Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries)

by C. Hope Clark

  “Jeee-sus. You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.” Raysor leveled his gaze with hers. “Don’t think I’m not watching you. And if I hear of you spewing any more of that fantasy shit, there’ll be hell to pay. Are we clear?”

  “Back at you, Deputy Raysor,” she said, muscles twitching in her legs. “Right back at you.”

  He left. She dropped onto the driver’s seat and leaned against the headrest.

  The redneck nuisance had grown from an arrogant moron to a suspect. Seabrook said to watch the man more carefully when he was quiet. The way Raysor had sneaked up on her seemed to fill the bill.

  Chapter 14

  TWO HOURS AFTER Raysor all but accosted her, Callie tested the front door lock, then gave the mechanism one last spritz of graphite. There. Slick as black ice. All the extra keys floating around to Chelsea Morning were useless now.

  She’d been remiss not rekeying the house sooner. “Jeb? Come get your new keys.”

  He loped into the hall from his room. “There’s more than one?”

  She dangled them in front of him. “Front, back, and side.”

  “What a nuisance,” he said, studying the differences.

  “Well, I don’t want to make it easy for anyone.” She wiped smudges off the door with a rag. “Everything lined up for school? Any last minute expenses? Remember what I said.”

  “If it gets tough financially, I might have to work part-time. No problem.” His eyes shifted as if deciding what to add.

  Callie straightened. “Something on your mind?”

  Jeb peered at the keys again. “Nothing serious.” He leaned his backside and palms against the oak credenza.

  “Don’t put your weight on that, son,” she said. “You forget how big you are.”

  He stood, appearing lost as to where to position himself.

  Jeb appeared open to talk, so she seized the opportunity. “I’m sorry about keeping secrets about your dad. At the time, I hadn’t the strength to tell you what really happened. Time just seemed to crawl away from me. You adapted, we moved. I just . . .” She tried to tease loose the words.

  “That wasn’t on my mind, Mom.” He nudged her. “But while we’re on the subject, I think you did the right thing. Caught me by surprise, is all.”

  Callie went speechless at this boy’s flash of adulthood.

  Then he gave her that half-grin of his father’s. “I thought about it, even discussed it with some friends. I’d have gone crazy wanting to get even with somebody if you’d told me back then. Didn’t you?”

  “Oh, son, you have no idea,” she said, not caring to share the details of those days.

  He hugged her. “I miss him so much sometimes. This just makes him more of a hero.”

  She squeezed him back. “I know.”

  After a long moment, she held him back and wiped the corner of her eye. “So, what’d you want to say?”

  “You own this house, right?”

  “So says the deed.”

  “Does that mean you’ll stay here? I mean, like, for a year or something?”

  A question she’d asked herself every day since they’d arrived. Several times a day lately. “Haven’t decided. We still have your father’s insurance, but I’m not sure how far that will take us. There’s not much career potential here. Waiting tables, selling real estate, or helping the lady at the consignment store.” She had the offer from Seabrook to step back into uniform, but Jeb didn’t need to know that. “It’s not your worry,” she said. “If I move, there’s always your grandparents’ place for weekends and holidays. You’ll still have a place to go.” She reached up and flicked him under the chin. “But you know I won’t be far.”

  “It’s just, I mean . . .”

  “What, Jeb?” she asked tenderly. “Do you like it here?”

  There it was, that half-grin. “A lot, Mom. But I like it more with you here.”

  Her paranoia dragged them both down at times, but she already saw that living at Edisto Beach had lifted her son’s spirits. As much as she hated admitting it, maybe her parents knew the beach house gift would help them readjust.

  She wrapped her arms around his skinny body already on its way to a rich tan from his few days on the water with Zeus. “I want what you want,” she said. “But if you keep trying to please me, you’ll never get on with your life.”

  “Sounds like what I ought to be telling you, Mom.”

