by Lyla Payne
I go and make myself a drink without asking—turns out this situation does require alcohol—while that sinks in. Behind me, Mel finds her tongue.
“Why did you want me to be here?”
“Huh? Oh. I was wondering when you’re going to come back to work. I never thought I wanted things to be more, you know…flow-y around here until you fixed me up. Now everything’s going to the dogs.”
“You could have just asked me over the phone,” Mel points out. She doesn’t sound pissed or even irritated, though. I guess a night away is a night away. “But I was thinking I’d come back part-time next month, if it’s still okay that I bring Mary.”
“Duh. If you don’t bring the baby, I’ll have to rescind your offer of employment.”
“Okay.”
“I also wanted you to be here in case Graciela lost her marbles. You know, more of them.”
“She’s fine, Daria. She’s a lot stronger than you think.”
“Would you two pelicans stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Irritation spikes in my blood, but the rum helps smooth it out. “I am fine. Remaining marbles retained. I just wish I knew what Felicia meant, that’s all.”
“I wish you knew how to get her to leave me alone,” Daria mutters.
I snort. “If I knew how to get my mother to lay off, I wouldn’t be lugging around nearly so many latent childhood issues.”
“Maybe she’ll go away now that you’ve delivered her message,” Mel suggests.
Daria glances around the room, then closes her eyes for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. “She’s not here at the moment, so maybe you’re right.”
“Let me know if she says anything else, obviously.” I pause. On the tip of my tongue are the words tell her to come see me next time. They sit there for several seconds before I bite them back and swallow them, shoving them deep down in my middle where I keep all of my thoughts and feelings about my mother.
I’ve spent the last decade of my life trying to escape my mother, in one way or another. If I had a therapist, I feel like they would steer me clear of inviting her into my bedroom at night.
Not that ghosts are like vampires, in my experience. They go wherever they please whenever they please, heaven knows, so if my mother chose Daria instead of me, she did it deliberately. Maybe she’s not all that keen on spending time with me, either. Felicia never was, and it’s an odd comfort to realize yet again that death doesn’t exactly change people.
Tell her to stay away.
Stay away from what? Or whom, like Mel said?
Trust a ghost to give you just enough to get you going but not enough to get you there. Like a big-budget movie with no plot or a joke with the worst punchline in the world. Shit.
“You can go now,” Daria says in her usual, abrupt manner. “I have a job tonight, but I don’t need your help with that.”
“Thanks.” My dry tone bounces right off Daria.
“I’ll see you next month, Daria, but I’ll call you in a few weeks to work out the details. Sound good?” Mel gets a nod in response, at least.
Moments later, we’re on our way home in the cold car, waiting for the heater to crank up and beat back our shivers.
“That was interesting,” Mel says after our teeth stop chattering.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Are you okay?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I’m not that surprised she’s around. That old newspaper article about her, this weirdness with Clete, and now the garnets…it’s all connected, and my mother is one of the few people who could draw the lines.”
“What do you think she meant by what she said to Daria?”
“I mean, the obvious answer is that she knows I’ve been asking questions about that time when she disappeared with Clete in the mountains.” I pause, flexing my hands in front of the vents. “My mom was pretty selfish, so I can’t see her hauling her ass all the way to Daria’s house from the great beyond unless the situation involves her directly.”
Mel chews on her bottom lip. “I don’t know, Gracie. You could be right, and she wants you to stay away from the mountains, or from Clete. But if she was going to Daria, why start out so obtuse?”
We drive for a few minutes in silence. I don’t have an answer for Mel’s question, and my mind is busy puzzling over another possible reason for my mother’s reappearance, though it doesn’t make much sense now that Frank’s dead. Felicia never wanted me to know anything about my father, let alone his name. She wouldn’t have liked the idea of us getting to know each other. Or of me looking into the Fourniers.
“What if it’s about the Fourniers? I can see her wanting me to stay away from them.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Mel bites her lower lip. “But when you combine her appearance with everything else, like you said, doesn’t a connection to Clete make more sense?”
She’s right, and I give her a nod. Daria’s confession tonight all but confirms my mother’s role in leaving the garnets and the newspaper article.
I have no proof, though. Just a gut feeling.
“How’s your current ghostie situation going?”
“Hmm? Oh.” My lips pull down in a frown. “Not good. Harlan hasn’t even shown up in several days, not since I went to talk to Leo. He’s never led me anywhere except the cemetery.”
“And nothing suggests it was murder?”
“Not really. Trent thinks it was murder, and so did the reporter, but there’s no glaring evidence. Pretty much everyone else in town seems to think it was a freak accident. I feel like I’m up against a road block. I’d planned to head out to Folly Island after work the day after tomorrow to talk to the cop who worked the case. I haven’t gone before now because there really doesn’t seem like there’s much going on there.”
“Well, what about his co-workers or his friends? Have you tried finding them?”
“No. I guess I’ve been waiting for him to point me in a direction, but that’s a good idea.” I give her an assessing look. “You do have a knack for this whole detective thing.”
