Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries)

by C. Hope Clark

  Seabrook moved back to the doorway. “I’ll call first next time.” He left and spoke over his shoulder. “Y’all take care.”

  Jeb continued to kneel and study his mother. After several heavy seconds, her man-child shook his head and went inside.

  Callie listened for his bedroom door to close then slowly stood. Leaning on the wall for balance, she ventured inside, lifted the albums on the spindle until they caught, then restarted the player. As Cracklin’ Rosie played again, she filled her glass with tap water and chugged the contents with two aspirin, as usual, singing and humming random phrases along with Neil.

  Back outside, she collapsed in her chair, sloshing water on her khakis. She tilted her head back and listened, humming.

  And when the song was over, she cried.

  Chapter 7

  DEEP, REVERBERATING jolts of pain pierced Callie’s head at the unholy buzz of her alarm. She shut off the noise with a blind sweep of her hand, shoving the clock off the back of the nightstand. Damn it to hell!

  She hated hangover sludge in her veins. It would take a full day of heavy hydration to resettle her system. Digging her head into her pillow, she mashed the cool percale against her flushed cheek, while her alcohol-logged mind fought a tug-of-war with her conscience about whether to drag her butt out of a perfect-temperature bed.

  The overhead fan whirred. A truck rolled by like a freight train. The odor of cooked eggs floated from the kitchen, and her stomach roiled.

  Voices drifted under her door.

  Flinging the coverlet back, Callie dropped off the high bed, her feet smacking the floor, and she reached for the nightstand at the unexpected room-spin. A stomach lurch reminded her she hadn’t eaten dinner, much less breakfast.

  She opened a tiny crack in the door. Jeb busied himself in the kitchen dressed and fresh, chatting to a boy roughly his age. The guest had black curly locks that danced about as he spoke. A white tank top accented his deeply tanned muscular build.

  Excellent. She smiled. Jeb brought home a friend.

  She hadn’t exercised in days, and her head hurt, but as much as she wanted to add a day to that neglect, she wouldn’t. Back in Middleton, after one of Beverly’s marathon cocktail hours, Callie would rise, dress for a run, then sit for a half hour with her head in her hands trying not to ralph into the community garbage can. She’d abstain for three days, return to the track, then get roped into drinks again with her mother.

  She didn’t have to do that here. And she wished she’d told herself that last night.

  Callie threw on her running shorts and standard long-sleeve sports top to cover her arm. After wiping a cold washrag across her face and brushing her teeth, she made for the kitchen.

  “Hey, guys,” she said, rounding the breakfast bar, almost bumping the guest. “Who’s this?”

  Jeb put an omelet on a plate. Oatmeal filled two bowls, something foreign dotting the soft beige surface. “Zeus Bianchi,” Jeb said, setting a plate and bowl in front of his friend. “Is that a cool name or what? He’s starting a fishing guide business.”

  “Hey,” Zeus replied. “Mom told me all about you. A detective, huh? Awesome.”

  Jeb set the skillet back on the stove. “You want me to fix you some of this, Mom?”

  She scrunched her nose, her gut not so eager to engage with food. “I’ll pass.” She peered over one of the bowls. “I think this is oatmeal, but what’s with the weird bits hiding in it?”

  Zeus’s laugh bounced easy, deceptively confident for his age, as if he owned the air around him but would be happy to share it. “Pumpkin seeds, flax, and goji berries. I promised to try Jeb’s breakfast, including the yolk and whatever non-meat item he wanted, if he’d try mine.”

  “Enjoy the heat,” she replied, wondering about the level of spice Jeb hid in those eggs.

  “Oh, I can handle the sun,” Zeus asked. “I grew up in this heat.”

  “Mom,” Jeb interrupted before she revealed his surprise of jalapenos, onions, and Tabasco. “You all right after yesterday?”

  “Of course,” she lied.

  Zeus leaned on his elbow and wove a large coin from one finger to another, then back again, like a parlor trick.

  Callie caught herself watching it, a little disturbed. “What kind of coin is that?”

