Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Five

The sound of the doorbell wakes me from some kind of dream, and based on the fact that my chest is heaving like a varmint racing from a coonhound, it included either sex or running. It's hard to say which would be less likely given my current state of affairs. A draw, maybe.

My mouth tastes like acid and feet, and there's no way my hair isn't a mess, but Gramps isn't going to get the door. He can't hear it, for one thing, and for another, he won't go through the trouble of getting up out of his chair now that I'm here to do the walking things.

It's probably Mrs. Walters or Mrs. Freedman, neither of whom seem convinced of my ability to care for Gramps without their eyes over my shoulder. They both drop by on a daily basis, sometimes with food, other times with pitchers of tea or, in Mrs. Freedman's case, the latest romance novel. It's good that they've been watching out for him, but it rankles my pride that they continue to check in so often. This is my time with my grandfather, and Mrs. Walters only comes by so she can spy.

I'm ready to tell her off, protests and indignant rhetoric forming a disorderly line, when I swing open the door. They dissolve, frightened away by the sight of Mayor Beau on the porch holding a six-pack of beer. My prepared expression of annoyance shifts, and by the lines that crinkle around his eyes, it's closer to dumbfounded. Emphasis on the dumb.

"What are you doing here?"

"Charming. Is that how they answer the door in Iowa?"

My sputtering attempt to shift from shock to smart-ass fails miserably, and when I realize that I'm wearing the exact same clothes as the last time he saw me—with additional wrinkles—the hot flood of embarrassment doesn't help. The thought of what my bed hair and smeared makeup must look like makes me want to run, but instead I jut out my chin. I don't care what Mayor Beau or anyone else thinks. I came back to Heron Creek to wallow, and nosy neighbors and handsome mayors aren't going to stop me.

"How do you know I'm from Iowa? I never told you that."

"I'm the mayor."

"Is mayor interchangeable for stalker here, because— Hey!"

Mayor Beau steps over the threshold and past me without an invitation, disappearing into the living room. He shouts a greeting at Gramps, who hollers back at him with a familiarity that suggests he spends more than a little time here. I don't have much choice but to shut the front door before every mosquito in the county shows up for a feast, then head back upstairs. The realization that the mayor spent his afternoon either thinking or asking about me tingles under my skin, and I change clothes and run a brush through my hair, forgetting already that I'm not supposed to care what he thinks. I do draw the line at fresh makeup but concede to wiping the smudges of mascara from under my eyes before heading back downstairs.

The cutoffs and University of Iowa T-shirt I change into are comfortable, so it's not as though I'm trying to look nice. Especially since, like the rest of my clothes, they've been crumpled in trash bags. There's probably no coming back from being the girl who didn't bother to change clothes before sleeping away the afternoon, but the last thing I need is someone else who doesn't think I'm fit to be the one caring for Gramps.

The Braves game gets underway on the television, the announcers pontificating on the day's matchup with the Nationals loud enough that the closest neighbor, three lots away, can probably hear. Mayor Beau sinks into the couch, one arm slung up on the back of the cushions and an ankle crossed over a knee. Companionable silence hangs between them, a reminder that they've done this before, and that Beau showing up tonight may not be about running into me.

Neither of them has noticed my presence in the threshold, behind them and off to the side, and the moment of invisibility affords me the time to study the mayor. He traded his impeccable suit for a pair of worn jeans and a crisp pink polo, and wears each with equal comfort. The perfectly combed hair from this morning is softer, with a slight curl around the collar of his shirt that makes me think he showered before stopping by—he probably did something insane, such as exercising after work.