Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries)

by C. Hope Clark

  She smiled and envisioned his tilted, box-like head and mouth stuck in a tight grin as she put a drop of cleaning oil on a patch. “I had them all under my thumb. What did you expect?”

  “You still in Summerton?” he asked.

  “Middleton,” she corrected, “and the answer is no. I’m at Edisto Beach now. Expected to just visit, but I sort of got stuck here for a while.” She changed ears on the phone. “I need to ask you something.”

  He grunted. “You sort of got stuck living on the shore? Sucks, Morgan. How do you stand all that sun and sand—the balmy breezes and shit?”

  “You sound like my son, except for the shit part.”

  “Always liked that kid.”

  “Listen, Stan, we had a murder down here, and that just doesn’t happen,” she said. “My next door neighbor was killed. A lovely old man who wouldn’t harm a soul.”

  “And you’re wondering about Zubov,” he said. “I’m sorry about your friend, Chicklet. You’ve suffered enough.”

  “Thanks.” She inhaled deep, taking in the gun’s odor. “What’s the word from the family?”

  “I’d have called if I heard anything.”

  She knew that, but still. “What are the chances my friend takes a bullet to the head while I’m moving in next door?”

  “They bag the perp?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody see the guy?”

  “No. I started to chase him, but he vanished. Plus I wasn’t armed.”

  “Damn, Morgan.” Stan smacked his gum a few times. “Anything stolen?”

  “A coin collection, maybe more. I’m not allowed in. You know small town cops. They’ve even got a deputy on loan who thinks he’s mayor.” She tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears, but it swung back as soon as she pulled away. She continued on, enjoying the unbiased ear of someone who recognized her abilities.

  The line fell silent for a few moments. Then Stan’s office chair creaked. “You’re doing it again.”

  Callie lined up the weapon’s pieces on a cloth, each parallel and neat. “What’s to say they didn’t come down—”

  “Stop it.”

  Scrunching an oily rag, Callie kneaded it as Stan went down a familiar path. “The Russians have a long reach.”

  “It’s been two years,” he said, concern underpinning his wisdom.

  She wrung the cloth. “They left hints on the street.”

  “They were bragging, and you were still here. You left, so let them feel they won this one. I’m telling you, there hasn’t been as much as a whiff of your name in twelve months.” He sucked on the gum. “You still seeing someone about the episodes, or are you over them?”

  “I’m better now,” she lied, suddenly feeling the need to don her sneakers, hit the flat sand, and let eight-minute miles push the paranoia out of her system. She’d left her doctors in Boston. Why pay them two hundred dollars an hour when she could call someone for free who actually understood?

  “What can I do?” he finally asked.

  She outlined her scar with a finger, knowing the raised eight-inch length and half-inch width from memory. Her constant reminder of when her life fell off its axis. What could he do? Heaven help her, but she almost wished he’d come down and be that rock-steady assurance that a phone call couldn’t offer. “Can you run a check on Henry Beechum? And do another on his son, Pauley. He’s maybe five years older than me, lives in Kissimmee, Florida. I vaguely recall him having a history of trouble. He used Papa for little more than a bank.”

  “Sure. What else can I do?”

  “You’re doing it,” Callie said low. “Just being there and not brushing me off as a dimwit.”

  “Just a friend doing friend-stuff,” he said.

  She heard a knock and a man speak in the background. “You probably need to take that.”

  “No, I don’t.” With a half-muted voice, he told somebody he’d be with them in a moment. “Call me any time you like. How’d you end things with the local cops?”

  “Like I said, the county mounty’s all bluster. But Officer Seabrook’s nice.”

  “Really?”

  “Not like that, you oaf.”

  “Okay, okay, but it might be time you were wined and dined, sweetheart.”

  Callie blushed, and she was glad he couldn’t see her. “You’ll call me if you hear anything on the street, right?”

  “Of course.” He coughed. “Let me know when you’re up for company down there. Never been to a Southern shore.”

