Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Four

I ignore the hand, getting to my feet and brushing dirt off my dress before confronting its owner.

A man with an overly strong jaw and wavy, sun-kissed brown hair watches me with humor sparkling in his hazel eyes. Too bad he picked the wrong girl in the wrong year, because nothing about getting knocked on my ass strikes me as humorous.

Undaunted by the cocked eyebrow I shoot his direction, he keeps a hand out, now poised for a shake. "Beauregard Drayton."

"That's a mouthful," I mumble, searching the ground for my purse. It's lying in a puddle, which stirs up more irritation, as does the fact that he hasn't moved. He's tall, at least six foot three, and even under the blue pinstriped suit and red tie, there's no secret why he felt like bricks. His face is hard, too—all rough angles and sharp cheekbones.

His eyes are soft, though, and the enticing mixture of green, blue, and gold still reflects amusement. "Well, what do you think?"

"About you?" I shrug, even though I didn't mean to study him quite so openly. "Typical."

"Interesting."

"Actually, typical is the opposite of interesting." I shoulder past him and continue toward my destination, annoyance tightening my chest when the sound of expensive shoes clicks on the sidewalk behind me.

Beauregard Drayton catches up, then slows his pace to match mine. It would have behooved me to drive to the Wreck, apparently. Or skip it all together, no matter how the thought of their fish tacos makes me drool.

"You can call me Beau, everyone does," he comments, as though we've been carrying on a conversation.

"Thanks."

"What should I call you?"

It's clear my rudeness isn't going to make him go away, and the part of me that was raised below the Mason-Dixon Line blushes in shame at my behavior. Grams would tan my hide if she could see me now. The thought of her stern, loving expression makes me relent, along with the fact that my eventful morning has worn me out. I don't have the energy to outmaneuver him.

"Graciela Harper."

"Lovely to meet you. Where are you going?"

The fact that he doesn't comment on my different name moves him up in my estimation. Still, his nosiness makes me sigh. Loudly. "To get some lunch."

"Are you meeting someone?"

"Yes. His name is Vlad, and he lives to drink the blood of persistent, well-dressed men, so I suggest you run along."

"Really? Dracula's making a midday appearance in Heron Creek? Did you call the paper? Danny's is going to be mad if he misses out on the interview opportunity."

His quick knowledge of history surprises me, and if liking men was something that interested me, he might be intriguing. As it is, I'm forced to concede he's not typical, which for some reason makes my fingers curl into my palms. I breathe deep a couple of times, through my nose, and they relax.

"I'm not meeting anyone. I'm grabbing some fish tacos from the Wreck and taking them home. To eat them in peace."

"Best fish tacos in the world but kind of a local secret. Did someone point you in the right direction?"

"Did anyone ever tell you you're nosy?"

"Not really. Mostly because we all know everything about each other already." He shrugs, leading me around the final turn. "Which means you're not from here. One, no drawl. Two, I'd know you."

My irritation gets the better of me at last, spurred by an irrational anger about the fact that it seems as though no one in Heron Creek remembers me. As though I were never here. As though with everything else in my life, the town means more to me than I ever did, ever could, to it.