Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (26 page)

“Lindsay? Leo’s been shot. He’s at Roper Hospital in Charleston.”

A brief intake of air. “Is he okay?”

I don’t answer. Can’t. Even if Leo’s not going to die, he’s most certainly not okay. “I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes
and I’ll stay with Marcella. Be ready to leave.”

By the time Marcella wakes up the next morning, the Boone house is full of my friends. Beau has been here since I got home, all night really, and we’ve managed to get all the blood evidence out of my ancient upholstery. I don’t know. I still think I’m going to have to sell the damn car. Will and Mel came over after they dropped off Grant at
her aunt’s for the day. I gave Amelia until seven and then called to wake her up, too, and now we’re all here except Mel, who took the file folder and went into the office a couple of hours before Harrington or his assistant would show up.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, so quiet that even a sleepy four-year-old knows something’s up. She wanders in, her big, blue eyes shifting from confused to scared.
 

“Come here, Monkey.” I hold out my hands and she runs over, barreling into my chest. I hug her against me, stroking her hair and forcing happiness into my voice. “Mommy and Uncle Leo had to take care of something, so guess what? You get to hang out with Miss Amelia and me at the library!”

She pulls away, still a little wary of the upset to her routine but intrigued, too. “I do?”

“Yep.” My
cousin bends down, ruffling Marcella’s silky dark hair. “And I was thinking maybe you’d like pancakes for breakfast.”

“Amelia, Marcella does not like pancakes. Ick!” I hold my nose.

“Oh, okay. Brussels sprout omelets it is, then.”

“No! Miss Graciela, don’t fib! I love pancakes. Can they have blueberries? Uncle Leo bought some.”

Her casual, loving reverence for her uncle clogs my throat, so
I stand up, blinking them away before she can sense the wool being pulled over her eyes. I’ve called Lindsay half a dozen times but her phone keeps going straight to voice mail. Hospitals are dead zones, designed that way to avoid interference with machinery and such, but she could have stepped outside and passed along an update.

Amelia’s at the stove, keeping up a happy patter while Marcella
stands on a chair to supervise the pancake process, when my phone rings. My heart leaps and I dive for it, yelping a hello into the handset before it’s even pressed against my ear.

“He’s okay. Out of surgery. The bullet nicked the bone in his shoulder but didn’t hit anything important.” Lindsay relays the information in a tone that says she’s calling me under duress. Which must mean Leo’s awake.

“He’s awake?”

“Barely. He said to tell you to stay away and you’ll know why. Whatever that means,” she grumbles.

I can’t stop the tears from spilling over, the relief that I haven’t gotten a perfectly nice, if aimless, guy killed dumping me into a chair. Marcella’s distracted, thank goodness, but the rigid set of Millie’s back says she’s listening to every word.

“Thanks for calling. We’ll keep
Marcella until you can pick her up, whenever that is.”

“Okay. Give her a kiss for me and remember she has preschool today. At eight-thirty.”

“Got it. We’ll bring her to the library afterward.”

Amelia gives me a couple of minutes to get it together before bringing the finished product, along with a batter-spattered Marcella, over to the table. We’ve got an hour until we have to be at work, forty-five
minutes before preschool starts, and now our tiny charge is going to need a bath.

By the time we clean her up, drop her at preschool, and get to the library, both of us are a mass of sweat. Amelia leans against a table in the lobby to catch her breath after the mall-walk we just performed over the three blocks between the church and the library in order to get here by nine.

“Is this what it’s
going to be like after you pop out that kid?” I ask, a little winded myself.

I
have
been meaning to implement some sort of exercise routine since returning to Heron Creek, but the ghosts have kept me busy. I suppose running from all the people who have tried to kill me in the past months might count as working out.

Amelia snorts. “Right. Like you’re going to be the one losing sleep.”

“I’ll
help.”

“I have no doubt.” Millie gives me a smile as she straightens up and heads toward the cart of books that need to be reshelved.

Every single minute feels wrong, but we spend the morning like it’s any other day. Like Leo’s not in the hospital after being shot, like Mel’s not risking a job she really needs. Like Beau didn’t help me clean up what’s basically a crime scene, an act that could
cost him his future. It all has to culminate in something useful or I’m going to find out if it’s possible to literally die of regret.