“I like it,” she confesses in a tone that reminds me of when we were twelve and sleeping over at Grams’ house, talking about which boys we thought were cute.
“Pretty amazing when you find something you love, isn’t it?” I give her a soft smile.
“Truly.” She smiles back. “But back to you. If you talk to other people who knew Harlan and no one relays anything strange, what’s next?”
“There’s always something, but I don’t know. This is a tough one.”
“It’s not always something nefarious, though, right? What about the Whistling Doctor?”
Dr. Ladd was the third ghost who showed up asking me for help. And even though he had been murdered, that wasn’t why he was back. His job for me had been relatively simple—find his family and hand over some letters.
“He kept nudging me, though. Harlan’s just, I don’t know. Hanging around.”
“I’d say he was just interested in dropping in on his family, but he showed up at your house, too,” Mel muses, “when neither Leo nor Trent were there. But you’re right.”
She pulls the car onto my street. When we slide into the driveway, the house is dark and quiet, the way it should be given it’s nearly midnight. Brick had a work thing, so Amelia had planned on taking her own bath and then going to bed early.
There’s nothing amiss. No Harlan on the porch, no other dead people lurking around that I can see. I put the key in the lock and then wave to Mel, letting her know she can go. Once I’m in the foyer, basking in the warm blast of furnace-heated air, I realize we didn’t grab the mail today. Normally not something I would care about leaving until morning, but my early copy of the Journal of American History is supposed to be on its way. It’s totally vain, but I really, really want to see my name on that byline.
I haven’t taken my coat off, so I take a deep breath and dart back outside, hurrying to the end of the driveway. My journal isn’t in the mailbox, just a coupl
e of envelopes that look like bills and a card for Amelia from someone in Charleston.
It’s not until I’m headed back inside that I notice the porch light on a couple of doors down, at Mrs. Walters’s house. And underneath it, the shadowy outline of a man who can only be Cade. Watching. Like always.
Chapter Sixteen
When I told Mel that I was mostly okay about the whole my-mother-is-a-ghost thing, I really thought I meant it. But once I was tucked under my covers without anything else to think about, sleep took its sweet-ass time coming to visit. The clock had clicked past three a.m. before I managed to get any shut-eye. The fact that my mother can still get to me from beyond the grave pisses me off more than I can say.
At least I get to spend the night with Knox after I leave work. I doubt the day will be normal, but it’s nice to look forward to something normal-ish.
But before I head to the library, I stop by Glory Jean’s garage to see about my car. There’s a sour taste in my mouth and a churning in my gut…probably because the last time I went to see her she told me she was worried someone might be trying to kill me. If I’m being honest, I’m worried that’s what she’s going to say again.
It’s still dark when I peek in the empty reception area of No Guts No Glory. The clanging from the garage area leads me that way, and I find Glory Jean where I expect to—halfway under a car in a brightly lit space that’s somehow homey despite the oil and general mess. Maybe it’s the clutter itself that makes me comfortable.
That’s what Leo would say.
I clear my tight throat, forcing myself to move on from that thought. No time to grieve right now.
You know that’s not how grieving works, right?
The silent voice in my head doesn’t belong to my devils, who have been blessedly silent for days. It’s my Grams. Tears spring to my eyes.
Yes, I know that’s not how grieving works, Grams. I’m a pro after losing you and Gramps. I also know that the goal of the grieving process is to get to acceptance, and no way am I anywhere near ready to accept that the way things are between Leo and me is the way they’re going to stay.
“Hello?” Glory Jean has gone still, sensing there’s a silent creeper.
I clear my throat again, wishing it was as easy to clear my head. And heart.
Then I remember it is—at least temporarily. Knox is ready and willing to do just that for me again tonight.
“It’s Graciela Harper.”
“Oh, one second, honey.”
It’s more like a couple of minutes before something metal clatters to the ground and the casters of her little back support roll over the cracked concrete floor. She sits up, wiping the grease from her hands—or trying to—on a pink rag that she then tosses aside.
I don’t like the worry lines creasing her face and the worried press of her lips. Don’t like it at all.
“You’re here to check on your bucket of bolts, I assume.”
“Yes. I mean, I know you probably can’t fix her, but…”
“I can fix anything, you know that. Won’t be worth it money-wise, ’course. If it were a seventies Camaro or something, sure, but not that thing.” She jerks her thumb out back, where she keeps the cars waiting for service, along with some junkers. “I’ll buy it off you for the parts, if you want. Otherwise you’ll have to have it towed.”
“No, that’s fine…” I trail off, wondering whether I can slip out of here before she says something I don’t want to hear. It’s juvenile and cowardly, but hell. No one changes all at once.
Two steps forward, one step back. That’s what I told Brick about his recovery, and my form of addiction is hiding from things I don’t want to face.
“Did you have a chance to look at it? The Triple-A guys said it looked like a rat’s nest, but I don’t—”
I stop talking because she’s shaking her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“Looks like a rat’s nest, that’s true enough. Someone wanted it to look that way when your engine blew up and killed you girls and that sweet baby.” She levels me with her steely gaze, her gray curls escaping from the pink bandana she wears around her head to keep the sweat and grease out of her eyes. “You need to go to the cops and make a report. The tire, well, maybe that could have been a case of me bein’ paranoid, but this? Someone’s trying to kill you and make it look like an accident.”
