Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Nine

It's been a week since someone smashed my car, and even though I managed to get it fixed without Gramps noticing the damage, I haven't driven it since. Anne's ghost continues to freak me out at least once a day, the note incidents leave me checking over my shoulder far too often, and besides that, the evidence of my sneaked alcohol and too many meals with Gramps is starting to show on my waistline. Not that I can't stand to gain a few pounds, but being in shape has always been a borderline obsession, and I've spent too much of the last couple of months curled up under the covers.

The fact that I even have that thought makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, I'm headed in the right direction as far as my heart. My life, of course, remains a shambles.

The notes and Anne Bonny do give me purpose, as crazy as that sounds, and the second warning does nothing to dissuade my desire to get my hands on those archived documents. The fact that Anne's creepy ass pops up at work about every day and spends as much time as possible casting mournful looks at the locked door encourages me further, because even though I'm no expert, all of the movies suggest that ghosts go away when their business is finished.

I'm starting to miss her when she's not around, but she makes me sad, too. As though her moods have started to affect me.

Beau's dropped by for a few lunches, but he's backtracked to friendship territory. He's not the kind of guy who could ever be friend-zoned against his will, though, and his approving glances and slight touches have set my blood to a simmer that would leap to a boil with the slightest nudge.

Mrs. LaBadie is worse than ever today and truly has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to that damned locked door. She calls me away, assigns some additional menial task, anytime I even pause outside it. Quitting time isn't far off now, and she'll be waiting for me by the front desk. I stop in the bathroom first to wash the dust from my hands and wrists, partly because they feel gross but mostly as a passive-aggressive attempt to gain the slightest foothold of control in our relationship by making her wait.

The powder room is small, with one toilet, a single sink, and a window that's about shoulder high and covered with frosted glass. An idea pops into my mind, maybe something I read in a Nancy Drew novel as a girl, and without thinking too hard about it, I unlock the window. I'd left behind the law-breaking period of my life with the start of college, but Mrs. LaBadie's hawk eye makes it impossible to follow Anne's finger. She has no good reason—the archives are accessible to the public with an appointment, but even when I came in on my day off she refused to let me in, saying there was a cleaning crew present.

She lied, but calling her out on it won't get me inside. Sneaking is my only option.

The witch herself waits impatiently by the front door, her lips twisted in distaste. "Where have you been?"

"Bathroom. Listen, do you think I could make a copy of the key to the archives? Mr. Freedman did promise that I would have full access, since archival history is my area of study."

"You saying I don't know how to manage that room? That you can do it better?" She squints at me, her black eyes glittering in a way that makes me want to jump backward. It's not just a bad mood—it's like she hates me for a real reason, something I've done, but it's as mysterious as Anne's for choosing to haunt me.

I stand my ground. "No, but it's my area of expertise, and it's open to the public. I'd like to take a look."

"Only Mr. Freedman can authorize a second key, and he's going to be gone another ten days. You're welcome to ask him when he returns."

Old Ralph took a week of vacation and combined it with some librarian conference down in the Caribbean. Sounds like two weeks of vacation to me, but it's hard to blame the guy. I met his wife.