Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery) (14 page)

And not everyone likes to be called
sugar pie
by someone who can’t even buy her own drinks.

“I go in a couple times a day and talk about the difference between preservation and restoration. And I show them my master’s thesis project.”

“What’s your thesis project?”

Jenna raises a slender eyebrow, gaze still trained on her laptop
screen. “You sure got a lot of questions today.”

“Turnabout’s fair play, right? I wasted my whole first hour today talking about what happened the other night.”

She sighs, finally squinting up at me. The sun’s at my back, hot through my black shirt. “It’s a computer program that shows what a restoration here would look like if the Draytons wanted to do it.”

Jenna motions to the space on the
steps next to her and I sit, intrigued. She pulls up a video, and it begins with the way Drayton Hall looks now—peeling paint, marks on the walls, creaking floors. Slowly, with what looks like architect schematics laid over the existing structure, the program returns this old house to its former glory, layer by layer.

It’s amazing, truly, to
see
it without having to disturb those years of true
history.

“Wow. You came up with this on your own?” I don’t say
at your age
because I get the feeling that she hears that a lot. Too often. “It’s really unique.”

“Thanks.” She’s trying to act nonchalant but pride practically shines through her skin. Well deserved, too. Not only has she proven her ability to be in charge here, but the girl is going to get into any PhD program she wants and then
land any job at any preservation site after that. If the Draytons are dumb enough to let her go.

“So, remember what I asked you the other day? About the ghosts?”

“Of course. Most exciting thing anyone’s asked me around here in ages.” She grins. “No one else wants to talk about them. Like they’re Bloody Mary or Beetlejuice or something.”

“I was wondering about something specific. Whether there
are any stories about people seeing the ghosts of slaves. A woman.”

Jenna thinks for half a second, then snaps her fingers. “Heavyset? Turban?”

I nod, excitement swirling in my chest. “Yes. Do you know who she is?”

“No. I mean, people have seen her, but to be honest, most of the staff here know more about the history of the house and the area than anything else. Only a few of the tour guides
are even experts on the Draytons.” She gives me a pointed look. “I’d dig back into those files of yours. There are extensive lists of the slaves who lived on the grounds and what their main duties were. If it helps, the ghost you’re talking about is almost always seen in and around the house. She was probably a servant, not a field slave.”

“That does help. Thanks.”

Jenna’s ears perk at the sound
of people shuffling up the back staircase, which is still mostly intact after three hundred years. “That’s my cue. I’ll see you around. Unless…do you want to grab lunch the next time you’re here? Or dinner?”

I don’t hesitate. One cannot, after all, have too many friends. “That sounds nice.”

She grins, then slaps her computer closed and starts up the steps. I head back toward the office, sending
Mrs. Drayton an e-mail about getting the place cleaned and sealed up before we lose half the documents she’s going to want displayed.

My phone rings as I step back into the office trailer and my stomach sinks, sure it’s Beau’s mother already responding to my rather impertinent request. It’s a Charleston number but not one I recognize, which doesn’t do much to alleviate my jumpiness. “Hello?”

“Do you want to go on a walk with me tonight?” The female voice is familiar but impossible to place.

“Who is this?”

The sigh heaved through the phone is so exhausted it’s as though I might have killed her. “Daria, of course.”

That makes sense. “And by walk you mean…?”

“A
walk
. For a client.” Now she’s talking like she thinks my brain has evaporated since the last time we spoke.

“Oh. Well…”
I grasp at straws, wishing I had plans tonight but I don’t. Amelia and I were going to get a frozen pizza and watch the Braves. I guess this might be a good way to ask the strange medium for help with my ghostly communication problems but it also feels like something else. Something intentional as far as my growing interest in the world of talking to spirits. “I guess. What time?”

“Around ten.
I like to wait until it’s dark.”

“Of course you do.” I make a concentrated effort to relax my grip on the phone, telling myself to calm down. “Where?”

“Meet me at my office around nine thirty. I’ll go over the case with you, as well as the ground rules.”

“See you then.”