  Zeus ceased the flipping and studied the piece as if for the first time. “Says dollar on it. I found it on the kitchen table next to Mom’s orange juice this morning when I got back from fishing. Figured she was baiting me to do the dishes.”

  Geez. Sophie’s house? She reached out. “May I see it?”

  The silver dollar read 1921, another Morgan, and, if she was right, one that remained in immaculate shape from its life on Papa Beach’s wall. Tingling apprehension sprinted through her. Sophie’s open house had welcomed a secret visitor.

  “Where’s your sister?” Callie asked.

  Zeus’s brow lifted to the edge of his long curls. “With Mom at yoga, why?”

  Thank God no one had been in the house when the visitor entered. However, having Chelsea Morning sandwiched between Sophie’s and Papa’s crime scenes now gave Callie a vulnerable sense of exposure.

  “I’ll give you ten bucks for the coin. I’m sort of a collector,” she said.

  Jeb turned from his kitchen duties, puzzlement on his face.

  “Seriously?” Zeus asked. “How much you think it’s worth? I might want to keep it.”

  “Tell you what,” Callie said, holding the dollar up between two fingers. “Next time I go into Charleston, I’ll get it appraised.” She lifted three fingers. “Scout’s honor. You can have the money, whether from me or the appraiser. Deal? Least I can do for Jeb’s new friend and the son of my new neighbor.”

  Zeus beamed. “Sure! I’m supposed to be able to trust a detective, right?”

  She winked. “When does your mom get home?”

  “Nine thirty if she doesn’t get to talking too much. Hey, I really appreciate this.” Zeus stood and held out his hand. “Great to meet you.”

  Callie returned the firm shake. “A pleasure, Zeus. Bet that name gets attention.”

  “Girls love it,” he said, grinning.

  “Yeah,” she laughed. “I suspect so.”

  “You seem calmer than I expected,” Zeus said to her. “Everybody’s still talking after seeing you on the beach with a gun.”

  Callie fought the wince and shrugged. “I only do that to get Jeb to come home for dinner.”

  “Mom!” Jeb protested, as Zeus chuckled.

  “See you guys later. Time to run.”

  “Namaste, Miss Callie.”

  Outside, she bent her left leg, her foot touching her butt to stretch her thigh. She jogged the three blocks up Cupid Street toward the ocean. The ninety-degree temperature promised a record high by afternoon.

  At Beach Access 7, waves licked the pier’s posts forty feet out, the salt spray flavoring gusts of wind. The tide was rolling in, but she still had firm sand to run on. After another hamstring stretch, she tucked the silver dollar in her pocket with her house key and toyed with heading toward the Pavilion to catch Sophie. Not wanting to get roped into yoga, however, she took off southwest toward the beach curve that faced St. Helena Sound. Swimming-suited tourists would dribble out over the next couple of hours, but for now, the beach lay wide open except for the occasional loner stretched out on a towel reading or dolphin watchers studying distant breakers with binoculars.

  When she’d worn a badge, she contemplated cases as she ran. Pondering clues and replaying interviews helped carry her until she’d achieved second wind. Then she would run forever, often finding new angles to pursue. After losing John, however, she’d abused the routine, pounding herself into the pavement to earn a stress fracture in her right foot. Being grounded the next three mon
ths almost drove her crazy.

  That’s when she learned to appreciate a good drink.

  Callie’s shoes dug into the sand as she fought for rhythm. Think. Think about the coins. Were they the burglar’s target? Weirder things had happened. Papa didn’t talk about himself much, unlike Sophie, so the number of people who knew the collection existed would be limited.

  Why kill him, though? Unless Papa had recognized the person or caught him in the act. A young, inexperienced hoodlum could freak out, but the shot was too clean—right against the temple. Too steady.

  Her feet found the best sandy strip and fought for a pace. Breathe-two-three-four.

  Seabrook mentioned torture. Bruising? Broken bones? Did Papa have hidden assets? Maybe the son-of-a-bitch burglar was simply a sadistic bastard. The thought of the latter sickened her. She’d been right next door, for God’s sake. She could’ve made a difference.

