Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Melanie, Amelia, and I had a great time at the hospital last night, despite the circumstances. We all love the Fourth of July, and being together again, the sound of fireworks booming and crackling and popping outside the windows, provides a kind of magic even though our conversations are less than helpful. Mel hadn't realized her Granny's boxes were in storage, so she'd have to wait until morning to get to them, and Amelia couldn't remember drinking or eating anything that would have contained those random herbs. Even so, the three of us gossiped, caught up on the past five-plus years, and even though rekindling their friendships hadn't been part of my plan when returning here, it's starting to feel as though it's just what I need.

Between the two of them, Anne, and Beau, I might as well give up on a damn thing going as planned.

I'm up by seven thirty, which is obscene even considering my bedtime of 10:00 p.m., but stumbling half blind into the bathroom to find Anne sitting on the closed toilet seat startles me fully awake, nose first. I clap my hands over my mouth to muffle my shriek, even though there isn't anyone else around to hear now.

"Do you pick the places you show up based on which will be most likely to make me shit my pants?" I growl at her, still trying to coax my heart out of my ass. She doesn't reply, per usual, but the sparkle in her typically pissy gaze confirms my suspicions. "I can't say I approve, since it's my shit, but I suppose there isn't a whole lot that amuses you these days."

I turn on the shower, then eye her. "Are you going to watch?"

She cocks an eyebrow but doesn't move, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Making me uncomfortable isn't going to make Mel find the other half of your diary any faster. Did you know your son became a politician? I would love to have heard what he had to say about the Civil War." Her expression changes from one of mild interest to rapt attention, and guilt at my scant details pinches my cheeks until they burn. I should have thought to research him further. "I don't know details, but I can look them up if you want and tell you later."

She looks satisfied, at least for now, and when I check on her again after testing the water temperature, she's nowhere to be seen. Which is good, because I'd love to not smell like rotting wood during breakfast with Beau.

A shower, makeup, and fresh clothes—Amelia did my laundry—help me achieve that goal, and the cool morning air puts a smile on my face when I step out the front door, locking it behind me. If reasons exist to get up early, sunrise might be one of them.

"Where's Miss Amelia?" Mrs. Walters rocks on her front porch, two houses down, and squints as though the sun ought to slink away because it's inconveniencing her.

The reply that it's none of her damn business shoots onto my tongue, but I bite it back at the last second. It's not the way people respond to prying conversation, not in Iowa and not in Heron Creek. "She'll be along soon, Mrs. Walters. I'll be sure to tell her you were worried about her. So kind of you."

"Humph. And your aunt and uncle, they going to sell the house now that Martin's passed on?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure they'll want to do what's best for the community when the time comes." My steps take me past her porch, and I force a smile, too bright and perhaps a little on the sneery side. "I hope you have a lovely day, ma'am."

She humphs again, but it's almost not strong enough to follow me. The sun climbs higher in the sky, which abandons its pastel hues for a bright, cloudless blue. The walk to Beau's takes about fifteen minutes, and it's a pleasant one, with the scent of salt on the air. I take a path that trails along the marshy portion of the riverfront, deciding to carry my shoes so they won't get muddy. It's a toss-up, muddy feet or muddy shoes, but if Beau doesn't like me with dirty toes, we were never going to work out, anyway.