Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) Read online

  “Hey, Millie. Good news.”

  “Here, too.” She sounds out of breath. “The nanny has a ton of stories and she won the lottery two years ago.”

  “Um, good for her but how are those two things connected?”

  “She doesn’t need the Middletons’—quote—retirement money—unquote—anymore. And she thinks that any kid who grows up in that house will be a menace to society.” She pauses, sucking air. “I don’t want my kid to be a menace to society unless I make him one, Grace.”

  I bark a surprised laugh, and hear Mel honk one in the background, too. “Agreed. We’re going to stop by the teacher’s house one more time because she wasn’t home before, and then we’ll meet you at F.I.G. Okay?”

  “See you soon. Damn, I wish I could have a drink.”

  “I’ll have two.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Nice try, but it’s not going to make a difference.” Phoebe, lawyer extraordinaire, looks more beautiful today than she did the last time we were at her office. If that’s possible.

  It’s Saturday and she agreed to meet us with great reluctance. Based on the clinging emerald green dress and killer designer heels, it’s because she has plans. Possibly with Chris Hemsworth. Or Chris Evans. Definitely a hot, ripped blond guy named Chris.

  “What do you mean?” My cousin’s voice is at least three octaves too high, but kudos to her for forming words that didn’t include expletives. That’s all that’s going on in my head.

  We just told Phoebe about all of our great detective work, not to mention that we have two former employees willing to testify that the Middletons are terrible, immoral people who should never have been entrusted with one child, and she has the nerve to look bored.

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I know you worked hard and that all this sounds good, but it’s not applicable.”

  “Is it because of the NDA? Because I talked to Beau and he said they wouldn’t apply in a custody hearing.”

  Phoebe gives me another bored look that’s tinged with irritation. It’s the most emotion she’s shown since we’ve met. “Yes, I’m aware. I went to law school at Princeton. With Beauregard. Perhaps you recall that detail?”

  “Sorry.” I slump back in the chair, blowing my hair out of my face. “But if that’s true, and they could testify, why wouldn’t it make a difference?”

  “Like you said, they’re ex-employees. Ex-employees who did not leave the Middletons’ employment of their own accord…” she leads.

  “It’s he said, she said,” Amelia finishes softly. “Brick will argue that they’re angry ex-employees with every reason to jump at the chance to smear the Middletons on public record since their NDAs prevented them from doing it all these years.”

  Phoebe nods curtly. “Now, if we can come up with some kind of hard evidence—records, documents, files, anything in writing—that points to immoral behavior, these witnesses would have more credence. But until then, I’m going to keep working on my end. As for this afternoon, I’m afraid I have plans.”

  There’s nothing to do but get the hell out, which is what I need to do, anyway, since Beau is picking me up for the picnic-reunion thing that starts in a few hours. On to the next phase of my own personal moral downfall.

  Beau’s pretty quiet on our way out to Drayton Hall. He looks handsome in a pressed pair of navy shorts and an olive shirt that brings out the green in his eyes. It’s a little weird to be coming out here with him, not to mention being invited.

  Well, whether or not I’m actually invited is a question I’m too afraid to ask. Cordelia will put up with me because the alternative is the potential loss of her son, but welcome? Probably not. I’m pretty sure no one speaks to her the way I spoke to her a few weeks ago and retains even a prayer of finding his or her way back into the woman’s good graces. If she even has those.

  My boyfriend pulls onto the long drive that winds past the tree where Nan Robbins died. I can’t help but notice the plaque out in front of it today—it slipped my attention the other night with Daria. It’s nice and tasteful. Definitely put there by a Drayton and not Reynolds.

  The thought makes me smile for some reason. I hope Nan is happy.

  “Are you ready for this?” Beau pulls the rearview mirror over so he can check out his reflection, mussing with his hair for a few seconds before putting it back into place.

  He’s not vain; the motion is a tell of his own anxiety, and my chest tightens.

