Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (12 page)

“He’s the one who
saved Drayton Hall.”
 

It’s officially a mystery how the big house stood strong through the Civil War when the others around it were looted and burned by Union troops. The prevailing theory is that because John, like the other men in his family, was a doctor, he treated troops on the land. Or, alternately, may have marked the house as a smallpox hospital to scare away anyone not infected.

“Supposedly.
The slaves were freed afterward, of course. Charles Henry let many of them stay on, work as sharecroppers in the phosphate mines that became the family business after the war, but poor Mama Lottie didn’t make it that long.”

My heart sinks. The woman scares the bejesus out of me, and she’s ruining one piece of my life while salvaging another, but if her story is true…it’s heartbreaking. “She died?
How?”

“No one knows, exactly. There’s no record, and even though we have one of the only designated African American cemeteries in the country, the majority of the graves aren’t marked. The ones that are have long since worn away.” Jenna shrugs, her own eyes slightly wet at the recounting. “She could be anywhere, really.”

“Are you sure about when she died?”

“No. But there was no record of her
working at the Hall after the war, and Charles Henry
did
make a journal entry about losing the woman who had helped raise him before turning her back on their family in their time of need. It has to be her.”

“Interesting. He cared about her.”

“He and his wife named one of their daughters Charlotta. I always thought that was telling, even with the slight alteration in spelling. It wasn’t a family
name.”

The information swirls through my mind, sinking its tiny little teeth in and gnawing away. The edges tell their own stories, indecipherable on their own, like smaller pieces in the big puzzle that makes up the life of the spirit haunting Drayton Hall.
 

One of them, anyway.

“So, what do you think she wants?” Jenna asks, startling me out of my head before ordering another drink. She puts
her elbows on the table, chin in her hands, and stares at me like one of the kids at the library during story time when I pause too long before reading the last page.

“Revenge,” is my honest answer.

I expect the young preservationist to flinch, or her eyes to widen in surprise, but as with most everything else that’s come out of my mouth today, the revelation doesn’t seem to shock her.
 

I suppose
the news that an enslaved person, and one who fell from grace at her master’s house to boot, has held a grudge shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.

Instead, she purses her lips and nods. “And I suspect she’s going to get it, one way or another.”

I swallow, my beer too warm and sour now. “I suspect you’re right.”

We finish a second round of drinks, tossing around small talk and catching each other
up on what’s been going on with school and writing thesis and journal articles, and relationships. It’s nice to feel as though it’s still possible to make new friends in an old place. It’s even nicer to find a person who not only shares so many of my interests but has a genuine passion for understanding the people and landscapes that have lived and died on this planet before us.

I insist on paying
the bill since she’s still in school, even though we both know she probably makes more money at Drayton than I make at the library—I’m still waiting on that check from the
Journal of American History
and for Mr. Freedman to find the time to talk to me about my request for a raise—and then I find the courage to ask the question sitting on the back of my tongue.

“Do you think you could get me Sarah
Parker Drayton’s journal? Or photocopies, at least?”

She thinks for a minute. “It’s over at Magnolia, and Sean’s in charge of all that stuff. He’s got a couple of copies that he loans out to local archivists and college professors sometimes. You could make an official request?” She looks doubtful, and the statement turns into a question we both know would get answered with a big fat no.

Sean
Dennison is a good guy—he even loves his job—but he’s Cordelia Drayton’s lackey. No way will he give me access to so much as the results of my own urine sample.
 

“Yeah, I’m guessing my grand exit speech pretty much got me blackballed from associating with Drayton or Magnolia in any sort of official capacity.”

She nods, pursing her lips. “I could ask to borrow it. I’ve read it before but he wouldn’t
question me, I don’t think. Unless you think we’re being followed.”

Jenna looks far too delighted by the idea that we’re some sort of spies. Next thing I know she’s going to be suggesting we wear black leather and only use invisible ink and self-igniting paper to communicate.
 

I give her a smile. “I doubt it.”

