Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Two

By the time five o'clock rolls around, I'd rather be anywhere but on the Freedman's' front porch—anywhere else. Preferably my bed, though.

According to the brief two sentences Gramps shared regarding his new friends on our walk, they're recently retired, have two sons that live down around Atlanta, and he enjoys their company. When a perky, makeup-slathered face and perfectly coiffed hair appear on the other side of the screen door, it makes me wonder whether Gramps has started to go senile.

Of course, since I prefer no company, it's not like anyone would have excited me.

Mrs. Freedman's lips are painted a bright, berry fuchsia and spread wide at the sight of us. The scent of her perfume tries its best to push me backward off the porch. "Martin! It's so lovely to see you, we're so glad you were able to come." Her wide, dark eyes shift to me. "You must be his granddaughter. We've heard so much about you!"

"Ain't she as pretty as I said, Meredith?"

"Gramps, sheesh. Stop."

"No, you are, dear. Simply beautiful, and he talks about you all the time." She extends a hand my direction, pumping and pulling me forward into the house at the same time.

It hurts, this interaction. The stimulation. The quiet of my own thoughts has filed down my nerves, exhausted my tolerance for faking normal, but if I'm going to get along in Heron Creek without getting tossed into the loony bin, learning to at least fake it will serve me well.

My teeth grind together, but muscle memory finds me a smile. "It's nice to meet you, too."

"Roger! The rest of our guests are here already. They're a nice young couple that you're just going to love. Come and say hello!"

The rest of her guests? Crap on a cracker, more people.

Gramps meets my gaze, his blue eyes sharp and full of concern. Maybe I'm fooling Meredith Freedman with my faux relaxed friendliness, but he knows better. His presence soothes me with an ease born from years of practice, and I do my best to calm down. It's just people. I used to love them all, the way Gramps does.

A balding man rounds the corner, wearing the retirement uniform of khaki shorts, a colored polo, and Sperrys. His smile is as big and genuine as his wife's, his handshake a little weaker but no less enthusiastic. "Hello, Martin! How're you feeling?"

"Still vertical!" Gramps quips, appearing stronger this evening than he had this morning. His voice booms the way it does in the cobwebbed corners of my mind, his presence curling out to fill the corners of the rooms.

"And you must be Graciela. We're so happy to welcome you to Heron Creek."

"Back to Heron Creek," I reply absently, my mind still stuck on who might be in the kitchen. Whether I know them or they know me. If Mrs. Walters has already gotten to them with rumors of my drunkenness.

Mr. Freedman's brow wrinkles, but his smile doesn't falter. "I'm sorry. I was under the impression you were from Iowa."

"I went to college in Iowa. I was raised there but spent every summer here between the ages of six and eighteen. This is pretty much home, to me." I soften my slew of words, which sound kind of lecturey even to me, with a shrug. "But thank you."

"Of course. You might know our other dinner guests then—they're about your age."

"Roger, I think you may want to check on the meat—" The man—it's a man, I realize, not a boy—stops short when he sees the Freedmans are no longer alone.

When he sees me.

My heart stops beating, and the shock wraps a thick down pillow around my head. It blocks reality, slows my thoughts until my ears register sounds as far away, a million packed-together feathers between me and the rest of the scene. The Freedman's' other guests, the nice young couple, is one-half William Gayle.