“I’m going to get lunch,” I tell my cousin as soon as the clock hits eleven. “And call Leo. Do you want your usual?”

She thinks for a minute. “I think I’ll have the fish and chips instead. Steal me a bottle of vinegar.”

“I’ll tell them it’s for you and they’ll
let me borrow one.”

The sun shines on our small little town, casting it in an autumn glint that increases its charm. The storefronts with their unique signs and shingles; the clean, uneven sidewalks; the people who wave or holler a hello as they drag kids into the post office or stroll, hand in hand, to lunch dates of their own. A few residents cast curious looks that remind me of Mrs. Walters,
but they’re getting to be fewer and farther between. People are starting to trust me again, even after all the trouble I’ve been at the center of lately.

Maybe they don’t trust me to not stir up crap, but they accept that I’m still one of them. That I always have been, and they can’t get rid of me. And that’s the beautiful thing about small Southern towns: if you’re one of us, we don’t
want
to
get rid of you. You might be crazy but you’re
our
crazy, so go ahead and sit down here on the porch, have a lemonade, and tell us how your momma’s doin’.

I choose Debbie’s for lunch instead of Westies because the coffee shop reminds me too much of Leo. Passing the spot where he plays his guitar and the tables outside that he charms from old ladies who weren’t quite done eating would peel away
the tattered tape and old glue that’s barely managing to hold me together today.

After I order, I go back outside and sit on the curb. Pull out my phone, debate calling versus texting, and decide damn the man.
 

Leo’s phone rings, thank goodness. Maybe they’ve moved him out of the restricted area of the hospital.
 

“Hello?” It’s Lindsay, and the sharp slice of her voice makes me wince.

“Hi.
Can I talk to Leo, please?”

She pauses. Too long. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Lindsay. I feel terrible. Leo’s one of my best friends, and I’m worried sick about him. Please.”

I don’t get a reply, just a sigh and the sound of the phone being handed over.
 

“Hello?”

The sound of Leo’s voice rips a sob of relief straight out of my heart. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, Leo.”

“Gracie, stop. I know
what I’m getting into when I gallivant off on capers with you. I’ve been better, but I’m going to recover. No permanent damage done.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’m in a regular room and they said I’m getting out in a couple of days. Five at the most.”

I gulp air, trying to convince my emotional reactions to fall in line with Leo’s calm demeanor. “Okay. Have the…has anyone come to see you?”

“Not yet.”
Leo takes a few breaths. He’s probably wondering how much to say with Lindsay in the room. “But they just moved me out of the post-op ICU. I told them what…happened. So the police will be here to interview me at some point.”

He’s not as calm now, I can tell. My own heart feels as though it’s going to give out from the speeding and slowing routine, but we have to take this one step at a time.
 

“We knew that. Stick to your story.”

“Hold on.” There’s a muffled scratching sound, like he’s putting a hand over the receiver, and I hear him ask Lindsay to get him something to eat from the cafeteria before his voice is clear again. “I have to give them my real name. They’re not going to buy that my sister couldn’t find a second form of ID in the house somewhere.”

“We’ll figure this out, Leo.”

“Did Mel find anything with what I gave you?”

The fact that, after everything, he’s thinking about the reason we went into that house in the first place helps screw my head on tighter. I need to stay focused on the problem. “She’s working on it, now. I haven’t heard anything, but I’m going to drop by on my way back from lunch.”

“Keep me in the loop, Bugs Bunny.”

A smile tugs at me. “Why are
you calling me Bugs Bunny? Do we have code names now, since we’re, like, partners in crime?”

“Nah. You remind me of that damned cartoon rabbit, is all. Always stirring up trouble but managing to turn it around on the other person at the last minute. You’ll do it again. I have faith.”

“I’m glad one of us does,” I say, trying not to cry for the fifteenth time since Leo picked up the phone.
 

We hang up after a short argument about whether it’s safe for me to come visit. I’m not sure who technically won, but if he thinks he can keep me away he’s got another think coming. I can visit without connecting myself to his shooting. I think.

