracie, do you know what you’re saying?”

  “That Allied Pharmaceuticals is prepared to kill to keep their secret? Or to keep doing business as u
sual? Yeah, I know what I’m saying.” I shove my shaking hands between my knees and pinch them there. “If we could find a way to prove it, we could do more than help Mel and Leo.”

  He raises his blank gaze. “Do you think we could find her? Lucy?”

  It honestly hasn’t crossed my mind. Not because I don’t care, but because even I know the statistics on finding people who have been missing as long as she has aren’t good.

  “All I know is that we need to pursue this, and we thought maybe you could remember something about Lucy—where she was, the name of the school. It would be a place to start.”

  After a moment, he nods. “I have a file. I hired investigators when it first happened, but they all hit dead ends. Come with me.”

  I slide off the stool, in a slight daze, and follow Beau into the den. There’s something comforting about being back in this house, with him. It wraps around me, calming me when it’s hard to breathe.

  Beau unlocks a file cabinet behind his desk and rifles through the folders for a moment before pulling one out. It’s about an inch thick, and he opens it on the desk and thumbs through it.

  “That’s it?” I ask, hearing the dismay in my voice.

  He looks up, as though surprised to still find me there. His expression softens. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way. I actually… I’m glad to see you. When I thought you were here because you missed me, I was looking forward to talking about us, Gracie Anne. I want to do that. I’m… I miss you.”

  Tears sting my eyes. “I miss you, too.”

  He breathes out. I breathe in. For those short moments, everything is possible again.

  “But I can’t read through this with you standing over me.” His fingers curl around the edge of the folder, as though he’s holding onto them in a tangible manifestation of his hope that Lucy could be alive. “I’ll make a list and get it to Brick. Anything I think could lead back to Allied.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  He stares at me for another second before looking down at the papers piled inside the folder. It’s a clear dismissal, and I can’t blame him—no one works best with someone staring at them, even when that someone isn’t an ex-girlfriend. Or on-a-break girlfriend. Whatever.