Swamp Cabbage (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles Book 6) by Ray Paisley

Author:Ray, Paisley [Ray, Paisley]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles
Published: 2014-12-26T16:00:00+00:00

NOTE TO SELF

Free rent, must remember to be more suspicious. What seemed like killer summer lodging deal may have actually been killer lodging.

July 1989

CHAPTER 9

Sho’ ’Nuff

I didn’t relish staying in the Larkin house alone, but what choice did I have? Campbell and I walked Francine to his place, which was closer than my car. Outside his apartment building, her knees buckled, and she rested on the curb. I would’ve driven her home with me, but when I returned with my car to pick her up, Campbell cracked his door open and said, “She’s resting. Best leave her be for the night.”

I heard her mumble some ultimatum nonsense. “I ain’t sleeping on no burial ground before it’s my time.” From the tone of her voice, I guessed that assuring her that I’d walk around the property and check for headstones wouldn’t sway her. She tended to overreact, and for the time being I knew there’d be no rationalizing with her.

As I turned the car radio down, I reminded myself that I was a big girl and that big girls are happy with their own company. Who was I kidding? Although not hysterical, I didn’t embrace sleeping in the Larkin house alone. Where was Stone in my moment of need? Freaking Paraguay. And Mom and Betts? Graveyard business in freaking Savannah?It was probably for the best that the two weren’t here. If Betts caught wind that she could profit from the Larkin backyard, I wouldn’t be lonely; she’d be bringing in tourists by the busload. Plus she’d gloat about the mamsy pamsy vision she’d spoke of that was turning out to be fairly accurate. She’d probably been to the library before they arrived.

A little unnerved, I considered turning around and going back to Beaufort, but crashing at Campbell’s place wasn’t an appealing option. I found his know-it-all company annoying.

Steering my sporty yellow Volkswagen into the carport, I turned off the ignition, then clunked my head on the steering wheel and let it rest there. A roommate of mine from school lived in Bluffton. With traffic and stoplights, I estimated her house to be an hour commute from Beaufort. Doable while running the gallery? How are you going to swing that?the inner me asked. Pick up the phone and say, hey, the house I’m living in is full of ghosts of executed slaves. Mind if I crash at your place until they’re removed by the local root doctor?

Then it hit me. I needed Rilda to come back. If she performed a cranked-up Gullah exorcism with her trinkets and potions, maybe Francine would return and we could put all this nonsense behind us.

No time like the present, I told myself, and took off toward the water. Even though her accent was hard as hell to understand, and our last encounter hadn’t ended on the best of terms, I felt compelled to secure the local mystic’s services. Francine had said that her cottage, under a mile away, was unapproachable by vehicle since there wasn’t a driveway, but that the path at the water’s edge led there.

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