Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter One

In retrospect, perhaps drinking myself to sleep in my grandparents' driveway hadn't been the best idea.

The epiphany arrives with a blast of sunlight and a knock on the driver's-side window that explodes my brain into pain soup. I manage to make out a shadowy form through the tightest eye squint in history, its elderly, feminine hand shading a gaze that's directed more or less toward the two empty wine bottles on the passenger-side floorboard.

Annoyance mingles with nostalgia, because the hand can belong to no one but Mrs. Walters. She's made a career out of being the neighborhood busybody and spent half my childhood chasing me back toward this very house with a garden hose turned on to full blast.

After driving for almost a full day with no sleep, last night's alcohol spectacular only amounts to one of this morning's problems, and my face and breath would be more at home on a hooker who just came off a double shift. Not the fancy kind of hooker, either.

There's nothing to do but crank down the window, which ushers a refreshing wash of cool morning air into my oven of a car. Late May in South Carolina isn't exactly temperate. Regardless of the thin, disapproving line of her mouth, no amount of childhood memories can summon a smile.

"Good morning, Graciela."

"What time is it?" I ask without acknowledging her greeting.

The grooves beside her lips deepen. "A little after seven."

"Christ. It had to be sunny." I shove the door harder than necessary, but she steps back, avoiding a good smash to the knees. I press my toes to the concrete, taking a few gulps of fresh coastal air before grabbing the doorframe and wobbling to my feet.

"Are you ill?"

"What? No, not exactly."

"Is Martin well?" She crosses her arms over her chest, her faded brown gaze flicking toward the house.

"I just got here. You're the one who called me, remember?" Maybe Mrs. Walters had gone batshit crazy since I'd last spent any real time in Heron Creek. Maybe I should have considered that option before packing my entire crappy life into my crappy car and hauling it from Iowa to South Carolina.

"He's no worse off than when I called. I just wondered why you arrived in this...harried state."

"Oh." I put my back to the rising sun, refusing to follow her eyes as they take in the giant pile of clothes and shoes and hangers and toiletries crammed in my backseat. The distaste curling her lips toward her chin says she might be wondering how many Iowa City rats hitchhiked with the rest of the mess. "I was in a hurry."

I straighten my shoulders and run fingers through my limp hair, wishing I'd taken the time to put it in a braid or a ponytail, anything that would have lessened the tangled brown waves that fall past my shoulders. Maybe Glinda still cuts hair in town. If I ever get around to making a to-do list, that's going on the top.

The path that leads to the front door is uneven, the red bricks dipping and jutting, fighting with green grass and mud for the right to send me falling on my face. They all manage to fail, my passage to the front stoop ending in safety. Up close, the old two-story house sags, more tired and run-down than it appears in my mind. White paint flakes off the shutters and columns, and even the porch swing, making the house seem as bone-weary at the prospect of standing upright another day as I feel.

My keys are somewhere in the mess of my purse, but the door swings open, hinges creaking, before I gather the energy to go dig for them. The sight of Gramps, half bent over his walker, brings tears to my eyes. He must have been watching, because he can hardly hear a thing anymore, and the thought shames me in the light of my behavior.