  “It’s called a beach, Stan, and I will.”

  “Take care, Chicklet.”

  She didn’t know what she’d do without these calls. He didn’t call her crazy. He didn’t talk as if she were afflicted. He’d known John and felt her pain.

  She hung up, missing the attentiveness of a man so damn much, even if he was married.

  Then she reassembled her weapon.

  Chapter 5

  CALLIE JUMPED AT the rapid-fire knock on her front door, as if the visitor had read her crossing-the-line thoughts about Stan.

  “Hey, neighbor!” A female voice shouted as the handle was tested. “Anybody in there? Why’s the door locked?”

  Who the hell . . . Callie walked over and peered past the clear decorative rolling wave etched in the door’s beveled window.

  The antsy visitor on the porch stood no taller than Callie’s diminutive five-foot two. She appeared to be in her late forties but animated enough to pass for less. She continued to tap with a fingernail in staccato fashion on the glass. “Yoo-hoo!”

  Callie tucked the cleaned .38 in her back jean pocket. “May I help you?”

  “Hey,” the woman said in a mild drawl, pointing next door to the yellow home with sky blue shutters. “I’m Sophie Bianchi, your neighbor.”

  Callie recalled the curious onlooker with the gauzy green top and leotards from yesterday. The basket in her arm contained an assortment of jars and candles. Before Callie could offer a welcome, the visitor tried to push the door open. It stopped at Callie’s well-placed foot.

  Sophie feigned a hurt expression. “You’re not gonna let me in?” She flipped her hand once as if casting a spell. “Look at me. I’m not a rapist. Nor a burglaring murderer.” She flattened her fingertips on her collarbone. “I’m just your neighbor, honey. Probably the best friend you’ll ever make on this island.”

  Callie moved her foot. The welcome gesture seemed nice. “Um, come on—”

  With a dip to one side, wrist bangles jingling, Sophie entered, sweeping her skirt around the door.

  Callie secured the house and followed her guest. Interesting. “Make yourself at home.”

  Strolling into the kitchen, Sophie set the basket on the table and moved items around inside it. She extracted a bundle of dried plant and waved the bouquet triumphantly.

  “This first, hon.” She flicked her lighter and lit the end of the muted green bunch until smoke rolled into the air, then Sophie danced on the balls of her sandaled feet around the kitchen table.

  Callie wet a dish towel. “What’re you doing?” With her luck, stray sparks would put holes in her furniture or light the curtains.

  Sophie giggled and wafted the smoke into the corners of the room. “Saging your home, silly.”

  Gliding into the living room as if detached from the ground, she hummed, repeating her motions, light catching some of her skirt’s gold lamé ribbons. The woman’s arms were toned and tanned, her figure a tiny hourglass. Short curls kicked up in pixie-esque style, jet-black with streaked red highlights. And those aqua eyes. Had to be contacts.

  “What’s saging?” Callie asked, uncertain about the flamboyance.

  “Smudging. Clearing your new home.” She dipped and dove smoothly, as if controlled by music playing in her he
ad. “One more room and I’m done.”

  Back in the kitchen, Sophie pushed smoke up and over Callie’s head as she held her ground. Then Sophie rested the spent sage sticks in the sink. “There. Cleansed of all negative energy. Both you and the house.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Callie accepted. “Didn’t know I needed cleansing.”

  Snickering, Sophie fell into a chair as if she’d lived in the house for years. “When you move in, you sage to dispel the ugly influence of cosmic junk left behind by the previous owners. You were around that murder yesterday,” she said with a finger pointed, “so saging you couldn’t hurt.”

  “The previous owners were my parents.” The thought that Beverly’s presence needed a purge from these walls amused Callie. “Appreciate it, though, because I’m sure there was a serious accumulation of negative cosmic junk left behind.”

  “See?” Sophie beamed, then threw a glance toward the hallway, to the front door. “No more need to keep your doors locked, either.” Her gaze darted to Callie’s backside as the gun hit the chair. “Oh, my goodness. No need for that gun, either.”