  “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I mean…I don’t have to be here.”

  His hand covers mine, shutting me up. I give him a rueful smile, a silent apology for my rambling. And for so much more I can’t say.

  “I want you here, Gracie Anne. This is going to be good. I swear, I always get nervous before introducing you to people, especially my family. But it’s because of them, not you.”

  “I promise to be on my best behavior.” Except for the list in my pocket of each family bloodline and their remaining members. Except for the fact that I’m planning to steal their DNA today.

  Beau doesn’t hear the confession whispered in the back of my mind. As he smiles at me and we get out of the car, I can’t decide whether that makes me happy or sad. This whole thing is impossible but I’m starting to think that the best, easiest way to relieve the strain that’s flattening my body every day would be to come clean. Tell him everything and let the chips fall where they may, because the waiting? It’s killing me.

  There’s a tent set up where the wedding took place last weekend, though this one is smaller. The back lawn at Drayton Hall reaches all the way from the rear of the house to the river, and the property runs for miles perpendicular to that. Or at least it did at one time. I’m actually not sure how much land the family still owns, if this plot still connects to Magnolia.

  At any rate, it’s more than enough room to host the fifty or sixty adults and children trampling the lush green grass. We draw closer, my eyes making a valiant attempt to take it all in at once—the lawn games, the table overflowing with finger foods and snacks, the giant pitchers of what might be lemonade and sweet tea, but after all my interactions with Cordelia, more than likely contain some kind of liquor.

  They’re a good-looking bunch, too. Beau and his siblings are all exceptionally handsome, so it must run on this side of the gene pool. Cordelia, for all her interior horribleness, has a stunning exterior.

  I slip my hand into Beau’s, threading our fingers together and wondering how hypocritical it is for me to be lauding his genetics while simultaneously planning to taint them.

  “Beau! Your sister said you were coming, but I wasn’t sure I believed her.” A younger girl, maybe sixteen, bounces up to us. She’s got the dark brown Drayton hair but her eyes are blue. Friendly, too, which isn’t exactly a shared family trait as far as I’ve witnessed.

  “It’s good to see you.” Beau stoops slightly to give her a hug, then straightens up and takes my hand again. “This is my girlfriend, Graciela Harper. Gracie, this is my cousin Sophia.”

  Sophia. Descended from Charles Henry, like Beau, but a different line.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. Up close, I can see that a strand of her long hair has come loose and is clinging to the shoulder of her cap-sleeved dress. As she lets go of my hand, effusing how nice it is to meet me, too, I reach out and pluck it. My heart pounds, my mouth dry. “You had a hair on you.”

  “Thanks. People are always going on about how they wish they had nice thick hair like mine, but really, they don’t know all the downsides! I lose enough hair every day to make a wig, I swear, and don’t ever mention the shower drains to our poor housekeeper.”

  I smile, trying to get my internal reaction to what I’ve done under control before Beau picks up on it. He’s gotten good at reading me, at guessing what turmoil simmers beneath the surface. Too good. “I hear you. And I don’t blame her. Cleaning out drains has to be one of the most disgusting jobs on the planet.”
/>   There. Totally normal-sounding response. Sophia nods and keeps chattering, asking Beau how his job is going, telling him about the college visits she has lined up for the fall, all the while leading us over to another group of people. The strand of hair burns my palm, as though it’s already cursed or Mama Lottie can sense it’s been collected and is trying to rip it from me.

  I need to chill out. We’re going to be here the rest of the afternoon and evening, and having a stroke every time I come in contact with a new family member isn’t going to make any of this easier. While Sophia distracts Beau, I dig in my purse under the guise of finding a mint, but really drop the girl’s hair into a plastic baggie and zip it closed. There. Done.

  More family members introduce themselves to me. They make small talk, mostly with Beau. They’re friendly, though not overly so. Maybe Cordelia got to some of them, but it’s probably just their nature.

