Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery) (3 page)

“Hi! You must be Graciela Harper.”

I jerk at the sound of a voice, smacking the back of my hand into the steering wheel and slopping iced coffee onto my skirt. At least it’s dark gray.

“Oops. Sorry about that.”

The voice outside my window is attached to a thirty-something black man with skin so
dark it shines like ebony in the morning sun and makes his teeth, displayed by a giant grin, blindingly white.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” is the genius greeting that escapes my control, but it’s a good observation. He’s got an accent that’s definitely not from south of the Mason-Dixon line.

“Philadelphia. What gave me away? My accent or the fact that I’m sweating my balls off at
nine o’clock in the morning?”

“Accent,” I respond, unable to stop my smile.

His ability to refer to his sweaty balls with a complete stranger puts me at ease, because that’s the kind of girl I am. The man—who I’m assuming is Magnolia’s archivist since the other arriving tourists aren’t being startled to death by personal greetings—pulls open the door to my Honda. I climb out, squinting, and
can’t help but be impressed by how tall and broad he is. Also, his dark eyes and…yep. Dimples.

“I’m Sean Dennison. This was my gig until you came strolling in uninvited.” He holds out a hand, the continued smile telegraphing a no
-
hard
-
feelings undercurrent to the jab.

I shake his hand, which would be more accurately described as a paw. “I’m Graciela, as you guessed. Did Cordelia give you a photograph
of me or something?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified information,” he says seriously, eyebrows raised as he nods his head, slowly.

A giggle tickles my lips. He’s not at all what I expected. “Funny.”
 

Sean leads me away from the parking lot and toward his office in one of the converted outbuildings. His white linen shirt flaps in the slight breeze and his pressed khakis end just at the tops of
his worn deck shoes. His comfort level is so complete it’s as though he’s a part of this place, and for the briefest of moments I wonder if he’s a ghost. He could be, except for the talking.

I shake off the thought, irritated that I can’t forget my apparitions even when they’re not actually popping up out of nowhere and pointing me straight into trouble.

Sean’s office lacks air-conditioning,
which doesn’t bother me. It’s most likely because the documents and artifacts he would be working with here are better off at an ambient temperature. Maybe that’s what’s behind my own disdain for falsely cool air—a longing to be in preservation space. That doesn’t really make sense, though, since there are plenty of pieces that require lower temperatures to remain intact.

He pushes a pile of
paperwork to the side of his desk and motions me toward the seat across from it. I perch on the edge of the hard chair while he settles into his own more comfy and worn-looking one. There’s a desktop computer that’s so old it would be more at home in a local-government office. It’s covered in dust, along with the majority of the shelves and knickknacks and books lining the other three walls. It’s
a dingy, unused space that would make Amelia itch and that Beau would loathe, but there’s something quaint about it. Familiar. As though ten previous curators might have used the same office, all paying more attention to their work than their comfort. As it should be, I think.

“I’m sorry about the mess. I’m supposed to show you what we’ve got displayed at Magnolia and how it’s disseminated to
the public. Then we’ll go over to Drayton Hall and I’ll introduce you to Jenna. You’ll work with her to figure out the best place to install something similar over there.”

“Okay.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Sure. On tours, though it’s been quite some time.” I don’t mention that Amelia had her wedding here. I wasn’t invited and certainly didn’t crash, since she’d made it clear she had no
interest in reconciling. Hard to blame her, since the groom was the point of contention, but even though my mind knows that, my heart still struggles sometimes.

“I’d ask for your qualifications, but first of all, Cordelia doesn’t hire anyone but the best. Second, I Googled you.” He winks. “Very impressive, although I’m not sure about the decision to forgo academia for the Heron Creek library.”

“There were contributing factors.” I shrug, trying to ignore how hot my face feels. “Things change. I’ve recently had an article accepted for publication in
The Journal of American History
.
”

His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s fantastic. What’s the topic?”

“New information about the life and death of Dr. Joseph Ladd.” I pause, but Sean has a blank expression on his face. He’s not from around here,
for sure. “He’s also known as ‘the Whistling Doctor of Dueler’s Alley.’ I highly recommend Old Charleston Ghost Tours, as it happens.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve had enough local history to keep me busy with this one family, but if you’re into that sort of thing, we’ve got our fair share of supposed hauntings on the two properties, as well.”

My heart sinks. The news shouldn’t surprise me,
given the age of the property and the amount of conflict that surrounded working plantations in the early years of this country, but it’s not good news. After the ghost tour where I picked up Dr. Ladd, Leo and Amelia had both pointed out that perhaps my lingering around these hotbeds of so-called paranormal activity might not be the brightest idea.

Except I’m feeling differently about my ghosts.
As though maybe my life would seem not-quite-normal if they
stopped
showing up, instead of the other way around.

“Miss Harper?”

I blink, aware now that I’ve missed something. “Please, call me Graciela. Or Gracie. We’re going to be working together and I’m not one for formalities.”

“Very well. I was just asking if you believe in ghosts.”

I study his face, trying to decide whether or not he’s
screwing with me. If not, he certainly didn’t do the kind of research into me that I would expect from a trained archivist. The people of Heron Creek aren’t exactly the types to take to Twitter and Facebook to broadcast the news about the latest adventures of their resident ghost hunter, but the troubles with Hadley and the moonshiners must have made the papers.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I do.”

“That
surprises me, as you’re lacking that telltale Southern accent, as well.” He smiles. “I assume that’s how you guessed I’m not a local.”

