“Let her run for mayor, then.”
Lawton glanced sideways at his daughter. “There’s a big heart behind all her bluster, Callie. She believes we can do Middleton a lot of good.”
“I think you’ve done your fair share, Daddy.” Callie continued rocking. Oh, how she used to hate those campaign years. Beverly, however, glowed for the chance to design a catchy new slogan for the next election.
Lawton put down the glass, his eyes petitioning. “I just ask that you let her know discreetly, at your convenience, that you think it’s time I retired.”
Callie leaned back, less eager to take on this task than she was to investigate the break-ins. “Don’t you think that’s your message to deliver?”
He rolled his eyes. “Scallywag, I have, on more than one occasion. It’s like I’m talking to a, um, a . . .”
“Rock? A door? A concrete block wall?”
“Callie.”
“So what would you have me say, Captain?”
“Tell her that we need time for us. To travel or spend time with Jeb. We’ve missed too many years of his life already.”
Beverly’s comment about never seeing Bonnie in Boston rang loud and clear. “Oh, Daddy, not you, too.”
“Don’t read more into what I’m saying.” He sipped thoughtfully on his bourbon. “I was busy being mayor. Y’all were in Boston with careers. Nobody’s fault, but I can change that now.”
Beverly might listen to her. The woman had gone to great lengths to tie her daughter down in the Lowcountry, so maybe she was ready to be receptive to that same daughter. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“But mentioning Jeb brings me to my other topic.” He readjusted, resting elbows on his knees. “He’s worried about you. Quite a bit.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her gaze on her glass. This had to be the main thrust of his visit. Jeb must’ve presented a fine case to her father to bring him all the way out here.
“You’ve had a rough time, hon,” he said. “We want you to detox from life.”
If Beverly had said those words, Callie would’ve barked back about making presumptuous decisions for her. Hearing them from Lawton, however, just made her sad.
“That’s why we gave you the place,” he said, “so you wouldn’t suffer any time or financial constraints. You’re at the beach with no responsibilities other than Jeb. Kick back.”
Callie stopped rocking. “Kick back?”
“And give that boy some assurances that you’ve settled down and moved on. He’s scared to death to leave you alone this fall. And don’t you say anything about this to him, either.” He mindlessly tapped the bottom of his empty glass. “Screaming for him on the beach with a gun, coming home to find you drinking. He thinks you’re worse than in Middleton.”
She froze. Jeb had gone to them about her binge on the porch? Crap. “What reactions does he mean in Middleton?” What had they thought they’d seen in her?
“Our house is nice, but the walls are thin, Scallywag.” He pointed at her glass. “And our liquor tab practically doubled.”
A flush heated her face. “Anything else?”
“You forgot events.”
Dodged them was more like it.
“And your temper showed itself inappropriately at times.”
Beverly did that to a person.
Her father’s soft gaze turned serious. “Do you need to see a professional, little girl? You’ve been fragile since the day you arrived. Nobody wants to think a member of his family has a problem, but—”
Callie jumped up from her seat. “Why does everyone think I’m off balance?”
He nodded. “Off balance. That’s a good way to put it. And I should’ve said something earlier, but I guess it took Jeb coming to me to see you’re still hurting. I’m sorry, honey. Guess my fathering skills were out of whack.”
She paced the living room, thinking of Raysor’s description of her—damaged goods. So that’s how her father saw her, too. If Jeb was so worried about her, why hadn’t he locked the door when he went out? Such a simple measure took off some of the pressure. What was so damn difficult about locking a goddamn door?
“Try just being a mom,” he said. “For Jeb.”
Just a mom?
A regular mom couldn’t begin to imagine the atrocities she’d witnessed. A body diced and tossed into three dumpsters in an alley. Drug addicted mothers leaving naked toddlers for two days in unheated, roach-infested housing. Shot, stabbed, scalded victims. Kidnappings with bad endings. Those experiences had taught her to see the potential danger in any situation and hopefully react accordingly. Regardless of what the average person thought, sometimes lightning did strike twice in the same spot. Neither she nor Jeb could afford a repeat of that night in Boston.
When she accepted her shield, she’d given up the right to be just a mom. That was like pretending bad guys no longer existed.
Bad guys loved that.
“I’ll try, Daddy,” she said, knowing he’d never understand. Because making him understand would destroy his ability to sleep without a gun under his pillow, too.
Lawton’s phone rang. He held the phone out to read the small print. “I knew she’d catch up to me.” He punched a button and took the call. “Hey, Bev. No, I’m not in my office. I’m in Charleston at a meeting. No, I’m almost done. Thanks, but we’re grabbing dinner. Yea, love you, too.”
He hung up. Callie raised a brow at how easily he lied to her mother. She’d never seen that before.
Lawton put away his phone and defended himself instantly. “She had no business coming here with me, Callie. You can see that.”
“Not saying a word, Daddy.” Like she would light that firecracker.
He set his empty glass on the bar. “I want to check in with an old friend here, so I’ll pop back before dinner, if that’s okay. Give me an hour and a half.”