  I smile, laugh, and return their questions with some of my own. I keep wishing there were a way to whip out the list in my bag and start checking names. It’s too long for all of them to have lodged in my memory and though a few register, remembering the entire family tree is a pipe dream.

  Finally, when someone invites Beau to be the final addition to their game of shuffleboard, I beg off and head for the restroom. With a few minutes to myself I snatch the piece of paper and a pen from the bottom of my purse and start making check marks. There are twelve direct lines that I need in order to fulfill Mama Lottie’s demands. So far, I’ve met seven of them, with probably half of the people here still strangers.

  Seems like there’s a good chance at least one representative from each line is here somewhere, but I’m not holding my breath. It won’t be that easy for a girl with luck like mine, but even if I can get most of them tonight, it will be a big step forward.

  I put the list away, use the bathroom, and bang out of the stall. My mouth falls open when I meet a pair of familiar eyes in the mirror—Phoebe Rice.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt out, hearing how rude it sounds after the words have tumbled loose.

  “Now, is that any way to greet a recent acquaintance?” she scolds, not seeming to care about my attitude. Surprise. “I’m here as a close friend—Birdie and I have been best friends since we were competing to be number one in our law school class. She’s a lawyer, too. Did you know?”

  I close my eyes, trying to make sense of this sudden complication and not bothering to reply to her rather snotty rhetorical question. Can we really trust Phoebe to help us if she’s so close with the Drayton family?

  “Why did you agree to help Amelia, then, if it means going up against Brick and Birdie?”

  She finishes washing her hands and takes her time drying them, using half a roll of paper towels. Her smile is fixed in place, unmoving, and turns her face into some kind of freakish, fake mask of niceness. “I told you. Beauregard asked for my help. Aside from that, I enjoy a good row now and then, in the courtroom and otherwise. No one is better at giving me a good one than the Drayton boys. I suspect you know a bit about that.”

  With that wildly inappropriate statement and an obnoxious wink, she strolls past me and out the door. My hands shake as I wash them, adrenaline pouring through me as all the witty comebacks I should have spat bruise the inside of my brain.

  She’s just trying to intimidate you. It’s obvious that she’s got a thing for Beau, probably has since forever, and she doesn’t like the competition.

  Yes. Deep breaths.

  I wait, staring at myself in the mirror until the twisted worry eases from the lines around my eyes and mouth—lines that weren’t there six months ago and aren’t being helped by Aunt Karen’s supposed magic cream—then venture back into the sunlight.

  Over the next three hours, the Draytons exhaust me. We eat, we talk, Cordelia and I circle each other like female tigers raising kittens in the same pride. I gather a half-dozen samples and it’s easier than I expect. Four strands of hair including Sophia’s, a broken fingernail that also resulted in the busting of a cornhole beanbag, and an eight-year-old’s lost tooth. It fell in the grass and I found it while everyone else was trying to staunch the blood and calm the screaming that was one of the best dramatic performances of the year. That kid’s going to be an Oscar winner.

  Six down, six to go.

  “Gracie Anne, I need a partner in this croquet match. Time to earn your keep.” Despite all of the sighing and melodrama about whether to come today, my boyfriend seems to be enjoying himself, which swells my heart with happiness.

  Everyone has been fun, smiling, and relaxed—as though they enjoy getting together like this once a year and catching up. Several of them are legitimately interesting people, even if they are all overprivileged and out of touch. I suppose that’s not their fault. At least not the first part.

  “Get ready to rock, Drayton.” I grin, pressing up onto my tiptoes to give him a kiss on the lips before grabbing a mallet. “How does this thing work, again?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re funny.”

  “I know. It’s the main reason you find me so attractive.”

  “Maybe not the main reason,” he whispers, letting his eyes travel up and down my body. Shivers follow in its wake.