  Callie removed the weapon, placing it atop the fridge. Her mother had no right to tell her what to do anymore, so a neighbor most assuredly didn’t. “Sorry,” Callie said, “but doors stay locked around here.”

  “No, no, no.” Sophie shook her shag. “When you think about negative events, you attract them to you. Don’t ponder such incidents, and they won’t occur. Therefore, no need for locks or guns.”

  Now all they needed was a crystal ball. “I can’t live in an unlocked house. We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one. I’m Callie Jean Morgan, by the way.”

  Sophie jumped up and ran around the table. Her tiny arms reached around and hugged the life out of a stunned and stiffened Callie. “Everyone says you’re here to stay. We need more natives.” She brushed Callie’s arm with fingers bedecked with three rings, and seemed to not notice the scar. “You’re the right age; we could have fun together.” She sat back down. “So who’s the striking blond young man who left here a while ago?”

  “My son Jeb.” Callie tugged her shirtsleeve back over the scar. “He heads to college in the fall.”

  Sophie squealed like an eighth grader abuzz with her BFF about the prom. “I have a son at the College of Charleston and a daughter who’s a high school senior. Zeus and Sprite.”

  Callie sucked her lip to avoid breaking out in laughter.

  Sophie wriggled. “Please tell me your son’s going to the same school. I have a sixth sense about such things.”

  Then she ought to know, shouldn’t she? “Yes, he is. How old is your son . . . er, Zeus?” Entertained at the names, Callie tried to envision these kids.

  “Twenty. Let’s take them out for seafood. When are you free?” She scrunched her nose. “You don’t actually work or anything, do you?”

  “I’m taking a sabbatical . . . of sorts. You?”

  Sophie blew out a smug, fat gust of air. “Alimony and child support.” Her thin lips shifted to the side. “I’m not rich, but I can’t complain. My ex played pro football for a few years. When he hooked up with a groupie, I found a new home at the beach. Best move I ever made.” She waved her bejeweled fingers. “Trust me, he can afford it. Plus, I teach yoga in the bar at the Pavilion.”

  “Yoga at a bar,” Callie repeated, remembering Beverly’s warning about the yoga neighbor, unable to envision her mother contorted on a mat in a bar.

  “Come to my next lesson,” Sophie said. “My schedule’s on a magnet in your basket. First visit’s free.” She leaned back as she analyzed Callie’s body. “You’re a runner.”

  Callie crossed her legs, not surprised that her mother found Sophie too ethnic. “I do run. I’d intended to map out a five-mile route before you showed up.”

  Sophie nodded, knowingly. “That basket will do you good, girl. I’ve included a blue quartz crystal for healing your mind and body, along with a CD of music made by crystal bowls to unlock the Chakras, your energy centers. A lavender and flaxseed face mask. And a black candle to light on each New Moon for good luck.”

  Holy hippie. “Thanks,” Callie replied. “I’m fresh out of lavender and flax.”

  Sophie cocked her head, all cute and understanding. “Go ahead and laugh. I can tell you need my class. You’re strung like piano wire. Not enough fluidity in your life.” She pointed up to Callie’s head, then down to the floor. “I see it all over you. Bet you can’t put your hands flat on the floor.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Sophie scowled. “Show me. Feet together, not spread.”

  Reaching down, Callie stopped midway, wondering why she had to prove anything. “What’s wrong with being a runner?”

  “Oh, nothing if you run for the right purpose and don’t beat yourself up in the process. I’ll teach you to love your muscles, not just work them.”

  This subject needed changing. “Care for something to drink?”

  Sophie scouted the kitchen for a clock. “It’s lunchtime, and I normally wait until five, but hey, since we’re celebrating your move, I’ll break the rules. A light gin and tonic, please.”

