Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries)

by C. Hope Clark

  “He straightened up, then moved things around, as if to claim this place as his own,” she said.

  Seabrook scratched his head. “But who?”

  Callie scouted the room one more time. “Papa’s son is in Florida. Maybe Peters? Any of your people? A greedy real estate agent? Somebody who could enter your office and give a good excuse you’d believe for the key. Or your receptionist.”

  “Are you always so suspicious of everyone?”

  If he only knew. “It can save lives, believe me,” she mumbled, scanning harder.

  What was the damn situation here? Callie reminded herself to call Stan in the morning, to see what he found out about Henry Beechum’s past. This extension of the original break-in reeked personal. But personal against Papa, or personal against her? Who else would have seen that light and reacted?

  Or did someone love Papa and sneak in to relive his memories?

  “Who came to see him when he was alive?” she asked. “A lady friend? Another child, um, person like me?”

  Seabrook shook his head. “Nobody I know of. Henry either went out to see somebody or stayed home alone. Thought you’d know that.”

  But I always came to see him, she thought. We met in his house because my parents were always in mine.

  “I’ll call it in to the county,” Seabrook said. “Forensics will wait until tomorrow. If they think I need to stay here until they arrive, I will.”

  Would it be so selfish to hope he stood vigil? Something threatened to unravel inside her, and she didn’t like it. Not over a stupid lamp and old music.

  They entered the kitchen, Seabrook punching in a number on his cell.

  “Shit,” Callie whispered, then, “Shit!” out loud.

  Seabrook stiffened and broke the call. “What?”

  Two coffee cups sat on the dinette. She touched the back of her hand to the cup nearest her. “Still warm. Check the coffeepot.”

  Seabrook shook his head as he felt the cold machine. “Coffee smell would’ve hit us when we walked in.”

  “Wait.” She eyed the cups closer. Oh no. “This one’s tea.”

  Seabrook stared into the second cup. “This isn’t tea.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be. We visited Chelsea Morning in the cooler months, because Daddy rented it in the summer. Papa always fixed me hot chocolate.” On the kitchen counter, the box of hot chocolate and box of tea bags still remained in place, just as they’d been the day she found Papa’s body. Sweet Jesus. This had to be the same guy. And he’d connected the dots about her friendship with her old friend. Her pulse quickened as she stared at the ceramic white mug, the café’s logo in black on its side, above the words The Original Italian Caffe. “And that cup is mine.”

  “Maybe you left it here?” he said. “Let’s not stretch our imaginations too far.”

  “No,” Callie said, recalling the Cioccolato Caldo she drank in it, the hot chocolate actually reminding her of Papa Beach when she ordered it.

  She pressed her back against the refrigerator. Someone had entered her house. Had they hidden in a closet? Watched her undress? She slid down the appliance into a crouch. “I brought that cup with me from Boston. John bought it on our ninth wedding anniversary as a memento from Vittoria Caffe in the North End.”

  Her chest tightened, pants going shallow. As she opened her eyes, Seabrook stooped in front of her. “Let’s slow down and think about this.”

  She searched his green eyes. “I found my front door unlocked today. When I got home from talking to you.”

  Concern etched his features.

  “I’d just unpacked that cup. Someone’s been in my house,” she repeated. “Jeb didn’t forget to lock the door. Someone got in. This is all about me.”

  “No,” he said, placing both hands over hers and lowering them from under her chin. “We don’t know that. It could be a joke because someone knows you’re an ex-cop. Maybe . . .” He hunted the room for ideas.

  The aroma of gunpowder came back to her. Papa distorted, broken. The waiting cups for their one-on-one. “Who else besides me would know about tea and hot chocolate,” she said, her voice soft, “except someone who’d seen Papa’s murder crime scene?”

  Seabrook drew back. “You think his murderer put this show on for you?”

  “Or a cop,” she added, trying to recall the faces of the uniforms. There weren’t that many.