“I spent my summers here. It was enough to infect me with a love of the lowcountry and all its residents but not much of a twang.” I grope for a change of subject, unwilling to lie but not wanting to get into how I came into my views on the supernatural. Even
so, I make a mental note to check out suspected hauntings on both of the Draytons’ properties and to ask Beau about them, too. “Are there official archives here at Magnolia? I remember there being letters and ledgers and that sort of thing over at Middleton Place, but not here.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing so formal as they have over there, but then again, they don’t have a house or
our magnificent gardens to distract tourists. I’m sure it doesn’t surprise you to know that most visitors are far more interested in the picturesque landscape than the Drayton family history.”

“No,” I reply, trying to decide if the note of disgust in his voice is real or imagined. “How
do
you share archives here, then?”

“Well, we have a history room with extensive information on the generations
of Draytons themselves, and of course, I’m responsible for all the furniture and other antique pieces.”

“That won’t be an option for me at Drayton.” The place is empty—preserved, not restored.

“Smart girl. None of the rooms are staged as they would have been in period.”
 

It makes me like him more, that he doesn’t go into why. It’s been a long time since someone assumed I know my shit instead
of the opposite.

It’s one of the reasons Drayton Hall has always been one of my favorite local historical properties: you can walk through the house and see layers of dust and years of wear, fingerprints and smudges. It’s a unique and wonderful place. Despite the beautiful gardens here at Magnolia and at Middleton Place, there’s something special about the simple spit of land that butts up to
the Ashley River on the Drayton property.

“I think Cordelia and the rest of the family might be open to your doing something different at Drayton Hall. Perhaps something more akin to the timeline documents on display at Middleton. There’s certainly enough information. It might be interesting to mirror the experiences of the two families, as well, given how intertwined they’ve been for centuries.”

My blood goes cold, my body freezing up. The mention of the Middleton family alone had me tense—they’re the people trying to sue Amelia for custody of her unborn baby, the people who raised her husband, who tried to kill her—but the reminder that their family and Beau’s were longtime friends washes me with dread.
 

I swallow, hoping to high heaven that my face stays arranged in a formal, interview-type
mask. “Oh?”

“You didn’t know? It’s fairly well documented.”

“I think I did, just forgot somewhere along the way.” My tongue feels like sawdust but it’s not a lie. The knowledge didn’t feel fresh, as though it had been unearthed, not recently learned.

“Well, they intermarried on several occasions, worked together, shared resources and politics, things like that. It’s a rich history of mutually
beneficial friendship. Shall we go?”

I nod, unable to speak, and follow him back out into the warm September sunshine. All the way through the Magnolia house tour and during the short drive down the road to Drayton, all I can wonder is whether that mutually beneficial friendship between the Middletons and Draytons still thrives today. It’s easy to assume that it does.

And, if so, why Beau never
mentioned it.

By the time we arrive at Drayton Hall, it’s midmorning and my shock is under control. It’s natural that, given the close association of their properties and the fact that both families have basically run this part of the country since before the Revolutionary War, the families would have been close. A Middleton signed the Declaration
of Independence, for cripes’ sake, and
that
Middleton’s grandson signed the South Carolina Order of Secession. They were powerful families and it makes sense that they would have sought to solidify that fact by uniting.

It didn’t have to mean Beau had been secretly betrothed to one of their daughters or something. My boyfriend took great pains to distance himself as far as possible from his own
family. Surely that extended to their friends as well.

The lined drive at Drayton is not so grand as that at Magnolia, and the house is a stately, but still huge, brick Colonial as opposed to the sweeping antebellum style favored by the later builders of Magnolia. Drayton is one of the only plantation homes that survived the Civil War intact, in part because the home was used as a Union hospital
during the height of the engagements in the area. Magnolia was rebuilt afterward. All that remained of Middleton Place was one flanker building; the home had been burned by the Union troops.

“I’m going to go find Jenna,” Sean tells me, wiping sweat from his brow. “She’s always on the grounds doing one thing or another. You’ll like her.”

“Okay.”

I get out of my car, feeling restless, and wander
back down the drive toward one of the biggest oak trees I’ve ever seen. Amelia and I took pictures with it years ago, when we were maybe twelve, our thin arms nowhere near long enough to reach all the way around the ginormous trunk. Grams thought our love of trees was as ridiculous as our love for animals, but she had relented and taken the photos anyway. They were probably still stashed among
the piles and piles of memories we hadn’t mustered up the courage to dig through yet since Gramps died.

A young girl sitting on the opposite side of the tree, tucked into the trunk with her knees against her chest, startles me. She gives me a sad smile, but it’s not until I notice the noose around her neck, the knotted rope trailing along the dusty ground, that it occurs to me that she’s not
really there.

I mean, she’s there. But I don’t think anyone else can see her.

A part of me wants to ignore her. Pretend I don’t see her, hope she didn’t notice my brief moment of surprise, and move on with my day. The rest of me knows it won’t work, and more than that, I’m no longer sure I want it to.

“Hi,” I whisper, crouching down beside her. The tree is more than large enough to hide me
from view from the house, so as long as Sean doesn’t hear me talking to thin air I shouldn’t make a fool of myself on my first day.

At least not in this capacity.

The girl—maybe not that young, now that I’m closer to her—looks surprised at my soft greeting. Her smile wavers but doesn’t grow any happier. There are bruises and raw scrapes under the thick rope that make me wince, and she watches
my reaction. I’d guess her age at around twelve or thirteen, maybe a few years older but definitely not younger, and her clothes are pretty modern and nondescript. She’s definitely not from the same period as the house, or even from the last time the family lived in this property, almost a century ago now.