“Suits me, Captain. Six okay? By the way, who’s the old friend?”
“Nobody you know. I’ll be back in plenty of time. Don’t go overboard with supper.” Lawton left and drove south on Jungle Road. No telling what financial backer had a house out here. Maybe he needed to break the news to the supporter himself that the next election would proceed without him.
Once her father left, she checked the other two doors, the previously open front door still niggling at her. Then she prepped all the food, covered it with plastic wrap, and was putting on water to boil for shrimp when her phone rang.
“Callie Cantrell there? Oh, sorry, I mean Morgan?” asked a man on the other end.
She turned down the burner a notch. “Who’s calling?”
“Hey, this is Pauley. Pauley Beechum. You’re a hard lady to find.”
“Oh, hey, Pauley. I’m so sorry about your father.”
He let out a brief moan. “Yeah, rough way to go. Eerie to boot, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t lived a full life.”
Callie could clearly hear the no-love-lost in his voice. “Well, I’ll miss him.”
“I hear you were over there after it happened?”
She hesitated, not wanting to go into the details of an ongoing investigation, and she didn’t know Pauley that well. “Yes. I was there.”
“Scary.”
“A bit, yes.”
He let out a hmmm. “The police told me the killer took the silver dollar collection. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Anything else?”
“Don’t know, Pauley. You need to ask the Edisto PD.”
“Listen,” he said. “Watch the house for me, will you? Don’t let the cops steal anything. They’ll listen to you and probably lie to me. I’ll be making a trip soon to sell the stuff. Old junk can be worth a lot, you know, plus I’ll be filing an insurance claim for the coins. Probably
worth ten thousand dollars, don’t you think? And I’m putting the house up for sale. Good time of year for it.”
No reminiscing. No choked up words. No discussion about how the world would be less of a place without his father. Just conversation about stuff and junk.
“The house is fine, Pauley. Again, sorry about your dad.”
“Yeah, well, nice talking to you.”
Her phone felt icky as she hung up. She turned and stared out the window at the empty house next door. She reminded herself to call Stan to check on Papa’s son and his background. Family sucked sometimes.
Jeb walked in. She returned attention to the pot, stirring Old Bay seasoning into the roiling water. “Okay, my man. Who left the front door unlocked this afternoon?”
Bewilderment covered his face.
“Despite what Zeus or Sophie think, you can’t go out and leave the house open,” she said.
“I’m sure I locked up.”
Lawton knocked on the door, and once Jeb peered past the glass, hurried to let him in.
Callie had boiled an ample supply of shrimp, nuked baked potatoes, and sliced cheese to go with crackers and pickles. A small bowl of coleslaw. She poured her father another bourbon and decided she could handle one more gin with supper.
Jeb silently pointed at her glass. Callie gave him a quick wave, her expression saying all was good.
She watched her two men immensely enjoy each other’s company over sports updates and island fishing, the boy’s relief apparent in the presence of his grandfather. When Lawton said it was time to go, Callie let Jeb walk him to his car. Jeb came back in with a jaunty step. She smiled. Lawton had played his role well.
Empty glasses and plates stacked, she started cleaning up. Shrimp peelings piled up deep in a salad bowl that Jeb carried as he joined her at the sink. “I did lock up,” he said, returning to the table pick up the last napkins and utensils.
She shut off the water and turned, drying off with a dishrag. But before she could start in on her son, he began a speech of his own.
“I worry, Mom. The whole time I’m with my new friends, I wonder if you’re freaking out. That’s how I know I locked up.” He snatched up the placemats, cramming them in a drawer. “You and me,” he said, pointing at his chest, then at her. “We’re backwards in this parenting business. I’m watching you instead of the other way around.”
He stopped short of saying he was fed up with the job.
Frowning, she moved toward him. “Young man, you have no idea what I suffer in my efforts to raise you. But regardless, I’m still the parental figure here.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, arms crossed. “Here I am trying to make friends in a really cool place, but I have to constantly explain about that deranged stunt on the beach. And what about that cop seeing you drunk?”
She bit the inside of her mouth. Heart aching at what amounted to Jeb’s long-brewing frustration, she realized anything she said would sound like an excuse, or a discount of his concerns. So she suffered his rebuke.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I’ll try to do better.”
“Oh, Mom.” He pivoted to leave then spun back. “You don’t even see what you’ve turned into. Someone told me you puked on the beach this morning. Then I see you drinking again tonight.”
“I didn’t overindulge,” she said.
He shook his head. “People feel sorry for me. Do you know what that feels like?”
Dish towel wound tight in her grasp, she searched for the right words. What would John think of this?
This wasn’t teenage angst or selfishness. Jeb’s lecture wasn’t about what people thought. It was anger infused with love, Jeb clashing with himself over an inability to define what the hell was wrong so he could heal his family. He had no father. She had no husband. Fixing all that was impossible, and they both still struggled with the reality.