  Callie halted at the cabinet door to the glassware. “I was thinking iced tea, but I’m sure my mother has the makings of a drink around here.” She pulled out two tumblers and found a new bottle of Bombay Sapphire in the freezer and two one-liter bottles of tonic in the back of the refrigerator. Yay, Beverly.

  Callie had all the time in the world and no place to be, so why not drink in the middle of the day? “I’m surprised you didn’t know my parents since you live next door. My mother took your yoga class, I believe.”

  “Oh, I know your folks.”

  Gin glug-glugged into the glasses. Callie was disappointed with herself for being caught unawares. “So you know who I am.”

  “Me and half the island. The daughter of the Middleton mayor. You married some Yankee.”

  Callie’s shoulders relaxed at the generalization. “Yep, that’s me.”

  Merely being the mayor’s daughter suited her fine. Thank goodness Beverly hadn’t spread Callie’s tragedy over Edisto. Another rare tick mark in the positive column. Two in one day was a record.

  Callie sat back at the table. “So why haven’t you asked me to dish about next door?”

  Sophie’s short hair shook as her earrings bobbed under her ears. “Not here,” she said. “Your house is clean. Outside. Later.” Then she hunched over and whispered conspiratorially. “But I definitely want to know the details.”

  Callie’s phone rang. “Well, hello Mother,” she mumbled at the caller ID.

  Sophie waved. “Tell her hey for me. If she knows I’m here, she might not talk long. Honey, I know how to handle the Beverlys of this world.”

  “Mother,” Callie answered.

  “Hello, dear. I wanted to check on you and Jeb. Gracious, what a shock! I barely slept last night. Have they caught the man?”

  The lightheartedness of the last hour fell away at the image of Papa Beach’s home violated, his life stolen. “It’s too soon, Mother, but we’re taking precautions.”

  With no weapon found and no suspect to compare prints against, assuming he was in the system, the perp could most likely elude authorities. Police departments only announced the ones they caught, not the ones that got away . . . more often than the public knew.

  “Well, stay in touch with the police, dear. Keep us apprised.”

  “I will, Mother. Thanks for the gin, by the way.”

  “Oh, I forgot that was there.”

  Sure she did, like Callie knew nothing of Beverly’s own five-o’clock habit.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cantrell,” hollered Sophie.

  “Who is that?” Beverly asked.

  “Sophie Bianchi,”
Callie replied.

  Silence hung on the phone a moment. “Oh, that Bohemian woman,” Beverly replied dryly. “Be careful. She’s an odd bird. Circus material, in my opinion.”

  Callie loved her new neighbor even more.

  A siren blurped down the street once, then twice, as if trying to part traffic.

  Sophie leaped up and ran to the front door.

  “What was that?” Beverly asked, breathless in her drama. “Are they going back to Henry’s house?”

  Little happened on the island to warrant a siren, so maybe a taste of drama was in order. “Let me go check it out, Mother. Probably a traffic stop. The tourists are pretty thick.”

  “Let me know—”

  “Later, Mother.” Callie pocketed her phone and hurried to the porch. Sophie stretched over the railing and studied the house fronts along Jungle Road.

  “Where did they stop?” Callie held a hand over her eyes, feeling every bit the rubbernecker like those she’d seen yesterday.

  “Two places south of mine. That’s the Rosewood home.” Sophie spun around, mouth open and eyes wide, like a child longing for her turn to perform. “You want to run down there with me?”

  Oh God. Every crime came with the pain-in-the-ass snoops who craved a glimpse of blood.

  Sophie scrambled down the stairs. “Get your sunglasses!”

  Callie snared her glasses and locked up only to find Sophie running back up the steps to grab her wrist.

  “Girl,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “We’ve gotta talk about that Fort Knox habit of yours. Come on!”

  By the time they reached the Rosewood residence, a dozen people gathered to gape. Callie stayed back under a tree next door, arms crossed, wishing to stay invisible after her exhibition on the beach the day before. However, Sophie dove in, interrogating everyone, flitting in and out of the gathering onlookers like a chipmunk searching for the right nut.