“Graciela! Your sandwiches are gettin’ cold in here, sweet pea.” Debbie herself is manning the to-go orders today.

I twist around to see her holding
out my paper bag, grease spots already showing through. It takes most of my energy to push up off the curb and brush the leaves and debris off the rear of my skirt, the one Amelia brought from home this morning after my frantic wake-up call. The light pink flowers and swirly cut don’t match my mood.

“Thanks, Deb.” I try a smile, but she clucks like she knows I’m forcing it.

“It’s gonna work
out for the best, baby girl. Just you wait and see.”

I can’t help but wonder if the middle-aged mom of teenagers would say the same thing if she knew what
it
is. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Chapter Eighteen

This time, Melanie joins Amelia and me in Phoebe’s office. My old friend gives me a serious look, full of alarm and commiseration, at the sight of the stunning attorney. For her part, Phoebe acts like she never had too much wine and went out of her way to make me uncomfortable in a bathroom last weekend. Or auditioned for the role of my boyfriend’s missing sweater when
I stepped out for ten minutes of innocent curse-placing.

She does look a little tired, though. Just a little smudged around the edges. It makes me feel strangely better, to know that her life might not be the gleaming, picture-perfect vision she wants to project.

“Well, lay it on me, detectives. What’s this meeting all about?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I already told you there’s nothing
we can do about the psych evaluation. We’ll get our own expert to rebut it, but I can’t promise the judge won’t take theirs into consideration.”

“It’s not that.” My cousin exudes excitement, the fact that she almost interrupted someone else while they’re talking proof enough that she’s about to come out of her skin. “Melanie.”

Mel clears her throat, then pulls a thick folder out of her purse.
“I work for one of the Middletons’ accountants and I did some digging.”

Phoebe’s manicured eyebrows go up. She steeples her pointer fingers under her chin but doesn’t comment.
 

“They have some offshore accounts at a bank that’s not listed in their official assets, and with a little research, I found that the money being funneled there is coming from one of their subsidiaries.”

“Which one?”

“Allied Pharmaceuticals.”

I hold my breath as Phoebe considers the information. Mel squeezes the edges of the folder so tight it wrinkles, and Amelia’s pink cheeks get pinker.

“They’re embezzling from their company, probably. Maybe something worse, considering where the money is coming from. They might be trying to simply clean it, not steal it.” A smile slowly spreads, revealing Phoebe’s perfect
white teeth. “This is good. It’s not going to go in front of a judge, since I can’t tell them where the information came from, but it might be enough to get them to reconsider behind closed doors.”

“Really?” Amelia breathes, as though she’s afraid to say anything out loud.

“Sure.” Phoebe shrugs. “We let them know we know they’re not clean, that perhaps the FDA and IRS and maybe the FBI or a
few other acronyms might be interested in an anonymous tip, and they’ll back down.”

“Just like that?” I’m having trouble believing it. It’s too easy. Except for the gunshot wound.

“There will still be a hearing. It’s already scheduled, and I doubt a judge would allow the matter to be dropped at this point. They’ll probably still get visitation rights.” She pauses, considering. “We could march
out the character witnesses to try to fight that, if you want.”

“Let me think about it.” Amelia stares out the window for a moment. “I’m not sure taking family out of his life is going to be possible, or that he won’t hate me for it someday. Maybe it’s best to let my son make his own assessments where Randall and Bette are concerned.”

“That’s very sensible of you.” Phoebe studies my cousin with
renewed respect. “It will work in your favor in court, too.”

“So where do we go from here?” I want this to be over. If we can wrap this custody battle up soon, then the only major worry left on my plate is the if-when-how of Mama Lottie helping us get rid of
our
family curse. Well, that and the waiting game to find out exactly how the curse I helped
her
place will affect the man I love and his
family.

Phoebe holds out her hand to Melanie, who gives her the folder so fast it’s as though it’s been smoldering in her grip this whole time. She looks guilty and scared. Add that to her giant belly and she’s such a picture of vulnerability that it kicks my self-loathing into overdrive.