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

I decided to duck out under the guise of finding a Dunkin’ Donuts where I can check my e-mail and grab some non-hospital food. Instead, I head to the police station in Charleston. Spending more time there after my short evening stint last month hasn’t really topped my to-do list, but
resources are resources. Their charming Officer Dunleavy seemed to like me well enough.
 

I don’t know if this is the precinct that investigated Nan’s death all those years ago but even if it’s not, surely most departments have computerized all their files by now.

No one recognizes me when I step through the door. They keep bustling from desk to desk, office to office with arms overflowing with
files or hands being burned by sloshing cups of coffee. Not that they should know who I am; I’m not a known criminal all over the state the way I am in Heron Creek. It is, strangely, a little disappointing.

I step up to the reception desk and clear my throat. The woman answering the phones, a young African American with the most put-upon expression God ever hung on someone’s face, spares me the
briefest glance. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Officer Dunleavy.”

“He’s in an interview right now. Take a seat.”

I do, wondering if she should have asked me to state my name and business. The thought makes me snort as my butt tries to find a comfortable position in a chair that’s doubling as a spinal torture device.
 

Whatever Dunleavy is doing wraps up fairly fast. He’s in front of me, hands on
his slim hips in a way that enhances the broadness of his shoulders and his sunny eyes dancing with amusement. “Miss Harper. I’ll be honest: I
did
expect to see you in here again but not necessarily of your own volition.”

“That makes two of us.” I stand up and shake a few of the kinks out of my legs and back. Sleeping in the hospital last night followed by ten minutes in this chair have combined
to cripple a perfectly healthy twenty-five-year-old woman.

“What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if we could talk.”

“Sure, but if you’re wanting privacy, that’s going to be sort of an issue. I only have a desk, not an office. And besides, I thought you had a boyfriend?” He winks, and damned if it doesn’t melt my knees a little. Fabulous boyfriend or not, when a sexy man in uniform winks
your direction, you’d have to be dead not to react.

“It doesn’t have to be that private.”

“That’s disappointing, but okay.”

He leads me to an empty desk toward the back of the room. It’s shoved up against another one just like it, also vacant. I can’t help but wonder who he shares a workspace with every day.

“All right,” Officer Dunleavy says, settling into his swivel chair and motioning for
me to take another uncomfortable seat one to the side. “What’s this all about?”

I take a deep breath, knowing this step over a line can’t be undone. When talking about a family like the Draytons, there’s always going to be a chance that rumors will get started. And people will talk if it gets out. The commoners love nothing more than a good juicy story about what the Caesars are doing on the
weekends.

Especially if said Caesars possibly had something to do with killing a fellow commoner.
Vive la France
and all of that.

“I wanted to know what the procedure is for requesting old closed-case files.”

“You mean, you want to know if I’ll give you copies of old closed-case files without you having to follow any procedure.” He chuckles at the surprised expression on my face. “You’re not
as big a mystery as you think, Miss Harper.”

“Well?” I prod, recovering.

“I’ll look up the file in question and then decide whether or not you’ll need to fill out an official information request. I mean, since your boyfriend’s family is full of lawyers, getting your hands on it shouldn’t be a problem.” My silence gives me away and he nods, those eyes sparkling harder. “Ahhh, I see. You can’t
ask the Draytons for help, which means it must have something to do with them…”

“Quit trying to guess and just look the damn thing up,” I snap, more irritated than the situation demands. “The victim’s name was Nanette Robbins and the case was closed in 1999.”

He gives me a sassy shake of the head, one that shows me there are no hard feelings from my bad attitude, which is good to know. His fingers
stab at the keys one at a time, the slowness making me wish all cops had their own secretaries. A frown, uncharacteristic and strange on his usually happy face, tugs at his lips and he leans forward, intent on the screen. “You sure know how to pick ’em, don’t you?”

“Why? What does it say?”

“This case is a disputed closure.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that it’s officially closed but there
was at least one investigator who disagreed with not keeping it open at the time.”

“Huh. Does it say why?”

