Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery) (6 page)

“I know.”

“I suspect you
know
,
but you’re not all that
big on using your head to make decisions.”

“Hey.” Irritation spikes, slanting my eyes into a glare. “Why is this your business?”

“First of all, because I’m the actual law in this town and your antics make my job harder than it has to be, but second, and more important, Amelia needs you. You’re the one she’s leaning on, and what happens if you get arrested? Or worse?”

It’s not that he’s not
making sense that pushes my annoyance into actual anger. It’s that he’s stepped way over the line. My fingernails dig into my palms as I struggle to keep my cool. Travis might be trying to help, and his concern for me comes from a good place—his affection for my cousin—but none of those facts placate me.

“Thank you for your concern.” I’m so pissed my lips feel frozen, and the guilt that flashes
across his hard features says he feels the chill. Good. “I’m very grateful for the interest you’ve taken in my cousin, because I know that someone fighting her kind of battle can use as many people in her corner as possible, but as far as how I conduct my life, and my relationship with Amelia, those topics are off-limits. Understood?”

He nods, lips pressed together and an expression on his face
that leaves no room for doubt that he doesn’t agree with me. That’s fine. He’s a cop, and cops have about the hardest heads of anyone.

Except maybe me. Which Dylan Travis will learn if he continues to butt his against mine.
 

Chapter Four

The look Millie gives me when I struggle back through the library doors laden with her many lunch requests feels a smidge over the top given my break only ended three minutes ago. “Here you are, your majesty.”

“Thanks.” She tears into the bags I set on the desk, pulling out her salad and dousing it in balsamic vinaigrette that’s going to linger in the air for the rest
of the day. She shoves a bite in her mouth. “Good gravy, this tastes good.”

“That is disgusting, and Grams would be rolling over in her grave if she saw you talking with lettuce stuck in your teeth like that.”

“Please. We both know she’s off fishing somewhere, not hanging out watching us eat lunch. Grams loved us but she loved herself more. And honestly, that makes her my hero these days.”

The comment shocks me a bit at first, but not once it settles. Grams would have done anything for either of us—or Gramps, or anyone else in this town—but she never put her own happiness on the back burner for too long. That makes her something of a novelty down here in the South, where too many women marry young and lose themselves, their personal needs and wants sacrificed on the altar of husband
and family. Amelia and I were lucky to have Grams as a role model, even if we’ve both done a shitty job of following in her footsteps thus far.

“We’ll do better, Millie. You and me, and Jack.”

She takes another bite and bares her teeth, bits of all sorts of food decorating her braces-straight smile. “You’re the best, Gracie. And now Mayor Beau loooooovvvvvvves you, so you’re on the right track.”

“I don’t even know why I try to be nice to you,” I pout, pushing her food out of the way to make room for me to work at the computer.
 

She snickers to herself as she gathers her styrofoam boxes and drink, then heads back to the break room. One of Mr. Freedman’s only real rules at the library is not eating out front.

There are no patrons here now, which is quite a change from this morning, and
I wolfed down my turkey panini on the walk over, so aside from my greasy fingers, the time is right for researching my latest ghost.

I close my eyes for a moment, bringing up the memory of the poor girl’s hair and clothes, trying to narrow down a possible time period. There’s no way she died more than twenty or thirty years ago, based not only on her entire look but because of her relaxed attitude.
She was still a girl at fourteen, whereas if she’d been from a different time, she would have felt more like a woman.
 

After a moment, something else pops into my head: Her sandals.
 

They were white with thick straps across the toe and around the heel—not flip flops—and the sole was a good inch and a half thick. My eyes fly open and I pull up a search engine in my browser and start clicking.
I remember the platform-sandal phase, though I was a little too young to have participated, because my mother had gone through a brief period when she dated quite a bit around that time. And she wore a lot of those sandals.

I type in
hanging death
Drayton Hall 1997-2002
, which might be too narrow a parameter but what the hell.

There is only one relevant result.

An article in
The Charleston
Post & Courier
, dated December 1999, is the first listed item. I click on the link and read, starting with the headline:
Fourteen-year-old Nanette Robbins Found Dead at Drayton Hall.

There are two pictures accompanying the article, and I peer at them before reading on. The first is of the girl in question, and one look at the grainy image leaves no doubt that this is my girl. Her dark blonde
hair trails down her back in a braid like it did when I saw her the other day, and she’s wearing the same red sundress. It looks as ratty, too, with some spots on the top that might be stains.

The second picture is of the old, giant oak tree where I first saw her at Drayton Hall.

A pain finds the center of my stomach, reaching through to my spine, and I have to take a deep breath, then another,
before gathering the courage to read the article. Not because I have any real connection to her so far, but because reading a story about any young person who died hanging from a tree doesn’t rate very high on a list of happy-making things.

Police were called to the South Carolina historic landmark Drayton Hall in the early hours of the morning, when caretakers and employees returned from
Christmas break to a grisly sight. Nanette Robbins, 14, was found hanged from a branch of a large oak tree on the Drayton premises. The staff cut down the body, and the police commenced CPR as soon as they arrived at the scene, but the victim was pronounced dead upon arrival at Bon Secours Saint Francis Hospital. It’s unclear why Robbins—Nan, to her friends—was on the property last night or chose
to end her life, though some early interviews suggest that she and Brick Drayton, whose family owns the property, attended the same school. The investigation is ongoing, though at this time, police believe the death will be ruled a suicide.

The article is short, and there are no follow-ups in the issues that came after. The lack of additional stories leads me to believe that the case was,
in fact, ruled a suicide, since surely it would have been reported on if any new evidence had come up.