Even as I say it, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t put it past Beau’s mother to maintain
an interest in where I spend my time and with whom, but more concerning is Mama Lottie. She could be here, anywhere, undetected. An extra bit of white mist above the grill or swirling through the season’s first fallen leaves that litter the cobblestone pavement.

“I’d appreciate anything you’d be willing to do to get me a look, though. If I’m going to be dealing with Mama Lottie and her requests,
it would be nice to understand the person she was in life as well as I can. And it seems as though Sarah knew her best.”

“Sure. No problem.” Jenna gets up, swinging a black leather jacket over her T-shirt and dropping a five-dollar bill on the table for the tip. “Oh! I meant to tell you, since you won’t be coming out to visit your favorite tree again anytime soon…”

My blood goes cold at the
mention of the big, ancient oak tree that presides over the front grounds at Drayton Hall. I’ve long loved it but doubt I’ll ever be able to look at it again without seeing the image of young Nan Robbins swinging back and forth, fingernails tugging desperately at the noose around her neck.

The noose Brick Drayton helped her tie.

“What’s that?” I ask, my own voice strangled.

“It’s got a plaque
now, real shiny and so big you can’t miss it. ‘In loving memory of Nanette Christina Robbins, Little Sister, Daughter, and Excellent Friend,’” Jenna quotes, unaware of the effect her words are having. She shakes her head. “I had to look up the name because I had no idea that someone killed themselves on the property. Crazy, right?”

“Crazy,” I echo, my heart begging me to correct the assumption
about how Nan died, but
 
my better sense, for once, stops me. “Did her sister ask for permission to put it up?”

Poor Reynolds. This, at least, is a way to ensure her sister will never be forgotten.

But Jenna Lee shakes her head again, arms over her chest as a brisk, chilly wind sweeps down the street. “Nope. It was Brick Drayton. How weird is that?”

My afternoon with Jenna proved so intriguing
that I rush back to Heron Creek and go straight to the library, even though it’s closed for the day and Amelia’s gone home. I told her and Beau that I’d been inspired by my afternoon and wanted to start researching my next potential article.

It wasn’t really a lie. Sarah Drayton and her relationship with Mama Lottie
would
be exactly the sort of obscure, relevant, fascinating topic that could
score me a second publication credit, but one thing at a time.
 

While I wait to get my hands on the original diary, the burning desire to verify everything else Jenna said today is eating me alive.

So far, I’ve managed to track down most of the family details of Jenna’s recollection. They’re historically accurate, if conjecture in places, and that means it stands to reason that the tidbits here
and there about Mama Lottie and what became of her are also correct.

The sun slipped below the horizon about thirty minutes ago, and now the faintest streaks of rose and lilac paint the horizon. The moon hangs low in the sky, pregnant and nearly full, so bright it blots out the twinkle of the boldest stars. The lack of detail or verification of the time and place of her death negates my ability
to sit still while I wait for Leo to meet me out front.
 

I searched for info on Carlotta with several different terms, including the last name Drayton since slaves often kept their owners’ names even after they were freed, but it came up with nothing but a few hits for the real
Char
lotta Drayton, Charles Henry’s youngest daughter. Whatever really happened to Mama Lottie, wherever she ended up,
I’m not going to find it out on the Internet.

A lone, lanky figure turns the corner, striding up the block toward me. All my instincts go on alert, my muscles tensing and my finger wrapping around the trigger of the little container of Mace Beau insisted on hanging off my keys after my confrontation with Brian the Homicidal Tour Guide.

All the preparation turns out to be for naught when Leo’s
face bleeds out of the darkness. He’s wearing his jeans, a blue T-shirt that hugs his biceps, and boots that seem to suggest he might have been working at his job as a volunteer firefighter this afternoon.
 

“Hey. Busy afternoon?” I ask.

“Yes. Mrs. Walters had me running around changing the batteries in every single smoke and carbon monoxide detector in her house.” He rolls his eyes. “She has
an excessive amount, in case you were wondering.”