Daria hangs up without signing off. As nervous as it makes me to delve deeper into this whole paranormal world, it seems
like the logical next step. I need to know more about my abilities, if that’s what they are, in order to do the best I can for the people who need my help.
 

People. Ghosts. Whatever.

And if she can help me figure out how to find and have a chat with this slave woman, if that’s what she is, so much the better. If she ever shows up again. Maybe she’s only going to pop up when I’m about to die,
which makes it hard to hope I see her again, period.

I sit back down among my boxes, sifting through them with a different purpose now. Instead of doing what Cordelia Drayton is paying me to do, I search for lists of the property’s occupants. They aren’t that hard to find, though the files aren’t all that well organized. I find a ledger of slaves’ names, where they were acquired, their duties,
what pieces of clothing were issued to them and how often, which is great except the years aren’t in order. Some are missing dates entirely. It’s not going to be a fast process, even searching among the house slaves, as Jenna suggested.

Luckily, I have a few hours, and Jenna grudgingly revealed the other day that there are grape sodas in the mini-fridge at the back. Nothing like some sticky purple
Welch’s to pass the time.

It’s not until three hours later, with paper cuts littering my fingertips and intense growls coming from my stomach, that I realize I never went to grab one. I do have a short list of suspects as far as the helpful female spirit out by the river, though, and that’s got to count for something.

If I’m going to get back to Heron Creek, have dinner with Amelia, and get
to Daria’s before ten, it’s time to go. I drop the pile of potential names on the empty desk, wipe my hands on my shorts, and head out the door.

The tours are over for the day but Jenna’s car is still in the parking lot when I pull out onto the drive, which makes sense because I didn’t even know she had any contact with the tourists until today. That coffee or lunch needs to happen because a
girl as young and pretty and fun as Jenna should not spend every day and night chained to this place, no matter how much she loves it. I feel sort of protective of her, even though she’s not that much younger than me—as though she could benefit from the knowledge of my many, many mistakes. Then again, what’s the fun in not making a few of your own?

The drive home passes quickly, and the sense
of happiness that tickles my cheeks when my car hits Heron Creek surprises me. Worries me, a little, because I’m not sure that I want the rest of my life to be lived in such a small, insulated place. Heron Creek will always be home, but there’s still a big world out there.

Or maybe that’s just what I’m supposed to think.

A motorcycle leans on its kickstand in my grandparents’ driveway, knocking
me out of my version of philosophical thought. I step on the brakes so hard that my seat belt locks, snapping tight across my chest. “Ow. Good move, dumbass.”

The visitor is my second surprise of the day—the first was Daria’s call, of course. Maybe this is her again, adding
motorcycle chick
to her ever-changing menagerie of looks and attitudes.

But the man at the kitchen table is definitely
not Daria.
 

His back faces me, so all I see right off is his shiny, light blond hair and slim shoulders underneath a plain gray T-shirt that’s stuck to his back with beads of sweat.

Amelia meets my gaze over his shoulder, her green eyes huge. Not full of fear. Full of warning.

And not for herself. For me.

I clear my throat, trying to dislodge my heart and shake it back where it belongs. I
don’t know if it’s some kind of weird genetic beacon or just the fact that I’ve kind of sort-of been expecting him, but this is my father. I know it.

He turns, slowly, as though he’s either dreading or treasuring this moment of reveal. Then he’s facing me, and the strangest thing is, there’s nothing in there that looks like me.

“You must be Graciela.” He stands up, crossing to me, and takes
my hand in both of his. “I’m Frank Fournier.”

“Frank.” I pause, my brain moving slowly. “You’re my father.”

He nods, avoiding my gaze, then catching it, then avoiding it a second time. It spikes my nerves once more. “I do believe that I am.”

“Wait, what do you mean you
believe
you are? You don’t know?”

“Your mother never told me you existed, so no, not technically. My name isn’t on your birth
certificate but she and I were…involved in the year before your birth. It wasn’t until recently, after her death, that I became aware of you.”

“How?”

He flinches as if I asked him for access to his bank account. “Could we have a drink before we get into that, perhaps?”