“Yeah, it should. It’s kind of like a dissenting opinion in the Supreme Court.”

“Great. Can I have a copy?”

He studies me for a minute, then scans the room as though wondering if anyone is eavesdropping. No one seems to care what we’re doing. The others are all busy with their own issues
and, I’m pleased to say, the cop who appeared to be friends with Crazy Brian’s drunk father on my last “visit” is nowhere to be seen. He would recognize me, for sure.

“On one condition.” He stops, thoughtful. “Two.”

“Lay it on me, Officer.”

“You can call me Robert.”

“Okay. Lay it on me, Bob.” I’m more than a little nervous about what he’s going to ask, never mind what’s in that file, and the
anxiety is activating my blabbermouth.

He shakes his head at the nickname but doesn’t correct me. Robert kind of gives off the vibe that things don’t ruffle his big handsome feathers too easily. “One, you tell me why you want it, and two, you don’t act on anything in that file without talking to law enforcement first.”

It’s easy enough to agree. A girl like me knows exactly how to tell the truth
without revealing the
whole
truth, and the caveat about law enforcement has an easy work-around.
If
I can figure out how to spend time with Travis without wanting to tear out his eyebrow hairs one at a time. Dude could use a serious plucking, anyway.

“Fine.” This time I check the room to make sure no one overhears. “I need to know if Brick Drayton had a relationship with the girl who died at
Drayton Hall.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “Curiosity. And I was just hired to curate their new collection of family documents.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re not going to want to include anything about a girl who hung herself out front.” He pauses, looking at the screen, then back at me, waggling his eyebrows. “
If
she hung herself.”

“Wait, what?”

He winks, getting out of his chair and leaving it spinning.
Just like my head. I sit in agitated silence, twisting my hands together and wondering what in the name of alligator tears he’s talking about. Crap on a cracker. It sounds as though at least one person who worked on Nan’s case thinks she might not have killed herself. Exactly as her ghost claimed.

Officer Dunleavy returns with a messenger bag over his shoulder that’s decidedly un-cop-like, motioning
me out of the chair with a subtle tip of the chin. I get up and follow him toward the exit. He stops briefly to tell someone he’s going out for an early lunch and then we’re outside.

“Do you want a coffee?”

The question startles me; it’s so out of place. “What?”

“Coffee. You know, caffeine? Some people ruin it with milk and sugar and added flavors. You’re not one of
those
, are you?”

“I might
be one of those, but just with the milk. Dunkin’?” I know there’s one right around the corner, and as thrilled as I am to have gotten this far with him, the passing time makes me nervous.

“Wouldn’t be my first choice but it is the closest.”

We’re there in minutes, seated at a table with my iced coffee next to his little snooty cup of espresso. He gives me a serious look. “I want you to know
that even though I…expedited this process for you, it’s not like I broke any major rules. You could have gotten a copy of the case file with a simple request.”

“Noted. No one’s going to hear about it from me.” I make grabby hands. “Gimme.”

He pulls a file out of his bag. It’s thinner than I expect, but there’s a little zap of electricity when he relinquishes it into my palm. I’m excited to read
it, to maybe help Nan. As long as what I find doesn’t mean pushing away the best thing that’s happened to me in years.

“Don’t forget. No doing anything with what you’ve found without help.” He levels me with a stare, still playful but trying to be serious. “Don’t think word doesn’t get around about you and the trouble you seem to tote around like a designer handbag. Heron Creek’s not that far
away.”

“Apparently,” I mutter, remembering how Travis had known about my arrest down here before my feet even hit the dirt back home. “I won’t forget. Trust me, I’ve had enough of near-death experiences for a few months.”

Now Officer Dunleavy’s expression does turn serious. “I believe you. But I’m going to say something just in case you’re too deep in this whole relationship of yours to see
things clearly—there are ways to fight that don’t include lighting things on fire…and ways to ruin lives that never get reported in the papers.”

My mouth goes dry. He’s talking as though he knows something I don’t, and he continues before I get anything out.

“Rich people? People like the Draytons? They know all of those ways and then some, Miss Harper.” He settles back in his chair and drains
his espresso.
 