“Well, hallelujah. We sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, now would we?”

“You’re terrible.” He gives me a sly grin. “And she has so many good things to say about you.”

I don’t bother to bite back a groan. “Oh no. She talked to you about me?”

“Hell yes. I’m now equipped with any number of reasons to reject your brazen advances, which
I can only assume are coming because you’re too big of a floozy to stick with one guy for too long. That or the mayor is going to finally open his eyes to your hussy, hellfire-leaning ways and hightail it for the hills. Either way, I’m next in line for corruption.”

“What? That’s…? How dare she,” I sputter, unsure where to start.
 

Leo laughs, a rich one right from his belly. “Don’t worry. I thanked
her for her concern but assured her that, as a friend since childhood, I’d long ago developed Gracie-proof armor. Told her Will filed for a patent for the good of the town.”

“You’re hilarious.” His good humor and matter-of-fact teasing calms me. There’s no reason to get upset over Mrs. Walters. She hates everyone, most of all probably herself, and everyone in town knows not to take her seriously.

I hope.

“Well, you ready to meet some real, live moonshiners?”

“I grew up here, Gracie, and unlike you, stayed past the legal drinking age. I’ve met a few mountain men in my day.”

“Fair enough. I won’t hold your hand, then.”

I lead the way to my old Honda, which is waiting patiently where I left it in a parking spot down the street from the library. The town is quiet, only a few people milling
around and small crowds inside the restaurants and bar. School has started, which means families calling it an early night, and with the sun setting earlier and earlier, most of the older folks get home while there’s still light to navigate the cracks in the sidewalks.

I’m not especially pumped about going out to the mountains at night, but seeing as how Leo’s been busy with his many jobs and
I can’t take any more days off work, this is the best way to get it done without explaining where I’ve been to half the town.

Once we’re in the car, whizzing down the dark, two-lane road with fresh air howling past the windows, there’s no turning back. It feels good to be doing something, making moves, even with the threat of Clete hovering on the horizon.

“What’s this guy going to want from
you in return for his help, do you think?” Leo asks as we get closer. He squints into the blackness on the side of the road, but there’s nothing to see.

I pull into a gas station parking lot and put the car into park, catching his curious glance. “We have to go on foot from here. It’s just a mile or so.”

“Just a mile or so? Through the woods at night, woods that are probably teeming with men
who think the Second Amendment is basically the Bible?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I brought flashlights.” I dig two out of the mess in the backseat and toss the hot pink one in his lap. “Here. That one’s for you.”

“I’m serious, Gracie. I like you and our adventures and all, but I don’t want to die.”

My heart skips a beat at the reminder of the seriousness of the risks I take, but I shake off the
desire to put the car in reverse and get the heck out of Dodge. “Clete and I have an understanding, Leo. Seriously. Don’t worry.”

He’s slow to get out of the car and even slower to join me at the trailhead that leads into the forest. It hits me that, in his mind—and maybe in reality—Leo’s putting his life in my hands. We’ve been friends a long time and we’ve done some crazy shit, but this? It
means another level of trust, more sharing, more responsibility, and maybe I should have thought about what that means before, but it’s too late now.

I reach out, wrapping my hand around his and giving it a tight squeeze. “I swear, I would not have brought you out here with me if I believed there was a real chance one or both of us wouldn’t come back. I wouldn’t do that to your sister or Marcella.”

His blue eyes lock onto my green ones, the slightest hesitation wavering around the edges. Then it’s gone. He nods and drops my hand. “Lead the way, then.”

We traipse through the woods toward Clete’s place, my feet following a path forged by memory, even if I sneak a peek at my phone’s GPS against the coordinates Will gave me more than once to double-check the direction. The sensation of being
watched raises hairs on the back of my neck more than once, but I don’t give in to the desire to look behind us even though Leo does.
 

The moonshiners are a little bit like animals in that they go off instinct and they can smell fear. If I expect to march out here and demand a trade like I’m one of them, then they’d better not smell me coming a mile off.