  “Down, boy.” I’m a little too breathless after a simple look. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

  I wish I had said that a little quieter after confronting our opponents a few steps later. Holding different colored mallets are Cordelia Drayton and a man I don’t recognize. But he looks enough like Beau for me to make the reasonable leap to this being his famously absent father.

  He smiles, all white teeth, and reaches out a hand. “Brand Drayton. I’m so sorry it’s taken us this long to meet, Miss Harper.”

  His grip is strong and dry, confident. Brand Drayton is not a man to be messed with, but thankfully, it also doesn’t seem as though he has any interest in messing with me. At least not today. He probably figures his wife has it covered, anyway.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, sir.”

  The laugh he issues oozes charm and good humor. The guy could put Joe Biden to shame in the affability department, though his teeth aren’t anywhere near as white. “I’m not sure I believe that, given the stories my wife has relayed, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Cordelia’s easily excitable.”

  Over his shoulder, her face tinges red and her eyes flash, but otherwise she gives no response. There might not be any love lost between the two of us, but the way he talks about her like she’s not only absent but less significant than a gnat hanging about his face gets my hackles up.

  Ignoring the little feminist inside me, I push a thin smile onto my face. “That’s kind of you. I know we got off to a rocky start, but I’d like for things to get better if they can.”

  The murderous look on Cordelia’s face suggests she doesn’t agree, but we both know it’s just something you say, I think. It looks as though the best we’re going to manage is polite tolerance, like we’re settling into at the moment. It’s interesting to meet Brand all the same.

  We each take a couple of turns, Beau and his father making small talk about work and whether my boyfriend plans to run for mayor again in a year. I hold my breath until he answers yes, then try to pretend it doesn’t matter as Brand tries to convince him that now is the perfect time to take the next step and run for state senate.

  Cordelia watches me pretend not to listen, a pensive expression on her face. “What are your plans for the coming year, Graciela? Is there much promotion potential at the Heron Creek Library?”

  It’s so innocent, the question, except that it’s not. While Beau and his father discuss the direction of his future—far, far away—she’s pointing out that I’m going nowhere.

  This is how people like Beau’s parents do battle: quietly, with sharpened words tipped in poison.

  “I’m not sure, although I did just get a raise.” I smooth honey onto my reply, dip it in sugar. Poisoned sopaipilla
. “I’ve been published in the American Journal of History recently, as well, and plan to continue academic pursuits in the future.”

  “Really?” Brand Drayton raises his considerable eyebrows after smacking a killer shot through the third wicket. “Do you suppose you’ll apply for a professorship at some point?”

  I can’t help but wonder how far their reach extends. How many colleges would turn down my application if they requested it?

  “It wouldn’t be my first choice. I prefer to spend my time researching and curating as opposed to the hands-off element inherent to teaching, but I wouldn’t totally discount the possibility in the future.” My response is honest and catches them both off guard, maybe with its maturity.

  “Cordelia did mention, rather reluctantly, what a fantastic job you did organizing the documents here at Drayton Hall. No small task.”

  “Thank you, sir. I do take pride in my work.” I look at the final ball, line it up, and put it straight through the wicket. We win. Instead of celebrating, I move closer to Beau and wrap an arm around his waist. “One benefit of teaching, or research, for that matter, is that I could do it anywhere.”

  Message received. I see the implications hit and they narrow Cordelia’s gaze and tighten a muscle in Brand’s jaw. Beau may be their son, and he may only be my boyfriend for a short time to come, but if they think they can walk all over me or that I’m going down without a fight, they’ve both got another think coming.

  Beau’s arm tightens around my waist. I look up into his beaming face, his sparkling eyes, and accept a rough kiss right on the mouth. He laughs, looking into his parents’ unhappy, stunned faces. “Don’t you just love this girl? I mean, how can you help it?”

  It seems neither of them has any problem helping it whatsoever, but it doesn’t matter. Beau and I stroll away toward the dinner buffet, which has just been set, laughing quietly to ourselves. The line is long so we grab two whiskey sours and find a seat at an empty table.