“Just…if you’re going to be sticking your nose into old cases like this, watch your back. I like you. For some reason.”

“Gee, thanks.” My response comes off flippant, like I mean it, but deep inside, his warning takes root.

I’ve been fooling myself thinking the only potential danger in dragging this case back into the sun is to Beau’s and my relationship. It’s not true. As the
officer pointed out, the Draytons have weapons at their disposal. Career-destroying ones. Life-destroying ones.

All of a sudden I’m sure I know why Mrs. Drayton asked me to work on those files in the first place—so she could keep an eye on me. And Beau was right.
 

Because I’m also sure I’m going to be sorry.

Chapter Eight

It’s past time to get back to the hospital but being this close to downtown has moved some pieces around in my mind. First off, I can’t help but think of Odette, a strange, maybe-homeless woman who seems to know a little too much about the supposed voodoo curse on my family—Amelia and little Jack, specifically. I’m close to the market. It might be good to check in.

Thoughts of her, of the curse, suddenly click with what happened last night. A snake indigenous to the Slave Coast of Africa ended up smack dab in my path on a South Carolina plantation. Mrs. LaBadie, a woman descended from voodoo-practicing African slaves, is hell-bent on destroying my family.

The ghost of a black woman who looked, to me, very much as though she might have been a former slave
of the Drayton family, tried to stop the snake from biting me. And then she’d killed it without a single touch. What if she could help me in other ways?

Despite the horrors of the past twenty-four hours, hope blooms in my chest at the idea that we could possibly have an ally in the fight against this curse.
 

Everything I’ve read about voodoo since starting a research file a couple of months
ago suggests there are light and dark sides to the religion. Like every religion, I suppose. Practitioners generally choose to appeal to the spirits of the light, going occasionally to the others if a curse or spell requires their assistance. But those who practice only dark magic are frowned upon and feared. Voodoo—real voodoo, not the weird mash-ups that exist here in Charleston and in other places
like New Orleans—is all about a
balance
of light and dark.
 

It’s like, obvious science fiction movie stuff that one cannot exist without the other, but I don’t know. Messing around with darkness seems like a pretty bad idea after all the creepy nightmares and sleepwalking and near-death experiences we’ve survived lately. Barely survived.

The stroll to the market is quick and I find Odette easily,
though not where I expected. Instead of sitting at the end of one of the market buildings weaving her sweetgrass trinkets, she sticks out a heavy foot, nearly tripping me in front of one of the half dozen stores that hock pralines and ice cream and other Southern treats to tourists.

“Girls should pay attention when walkin’ on busy streets.”

“And women should keep their big ol’ feet off the curb,”
I retort, irritated by the sweat dripping down my back and the new twinge in my ankle. Not to mention the rest of my life.

Odette shrugs, giving me a saucy smile that’s missing more teeth than it has. “You lookin’ fer Odette? You found her.”

“Who says I’m looking for you? Maybe I’m just wandering.”

“You lookin’ fer me.” Odette nods, then holds out her big hand for help up.

I oblige because
no matter how good it would feel to prove her wrong, she’s right. And I came here to try to pry some help out of her, not piss her off. “Okay, fine. I’m looking for you.”

“Odette’s belly pretty empty.”

Now it’s my turn to smile, because as hard as it is for someone as stubborn as me to admit it, I sort of like her. Racket and all. “What does your belly want?”
 

I found twenty bucks in my pocket
and can’t think of a better way to spend it.

“Praline. What else?”

She turns her back to me and shuffles into the nearest storefront, her shoes so thin her feet probably feel every pebble on the pavement. As I follow, my curiosity over where she lives, what she does when she’s not hanging out down here, and pretty much everything else about her spikes, then settles. There are enough mysteries
banging on my door; Odette’s can wait.

We order a bag of pralines, then she decides she also wants vanilla ice cream and a lemonade before we settle back in her spot on the curb. We’re in the way of people walking but it’s late in the season. Tourists are few and far between midday during the week, so I ignore the twinge of discomfort at sitting on the hard ground.