  “Maybe it’s an asshole with a bad sense of humor. Still, change all your locks tomorrow, okay?”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she said. “I’m a pro at watching my back. My biggest flaw is listening to people ordering me to chill, telling me not to look over my shoulder so much. That’s exactly when they make their move.” She jerked away from Seabrook. “Nobody around here would understand—” Blood rushed from her face. She jumped up. “This is a diversion. Jeb!”

  She flew outside and ran home, kicking up shells and sand, her Glock drawn, Seabrook’s footsteps keeping up behind her.

  Goddamn it! The oldest trick in the universe. Distract, then snatch. Or kill.

  As she fumbled with her key, she kicked the back door. “Jeb! Answer me! Jeb!”

  The door flew open . . . and slammed into an obstacle. “Jeb—”

  Her son hobbled about on one leg, frowning. “Mom! You ran the door over my foot!”

  “Have you heard anything? Seen an intruder?” she asked.

  “No. I’ve been in my room. What’s happened?”

  “Don’t go outside.”

  Seabrook waited in the doorway.

  Callie pointed at him, shaking her finger with emphasis on each word. “Shut that door. And lock it!”

  The cop obeyed as told. Jeb moved toward Seabrook, glancing at him then back at his mother, waiting for someone to explain. In the meantime, Callie hurried room to room and anchored every opening to Chelsea Morning.

  With nothing else to secure, her mouth so dry her tongue stuck to her teeth, she burst back into the kitchen. She opened cabinets, making sure the mug was gone, as if she needed assurance. Her glances darting around her home, she didn’t know what else to do. Someone had violated her place, and she wondered what else was gone, or what he’d seen. Eyes seemed to peer at her from every corner, shadow, and crevice.

  Someone picked her lock. If she did change them, when would she know to change them again? A riding sense of futility filled her chest like indigestion.

  “Someone stole a cup from here and planted it at Beechum’s house to freak out your mother,” Seabrook said.

  Jeb sat on a barstool next to a standing Callie. “What the hell, Mom?”

  She gingerly touched his face, trembling. His cheek felt stubbly under her shaky palm. “Someone’s trying to scare us, Jeb.”

  Seabrook settled on the back of the sofa. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Jeb turned and tried to speak with authority. “I forgot your name.”

  “This is Officer Mike Seabrook,” Callie said. “From the Edisto Beach Police Department. You probably saw him—”

  “Mom, look at me. Are you okay?” Jeb pressed her shoulders to stop her tremors.

  Balling up her fingers, she fisted them to her chest. She had to maintain her edge; her unceasing wariness was a necessary vigilance. So that she didn’t lose her son. So that her son didn’t lose his mother. Crap had caught up to her at a consummate Garden of Eden. Apparently, she couldn’t relax anywhere, even at Edisto Beach.

  This place was not the almighty solution her parents thought it was. “Listen, Jeb. The season’s at its peak. We can sell this place in a snap.”

  “No,” he said, rising to his feet. “Who says any other place would be different? I’m fed up with not being settled. Fed up seeing you like this. Fed up with your . . . spells.”

  She rubbed the crease
s between her brows, a headache raging. “Yes, I’m having a spell.” Then she pounded the counter. Jeb jerked. Seabrook moved toward her.

  “I’m also enraged, and I’m frustrated off the goddamn chart about our lives being slung around.” Salty tears reached her lips, and she roughly rubbed them on her sleeve.

  Dammit, she was stronger than this. She recognized the alcohol talking and hated herself for allowing it to lower her defenses. Of all times for a crisis. The detective in her ought to be the driving force right now, not some pasty-skinned damsel in distress.

  Seabrook fixated on her, analyzing.

  She could no longer carry this secret alone. Time for Jeb to hear the truth, for his sake and her sanity. To leave the nest, he needed to appreciate the dangers she’d hidden from him so he’d be more aware. All he knew was his father had died in a fire. Knowing the truth, maybe he’d realize why she’d become who she was . . . and forgive her over time.