  But then Jeb could have been left an orphan, too.

  Family. They were always a consideration in a murder. The first people detectives interviewed. Papa’s wife had predeceased him, leaving only Pauley, who’d rather take a beating than see his dad.

  But what if this crime was a message to her, the coin turning up to scare her? He could be telling her that he knew exactly who she was and where she lived.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now she saw everyone as Russian mafia.

  Her hand strayed to her pocket, feeling the Morgan dollar. With Sophie’s house wide open all the time, no telling who had made himself at home. She’d been lucky, this time.

  Callie had no choice but to take the coin to Officer Seabrook. She owed Zeus fifty bucks for misleading him, the approximate value, she guessed. After all, it wasn’t his treasure to keep.

  Two piers down, she passed a lanky fisherman in cargo shorts and a loose white T-shirt, his cooler and bait bucket beside him. Licking her lips, she distanced herself from the smell of fish and refocused.

  Breathe-two-three-four. Breathe-deep-two-three-four.

  She passed a half dozen loggerhead turtle nests. Each sported orange tape, four stakes, and a note informing beachcombers not to disturb the unhatched babies. Callie remembered walking along the sand with Papa Beach, inspecting whichever turtle nest he agreed to monitor that season. She’d never once witnessed the hatchlings escape to the sea, but she spent little time at the beach during the summer, the most active season for loggerheads, as well as for tenants willing to pay top-shelf rates for vacations. That’s when Chelsea Morning earned its keep, and Callie stayed in Middleton. Maybe this year she’d see hatchlings.

  She gulped and fought for air. Geez, what on earth forced her to run today?

  A half mile later, Callie sucked salt air like it was gelatin, thick and uncooperative with her stride. Her legs moved like stilts fording mud as she sought any sort of rhythm to make the effort less unforgiving.

  Her gut lurched. She gulped down bile and slowed her pace. Before she’d left the house, she should have taken a swig of juice, a few bites of oatmeal. What the hell kind of berries did Zeus say? She imagined that coming back up and gulped again.

  Callie pushed on in a slow jog.

  As she passed joggers, she threw her shoulders back and quit mouth breathing, pretending to be the strong, ritualistic enthusiast. But the second after they nodded in acknowledgement, she sagged, and her ragged panting returned.

  No way would she make three miles, much less five. Ten was bucket list level.

  Shit, another jogger. She held her head up, chest out, arms pumping.

  He approached, sweat indicating he’d already put in a couple miles. She nodded.

  “Hey,” he said, slowing. “Hold up.”

  Callie glanced back and slowed to a stop, grateful for the excuse.

  “I know you,” he said, as he walked toward her. Hell, he wasn’t even huffing.

  Her guard went up. Wait. The jogger from behind Papa B’s house. Mason Somebody.

  “Did you catch the kid pilfering your trash?” He towered at least six-foot two.

  Her empty stomach twisted. She stooped over, leaning on her knees. “No, no I didn’t. Sorry . . . sorry if I sounded harsh.”

  A sympathetic smile crept across his thin, tanned face, his dark hair whipping around in the stiff breeze. He wore no ring, but his watch was no doubt expensive. “I heard you were hunting the person who shot Henry Beechum,” he said in a nondescript mild accent. “Are you in law enforcement?”

  Damn this beach and its small town gossip. She shook her head, tried to rise, then changed her mind.

  He reached out. “Well, we need a better introduction than that one. Like I said the other day, I rent Water Spout. Been here three months. Not sure when I’ll leave.” He spread out his arms. “It’s paradise out here.”

  Callie nodded and gulped, waving off the handshake.

  “Hey, tell me what really went down at the Beechum place. I heard—”

  Callie vomited, jumping to spread her feet apart to avoid her sneakers.

  Mason high-stepped backward. “Whoa there!”

  Instinctively, she twisted away, closer to the water, and upchucked again. Dropping to her knees, she let nature take its course until she could heave no more.