The mention of Brick going to school with the dead girl interests me more than a little, and makes me relieved that I didn’t bring it up to Beau yet. Surely he would remember a girl who killed herself on their property, a girl who may or may not have known his brother.

Except she said she
didn’t
kill herself, and I don’t know why a ghost would hang around all this time just to lie to me. They never have before, at least not as far as I know.
 

I cringe a little at the normalcy of my thoughts regarding the spirits that have taken to haunting me. It started with Anne Bonny, then Henry Woodward had shown up just before Glinda. I’d picked up Dr. Ladd down in Charleston, and now this
girl. Nanette Robbins. She’s number five.

Maybe taking Daria up on her offer to tag along on some of her calls wouldn’t be a bad idea. I wonder if she’ll warn me next time she’s going to show up looking like a bizzaro version of Jessica Rabbit. Fashion statements are great, and being unique is fine and dandy, but her weird appearance today is going to earn me additional side-eye.
 

The fact that
I’m some kind of psychologist-slash-detective for the local ghosties is unique enough for me. The sense of purpose, the level of comfort the spirits have started to provide, is going to take some getting used to. It kind of feels like easing into a bath you accidentally drew too hot—you can get used to it if you get in slowly enough but it’s still going to leave its mark. Being the oddest girl
in a town full of Southern oddities is the reddened skin I’ll be living with if this really and truly becomes my life.

“Hey! What are you looking up?” Amelia peers at the computer screen over my shoulder, trying to maneuver her swollen stomach to get herself closer. It doesn’t really work, aside from cramming me against the desk.

“Hey. That hurts.”

“Whatever, Skinny Minny. Suck it up.” Her
eyes light up. “Is this about the ghost you saw? Did you find her?”

It’s nice to hear excitement in Millie’s voice about something. Score another point for the ghosts.

Still, I can’t help but glance around, making sure no one sauntered in and overheard her question. The library is as empty as a tomb, but it won’t be for long since story time is this afternoon.

“I think so,” I reply in a hushed,
much more library appropriate tone. “Her name was Nanette Robbins and she died in 1999. They found her hanging from the big tree out front—you remember the one?”

She nods, the details of the death erasing her delight. “Why’d she do it?”

“It doesn’t say. There aren’t any follow-ups in the Charleston papers, but the girl—Nan—told me, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t kill herself.”

“But
she drags a noose everywhere she goes? How does one die that way by accident, exactly?” Amelia purses her lips, but it doesn’t take long for the only other option to become clear. Her cheeks pale. “Someone hung a fourteen-year-old girl from a tree?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. I mean, if she’s telling the truth.” I nudge the monitor so that my cousin can get a better look without damaging my diaphragm.
“And look at the only other name mentioned in the article.”

Her eyes go wide before she turns her gaze on me. “Brick? How can that be a coincidence? They went to school together and
that’s
where she dies?”

I press my lips together, unwilling to incriminate even Brick Drayton with such loose connections. It’s almost as if I’m learning
actual
detective skills. Ole Nancy Drew would be proud. “I
don’t know. It’s not like the Draytons lived there—they haven’t for decades.”

“Still. It’s pretty weird. And why do you think there’s no mention of her parents or their statements or anything?”

“Their daughter just died, Millie. Maybe they didn’t want to talk to reporters.” Her question gives me an idea, though. Now that we know her name we can search the obituaries, and hers is easy enough
to find with a few clicks of the keys. “Here. It says she’s survived by an older half sister. No mention of parents or grandparents. Sad.”

“The whole thing is sad.” She winces, then stands.

My worry for my cousin leaps to high alert. “You okay?”

“I’m as fine as I’m going to be until I get this baby out of me. My back hurts, that’s all.”

“We’ll get out Grams’s old corn heating pads when we
get home.”

“Between tennis with Leo and your big date night with the mayor?” She gives me a knowing smile. “You’re rebuilding your life here, Grace, and I am so happy for you.”

For some reason, the scratch of her voice makes me want to cry. “You’re a part of that life, you know. The biggest, most important part.”

“I know. I also know you’d be happier even faster if you’d stop worrying so much
about what everyone in town is going to think of your new…abilities. People love you. It’s a gift you got from Gramps.”

“People love
you
.
”

She shakes her head, blond strands of hair whispering over her pink cheeks. “They loved sixteen-year-old cotillion Amelia Anne Cooper. This girl? They can’t love her, Grace. They don’t even know her.”

I grab her hands. “You have to take your own advice,
then. Trust them.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

There’s a sheen in her eyes, though no tears fall. My throat burns. Her hands tremble underneath mine and I squeeze harder, wishing my new abilities included telepathy and I could crawl inside her brain and root around until I knew everything to say and do to make her better.

“Because
I
don’t even know me, Grace. I’m lost.”

A group of four kids—close
in age and all belonging to the same harried mother—choose that moment to burst into the library for story time, shattering the force field of tension that had bubbled up around us. Amelia turns away, fixing a bright, greeting smile on her face as the children swarm around her and their mother almost collapses with the relief of having a break.

It takes me longer to shake off the cold, heavy
feeling of dread, the absolute certainty that whatever Millie needs from me, from those hours of therapy, from her family, she’s not getting it. I glance back at the computer screen, staring at the image of that tree in the photo for a moment before clicking it closed, remembering the braided noose around the neck of Nan’s ghost.

A chill shoots down my spine, twisting my stomach into a knot.
As hard as I try to shake it off, as many times as I tell myself Amelia would never leave me alone that way, I have to admit that I’m not sure.

Not anymore.