  Seabrook turned away. “I’ll head back to the house and call in.”

  She touched his arm. “I wish you’d stay.” If Jeb hated her for concealing the truth, maybe the gentle cop would help soften the blow and give her credibility in front of her son.

  She turned to Jeb. “I’d like you to know why I react to situations like I do. I only want to explain this once.”

  Seabrook poised on the arm of the sofa. Jeb waited, his stare glued to her. She decided touching him was not wise. When authorities divulged John’s true cause of death to her, they tried to hold her hands, touch her shoulder, reach out arms for her to fall into. Those condolences were now branded into her head as forbearers of doom, a far cry from consolation.

  “Jeb,” she started, chin up, swallowing once for strength. “Your father didn’t die in the fire.”

  His eyes went wide. “What? Wait. I was there with you. The house . . .” and he trailed off. His squinting eyes wary, they belied the denial creeping in. “What’re you trying to say?”

  However she told it, the truth would be cruel. “True, baby, he was in the house. But your father was shot before the killer set the fire. And they were probably after me.”

  Now her son’s eyes narrowed.

  Callie stole a glance at Seabrook. “He died . . .”

  Seabrook nodded as if to say, Stay with it. You’re doing fine.

  She turned back to Jeb. “He died from a .22 bullet to the head.”

  Pain creased Jeb’s brow. “So they got Dad instead of you?”

  His reply pierced her heart. “Yes, instead of all three of us.”

  Callie closed her eyes before saying the words she’d thought for two years. The words she slept with, woke to, and ached about each and every day of her life since that October night. “My job got your father killed.”

  Jeb strode down the hall and slammed his bedroom door.

  Seabrook’s head bowed. Callie lowered herself to a barstool, watching the hallway, wondering whether to go console her son. She started to rise.

  “Don’t,” Seabrook said. “Let him be. He’ll come to terms with it.”

  But she remained standing. Then, in a moment of decision, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out the gin. She uncapped it, moved to the sink, and upended the bottle. The liquid glugged as it poured down then spit back up, repeating itself. Fixated on the movement, Callie knew she could buy another, but she didn’t have to.

  That was the point. The decision was hers. Many decisions were hers. She’d just made one with Jeb and another with the lovely blue bottle emptying down the drain.

  She would control her life, or this unknown asshole would do it for her.

  Seabrook came around the bar. “You did fine by him. He’ll realize that soon enough.” Moving closer, he gently laid an arm around her, cupping her shoulder, drawing her close.

  She closed her eyes. Oh, God.

  His musky scent from the humid summer night made her yearn to spin around and lean into that towering strength. He could shelter her, and she could let him. But she was tired of feeling sorry for herself. His pity, her guilt. What good would that do her? Or Jeb?

  “What bad guys do isn’t your fault,” Seabrook said, squeezing her again.

  It was on my watch, she wanted to say, but the words caught. She lightly tried to pull away. She needed to be more proactive. Make plans.

  He retained his hold.

  Just one embrace. She imagined the side of her face buried into his chest.

  Her powerful need to stand firm was eroding around the edges. A power she’d been losing control over for a long while.

  The muscles in his arm flexed, as if reading her thoughts. “You can’t control it all, Callie,” he said. “I know how shit happens. Believe me, I do.” He tried to tuck her against him. “Just let it go,” he whispered.

  She pushed away. She couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now.

  “You are in so much pain it’s a wonder you haven’t collapsed.”

  Right now she hated all the world had dumped on her, to include people who thought what was best for her. Even now her grief for John swelled unbearably huge in her chest from dealing with Jeb, yet she hated her husband for leaving her alone.

  Oh, how she longed for the physical presence of another soul. The touch. But folding into Seabrook’s arms would make her feel she needed someone to be strong on her behalf. Then he’d be gone, and she’d be alone again. Maybe downstream there was comfort to be found in a stranger, but not for her, not tonight.