  Just what she needed, another reputation piled on top of her madcap gun escapade, discovering a murder, and being the mayor’s daughter. Eyes shut, she touched base with her gut, to see if it had paid all its dues for last night.

  Mason took his cap off and soaked it in the surf. “Here,” he said, placing it on her head. “That ought to make you feel a little better. Sit here a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  Unable to argue, she plopped her butt in the wet sand. Scooping up water, she washed out her mouth, spitting it back into the sea.

  Moments later, Mason returned. “Sip on this,” he said, offering her a Coke he apparently bummed from a tenant in a nearby rental.

  The sugary bubbles fizzed in her mouth, the ice-cool liquid caressing as it went down. “This is so embarrassing,” she said, studying the foam left in a wave’s ebb. “Thanks.”

  He sat beside her and snickered.

  “You’re laughing at me?” she asked.

  “No, no,” he said, chuckling.

  “Yes,” she said, his laughter making her smile. “Yes, you are.”

  Taking the cap off her head, he soaked it again and positioned it back on her limp hair. “I puked one pier over the first week I moved in. Must be a rite of passage or something.”

  “Or something is right.” She sipped again slowly.

  “I’m Mason Howard,” he said. “In case you forgot.”

  “I’m—”

  “Callie Jean Cantrell Morgan,” he recited. “The Middleton mayor’s daughter who owns Chelsea Morning.”

  Of course he knew.

  He shifted to lean stiff-armed. “You’re the celebrity of the week. I’m sure that’ll change by the weekend when they find someone else.” He touched her sleeve. “Why the long sleeves, by the way? Aren’t you hot?”

  “Heat has nothing to do with my sleeves,” she said hesitantly.

  “Then let me ask something more discreet. What brings you to Edisto?”

  “I’m just kicking back for the summer.” All he needed to know.

  “Like me.” He grinned, warm and comical.

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  “I’m a trust fund baby dabbling in real estate. Grandfather made his money in restaurants. Ever heard of Angus Steer Steakhouse?”

  She dusted sand from her thighs, trying not to be impressed. “As in The Great Steak jingle?”

  Surprise raised his brow. “Nice. Not many Southerners have heard of us.”

  Damn. Those restaurants are only in Canada. “I—” She caught herself
before explaining she used to live in Boston, and she and John made several trips across the border for both business and pleasure. “I used to have family in Buffalo, and I remember the commercials. That song sticks in your head.”

  He brushed his palms together. “Well, enough about me. Feel like standing?”

  Heat crept into her cheeks. “I believe so.”

  “Let me walk you home.” He held out his hand, hoisting her up, the gesture of an interested male. His intentions seemed honest enough, but she wasn’t ready to take that step. She almost felt guilty about the calls to Stan, but those were long distance, and he’d known John.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Besides, I think I want to walk, at least cover the miles I meant to run.”

  “May I accompany you?” He tried to take her elbow, and she acted like she lost her balance in the sand and sidestepped.

  “Only as far as your place,” she said, knowing Water Spout’s three stories surveyed the beach a mere three piers away.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I have a party every Friday night. You may have heard of them. Consider yourself invited.”

  She took the last swig of her drink, screwed on the cap, and dangled the empty bottle by its neck as they strolled. “A party’s not exactly appealing after the mess I just left on the beach. I think I’m giving up gin for life.”

  He took the empty bottle from her and waved it. “So come have a soft drink. It’s not a keg party, Ms. Morgan. Just adults enjoying the end of the week, staring inanely at the ocean—harmless. Feel free to come.”

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Fine,” he said. “But I’m telling you, I think fate keeps throwing us in each other’s way.”

  What a pickup line. It was a small beach and only the second time they’d seen each other. This guy tried way too hard.

  Chapter 8

  STILL WOBBLY FROM her hangover run, Callie planted a heavy foot on the first of two dozen steps to her porch. Her toe hit the lip of a riser. Several steps up, she went down, slamming her knee on an extruding nail head.