She wiped an already clean counter with the towel. “I said I’m sorry.” Rushing to him might only make him refuse her embrace, so she held herself in check. “We’ll get past this,” she finally said.
“Goddamn it, Mom. It’s what you always say.”
What else could she say? Those words had supported her for over two years now. What other words were there? She blinked as she studied the towel, struggling for an answer she hadn’t used before.
Jeb blew out an exaggerated breath, then retreated to his room. Soon muted words traveled through the door, hopefully a call to her father, please not to her mother, and please not to his new friends from the beach.
Robotically she returned to her dishes.
What other option was there than simply rising each day to see if she could weather it better than the day before? Jeb’s college, however, would remove him from the tension of watching his mother stuck in some bizarre dimension. School could be his opportunity to cut loose from her and her demons.
She made a new gin and tonic without realizing it. Her fourth in the same number of hours. However, she had eaten, so the effect should be minimal.
Slipping outside to her screened porch, she nestled in the dark, in the same Adirondack chair as the night before. Crap. The record player. This felt like a Serenade album night from Neil. Leaving the drink on the wicker table, she hoisted herself up to stand and froze.
A light was on at Papa Beach’s house.
Chapter 11
AT THE SIGHT of lights in Papa’s house, Callie slipped back into her living room, flipped the switch off to avoid being backlit, and peered under a blind, cell phone in hand. She paused before remembering which speed dial number was Seabrook’s. “There’s a light on over there,” she whispered when he answered, staring out in hopes to glimpse the intruder.
“Moving or stationary?” Seabrook asked.
“Stationary,” she said. “I’m headed over there. Wanted someone to know.”
“Hell no, you’re not,” he said. “Give me five minutes. I’ll park two doors down on Jungle Shores. Go out your back door and wait for me at the base of your stairs.”
So he lived that close. Backup did make her feel easier.
After changing into sneakers, she slipped the Glock holster on her waistband. She made her way outside, down the steps, and crouched in the shrubbery to avoid the streetlights. What had she been thinking? God, she knew better than to go over there by herself. She didn’t think she’d had that much gin. Soon her phone shimmied, a text saying: Coming up behind you.
Seabrook was good for his word. He hugged the shadows and gave two short flashes with a mini-flashlight before joining her. Dark T-shirt and jeans. Deck shoes, she noticed.
“You can see better from my porch,” she whispered as he reached her. “But up there, toward the west corner near the street, you’ll see a hint of the light. No movement.”
“I see it,” he said low, then sniffed. “Is that gin?”
“I’m fine. One drink,” she lied and held up a key. “I can get us in the back door.”
He held up his own key. “We changed the locks.”
They crossed the moonlit yard to Papa’s house and climbed silently to the landing. Seabrook eased open the screen door and placed an ear to the wooden one. They readied their weapons. He gently opened the door. As he pushed it, he turned on a rail-mounted flashlight on his pistol.
Soft forties music filled the air, a slow big band instrumental. Seabrook eased across the kitchen with Callie on his heels. Her gaze briefly rested on the spot where Papa’s body had lain. She quickly refocused as she braced against a shudder.
Someone had wiped up the stain after the coroner released the scene, but the pernicious smell of death lingered, having settled into the fabric of the place. Seabrook and Callie crept on into the living room. He swept right, she left.
A lone lamp shone next to the old recliner
, situated in front of the window as if placed to be seen by only Callie. The dated radio serenaded them from its new position on the coffee table, the cord draped across the braided rug from the same outlet as the lamp. The forty-year-old radio seemed centered to entertain the recliner’s occupant.
Callie pushed hair out of her eyes and gripped her weapon, holding her breaths quiet.
They detoured down the hallway, entered each of the three tiny bedrooms, the bath, and checked the linen closet.
“All clear.” Seabrook holstered his gun, shut off the flashlight, and put it in his jeans pocket. He flipped on the nearest overhead switch. “Well, that’s weird as hell.”
Callie walked back up the hallway and halted in the lamp-lit den, scanning the placement of every ashtray, picture, book, and coaster.
Seabrook spoke over her shoulder. “What do you see?”
“Hold on.” Her eyes skimmed the furniture, knickknacks, all the familiar items she’d known for years.
A dozen or more of Papa’s possessions had been rearranged. An ashtray in a new spot. A doily on the sofa instead of the coffee table. Naval histories stacked on an old desk instead of alphabetized in their bookcase. She’d been in the house only a month ago, apart from the murder. Wherever Papa B’s wife had positioned something before her passing, Papa felt it should remain. Someone had chosen to alter that.
The wrecked items from the previous break-in were no more. Pictures on the wall leveled, the broken frames picked up and set on an end table like they awaited mending. Furniture righted.
“You have anybody come in here to straighten up?” she asked.
“Nope,” Seabrook said. “Tape’s still on the front door. Locks changed.”
Like tape stopped anybody. Like a key couldn’t be copied. Like a locksmith wouldn’t saunter right in at the request of someone he trusted to have the proper authority. Or, like the proper authority wouldn’t consider having some fun of his own.
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 10