Amelia gets up from the table, grabbing a bottle of bourbon down from the cabinet and pouring two glasses. “Mixer?”

“Ginger
ale,” Frank—
my father
—requests.

Same way I drink it, when I’m not showing off for Cordelia. If he didn’t pass down any physical traits, perhaps he’s the one to thank for my love of booze.

Amelia finishes the drinks, leaves them on the table, then saunters out of the room after eye-checking with me first. I gave her a nod because, what the hell? If a girl can’t trust her father who can she trust?

Probably a bad question.

“We can go out on the back deck, if you want,” I offer, picking up both drinks and nodding to the sliding glass door that leads outside. He follows me and we sit at the high-top patio table that was one of the last things Grams bought before she died. I remember because Gramps spent half the month bitching about how he didn’t like his feet swinging above the ground.

“I’m very happy that you wanted to see me, Graciela. That means a lot.”

I toy with my glass, watching it slide in tracks of water against the glass tabletop. “I mean, a guy shows up claiming to be my father, who I’ve always believed was dead. It’s kind of a hard thing to resist.”

“Point taken.”

He falls silent, gaze cast out over the landscaped backyard and down toward the river. “It’s beautiful
here.”

“Yes. Where are you from?” He doesn’t want to talk about how he found out about me, but the only things in my head are questions, questions, and more questions.

“Oklahoma.”

“Landscape’s a little different there, I guess.”

“And not as pretty, unless you fancy red dirt and oil pumps.” He smiles. “I’d like to get to know you, Graciela. I can’t stay here for long—I don’t stay anywhere for
long—but it would be nice if we could keep in touch.”

The way he says it, sort of wistful or doubtful, raises my interest. “I’d like that, too. Luckily we live in an age of text messaging and Skype and social media, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

A frown tugs at his mouth. “I don’t know how to tell you this. We’ve just met, so it’s hard to guess how you’ll react.”

“Well, I can’t help you with
that until I know what you’re going to say. But I think I’m a pretty reasonable person. Most of the time.” As long as he doesn’t want to mess with Amelia or talk shit about my mom or grandparents, there’s not much he could blurt that would offend me. In theory.

More silence. It starts to unnerve me, so I slam my drink in two swallows and spend the extra time mentally preparing myself. It seems
as though my dreams of having the kind of dad who’d play catch with me in the backyard are slipping away faster than grass goes through a goose.

Which is maybe okay since I’m nowhere near coordinated enough to catch anything.

“Has anything ever happened to you that you can’t understand? Or explain?” he asks me.

My heart stops beating and I stare at him, unable to conceal my shock. How could
he know that? Why would he ask me such a thing?
 

It occurs to me now that this guy could be some kind of con artist. Maybe word got back to David about my seeing ghosts down here and this whole thing is a twisted joke. Something he and my old “friends” will laugh about at their next dinner party before they all sneak off into rooms with one another’s spouses and bottles of Xanax.

“I don’t know
what you mean,” I manage around the shame and fear and the crippling horror that comes with being duped.

He’s watching me, some of the same uncertainty on his face. “I’m talking about voices. Apparitions. I thought you people had an excess of that kind of shit down here.”

“I think you should leave.” I’m not sure if I want him to leave, really, but I can’t have this discussion without thinking
it through, first. This whole thing is too new. It’s too big, has too many implications for my life, and talking about it with a perfect stranger whose intentions here are as clear as mud? Nope.

“I’m not making fun of you.” He levels me with a dark gaze, the first time he’s held eye contact since we met. It’s unnerving. “It runs in our family. The sight, the gift, the juju or strangeness, whatever
you want to call it.”

My brain isn’t working. It’s numb, as though it made a trip to the dentist without me and came home soaked in novocaine. After a long time, he gets up to leave, but not before he reaches a hand into his hair and deliberately plucks out a couple of strands, leaving them secured under his cup.

Just before he gets to the patio door, my tongue starts working. “Wait. I just…
I need some time but I don’t want you to go leaving for good.”