Glory Jean’s words ring in my ears as I hurry through the barely stirring streets of Heron Creek toward the coffee shop. My fingers and nose are frozen by the time I step inside, but Belle’s got the heat cranked all the way up. Bless her little pea-pickin’ heart.
The warmth combines with the smell of coffee and cinnamon in a way that usually manages to soothe every last nerve, but at the moment it’s making me kind of nauseous. I guess hearing that someone is trying to kill you can have that effect on a person.
I should maybe be more accustomed to such things at this point, but maybe that’s not the sort of thing that ever becomes normal.
I make my way up to the counter, my mind going a million miles a minute, and order my usual. Belle gives me a concerned look but the line is growing behind me and she doesn’t have time to stop and chat.
There’s the usual trio of old ladies huddled over their mugs at a table under the window, curls of steam lifting toward the bright lights. They’re deep in some kind of conversation. One that’s quiet enough to be kept personal, for once.
No one else is sitting, but the long line promises seats will be at a premium soon enough. When my cafe au lait is ready, I grab a small table as far away from the old ladies as possible. The library isn’t going to be open for another hour and the thought of going into an empty building, alone, is less than appealing. I’d rather be forced to interact with people from town.
While I watch them make their way through the line, ordering their drinks and chatting with each other, going about their business without having to worry that someone is out to get them, a well of resentment opens up at my core.
In some ways, I don’t want to be like them. I like the excitement and unpredictability my new calling has brought to my life. I even like the ghosts. But living under the shadow of the reaper’s scythe isn’t exactly the kind of excitement that I enjoy.
There are no strangers in Heron Creek. Every face is familiar, and most of them smile and offer some sort of greeting when they meet my gaze. No one comes over, either because they’re all busy with their own shit or because they can read my mood. I don’t even realize I’m sort of waiting for Leo until the rest of the hour ticks by without him wandering in.
I leave disconsolately, barely watching where I’m going.
“Oh, Gracie. Good. I was going to come and see you today.”
Travis nearly mows me down on my way out of the coffee shop. He was on his way in, his hat clutched between his hands. I take a second to find my voice, which hasn’t been used in nearly an hour.
“Oh?”
“Can we chat?”
“I need to get to work, actually.” I check the time on my phone. Five minutes until opening. “You can come by if you want.”
Maybe our near run-in is some kind of sign. As much as I want to pretend the whole thing with Glory Jean never happened, she’s right about me needing to file some kind of report about my car. I just don’t want Travis and Will to freak out.
“Yeah, let me get a cup and I’ll be over.”
“Sure, see you soon.”
The sun makes its way above the horizon, the faint rays blinking off the frosty building facades and the tree branches scraping the windows. The lacy patterns are pretty. The cold air huffing in and out of my lungs is actually refreshing. Crazy, but the hour break and the coffee and the people watching seems to have had a positive effect on my attitude.
Sure, someone might be trying to kill me, but I’m alive. I’ve got a decent job and good friends. I’m going to have some great, stress-free sex tonight.
The library is bright, and since the clean
ing service was here last night, the usual smells of dust and glue and old books are overlaid by a clean scent. I turn the sign to Open and set my bag and water bottle down on my desk. In the kitchenette, I start a pot of coffee for later, and also for Mr. Freedman whenever he bothers to show up for the day. A bell tinkles, announcing someone coming through the front doors, and I head out to find Travis setting his paper takeaway coffee on the tall table nearest my desk.
“Hey,” I greet him, summoning a smile. “How’s it going?”
He gives me a brief once-over, his expression skeptical. Probably because I’m not usually so friendly.
But I’m going to need his help with this whole car thing, so I figured we might as well start off right this morning.
“Hey. I’m doing okay. You?”
“I have some complaints.” A manic giggle escapes, and his skepticism turns to concern. “But you first?”
“This might sound nosy or creepy or whatever, but I swear I’m just a total nerd when it comes to geology…” He trails off, waiting for me to acknowledge the sort-of pre-apology, then goes on when I don’t. “I pinpointed a couple of spots where raw garnets are mined.”
“Oh?” I’m wary, but that’s probably just because I have issues about people sticking their nose in my business.
“So…how did you actually find it?”
I sigh. The prospect of telling Travis that someone has been leaving them for me, and that there is more than one, isn’t appealing. He’ll go all Dick Tracy on me.
Stop being so private and stupid, one of my devils chortles. What do you think, he’s going to assume you’re nuts?
The second devil pops up on the opposite shoulder. You know that ship has pretty much sailed, and besides, he’s as crazy as you are.
They’re not wrong. I don’t really want to tell Travis the truth, but there isn’t much of a choice, and there’s no denying we share the “looney” genetic material. Aside from that, he’s a detective, and he’s been one for a long time. He’s not going to buy that I keep randomly stumbling across raw garnets that aren’t indigenous to the area.