  Seabrook waited, trying to read her.

  Sniffling, her cheeks still damp, she took the bottle from the sink, moved to the other side of the kitchen, and threw the empty in the trash. “Thanks for being here, but I just want to be by myself now.”

  “Come on, Callie. Let me stick around. I’m a great listener.”

  She was embarrassed enough. “No, Mike. This is my millstone, not yours.”

  “I was a doctor—”

  “I know. And the offer’s appreciated.”

  He moved toward the back door. “I’ll be outside.”

  “And I’ll be in here.”

  She locked the door with Seabrook glancing back one more time. He hesitated before descending the stairs.

  The house was secure, but she checked it again, testing locks. She had a cop standing guard outside for the night. Maybe she could relax and sink into her thoughts. Loosen her mind.

  But how was that supposed to happen when the murderer had mocked her right next door?

  Chapter 12

  BREATHS REGULAR, Callie’s feet beat the sand with a cadence she hadn’t felt in a long time. No gin, a good night’s sleep, and a day full of promise. Gulls crisscrossed overhead, as if keeping pace. Salt air filled her sinuses, clearing her head.

  Bring it on, life.

  Bring it on, you low-life, sneaking, contemptible weasel, whoever you are.

  Jeb had left for the beach before she woke, but he’d stuck a note behind a mini-conch shell magnet on the refrigerator. Gone fishing. Love you Mom. A doodled happy face with eyes crossed ended the note, putting the bounce back in her step. Mother and son were good again. Thank heaven. She’d beat herself up enough without having the love of her life adding to the punches. Telling him the truth had removed a two-ton mass of harbored guilt.

  After Seabrook left last night, she’d cried herself dry in her bedroom—a deep release. After all, she had the comforting thought of him camped out in his car at Papa B’s house only yards away. Leaving Chelsea Morning for her run, she waved at his car parked in Papa’s drive. He waved back. It was . . . a moment.

  Crap, she was acting sixteen. She kicked up her speed, fighting to avoid her heels and push off the balls of her feet.

  Last evening had scared the crap out of her. The set up designed for her, after entering her home to
achieve it. In Boston, she’d received plenty of hate mail and threatening calls. The winks, the coded words as she passed criminals in a courtroom. She’d been impervious then, Kevlar-coated. Never missed a wink of sleep.

  In the dawn of a new day, Callie recognized the intrusion at Papa Beach’s house as an intimidation stunt aimed to rattle her cage. The why escaped her, and if she were in Boston, she’d have two or three dozen thugs to blame. Edisto made no sense. After her run and a shower, she’d call Stan again and seek a more balanced viewpoint.

  You’re not a victim unless you allow yourself to be one.

  How many times had she given that advice?

  Callie squinted from behind her sunglasses. A jogger approached, but with the sun in front of her, she could only make out his dark outline. Something familiar though. He came closer.

  Mason Howard.

  He changed direction and ran alongside her, matching stride. The sun hat he used to dowse her hung-over head last time was dry and back on his own, his T-shirt a tie-dyed blue from McConkey’s diner. “Hey again, Callie Morgan. Hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you sure seem better today.”

  How could she mind? Frankly, how could she not be better? Her run was strong, her headache gone, and she hadn’t puked once. “You’re such a charmer.” She grinned as she picked up her pace. He followed suit. She enjoyed his periodic glances at her chest. Men were men.

  “How’s the investigation going?” he asked. “Saw you at the police department yesterday. They put you on retainer or something?”

  “And who says I was at the police department?”

  “Word has it your car was parked there.”

  She blew out deeper then went back to her count. “And whose word would that be?”

  He flashed a goofy grin. “Light gray Escape, five years old.” He jogged easy. “No bumper stickers. Nothing hanging on the mirror.” A few more steps. “Nothing on the console. Factory condition and completely nondescript. Pure vanilla.”

  A nervous shiver crept across her back at the spot-on description of her vehicle. She stopped. “You were snooping in my car?”