  She reached high and tousled his blond tresses. She wanted to commit to a year or two for his sake, but so far this beach wasn’t loving her much. She could leave and draw this criminal away, assuming she was a target. Jeb could then stay at Chelsea Morning. After all, it was paid for.

  But the skuzzball might stick around, and she wouldn’t be around to protect her son.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll reconsider matters on New Year’s Eve. How’s that?”

  “I can do that. I like the idea of coming home here. Assuming I don’t have a big party in Charleston.”

  She gently poked him in the belly. “Good.”

  His slow nod seemed to tuck the date away. “On New Year’s we hold a family meeting. And no drinking for either of us. Deal?”

  Some of her smile faded. “Deal.” She got the message.

  The shiny new keys went in his pocket. “Would it bother you too much if I ate dinner with friends tonight?”

  “No, not at all.” She raised a brow. “Friends?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his bare feet smacking the floor on his way back to his room. “Zeus, Sprite, and some friend of hers. Zeus is paying for me since I helped him so much with his fishing business the last two days.”

  He was growing up and drifting away so fast.

  After he left, she went to the kitchen to check the clock, her thoughts mixed about her son on his own and hanging around Sprite with her effect on males. Almost three p.m. Cops and robbers had eaten up the best part of her day.

  She filled a glass with ice and poured a tonic with a twist of lime. A crisp summer cooler, she told herself. After a sip, it fell far short of a splash of gin. She even reached for the freezer door to locate the nonexistent bottle.

  Deal with it, Callie.

  When they’d first relocated to Middleton, her runs took an abrupt shift from fanatical to sporadic when Beverly’s afternoon teas became her replacement habit. When her mother imbibed, Callie followed suit. Two with her mother and two more in her room once her parents retired around nine. The only way she could sleep, Callie had told herself. The only way to cope with the mother daughter quarrels, widowhood, and concerns about the future.

  But she wasn’t in Middleton now.

  She walked toward the bar glasses behind which Lawton kept his favorite single barrel. Nobody else drank it. It wasn’t hers to take, but then her father might appreciate a fresher bottle. He’d never know the difference anyway.

  Seabrook said call him before she poured a drink. He’d be dead asleep after last night’s vigil, though, so she went to the next best distraction she knew. But her phone rang first, the number vaguely familiar. “Hello?”

  “I thought I asked you to watch my house.”

  “Pauley? What’s wrong?”

  “The police department called me. Said there was another break-in. You’re a cop. Why aren’t you guarding my place?”

  Whoa, time to set this man straight. “First, I’m not a cop. Second, I’m not in your employ. If you want a guard, hire someone, but don’t order me to serve your needs. You don’t order me, period.”

  He ignored her retort. “You went in?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Did the cops take anything? Did they toss the closets? I don’t want them thinking they have a free rein to pocket stuff. Those coins they’re finding are mine, you know.”
r />   Callie’s radar got warm. “Where are you, Pauley?”

  “Home. I’d be there, but I’m trying to put together the money to make the trip.”

  The man was so broke he couldn’t afford to put gas in the car and pack up some sandwiches? How far was Kissimmee? Four hundred miles?

  “Dad’s being cremated tomorrow. I’ll pick him up whenever I get there.”

  Huh? “What about a service?”

  “I don’t want to bother.”

  Her heart lurched. “I’ll organize it. Who do I contact?”

  “It’ll cost money, Callie. No can do.”

  What kind of stone-cold crackhead was this guy? “Please, let me do something for him.”

  “Up to you, but Dad won’t be there. Me either. I consider that sort of ceremonial mumbo-jumbo rather stupid, myself, but if you get off on it, knock yourself out.”

  She dropped her forehead, resting it on a cabinet. Papa deserved a service. He deserved a celebration of his life. Old pictures snapped through her mind like a slide show: Papa on a vintage ship, in New York on Broadway with his wife, holding up a giant redfish with the help of a friend, boating with his son, a lunatic oblivious to the need for closure.

  “Well, I’m not keeping surveillance on the place,” she said, though she incessantly peered out her kitchen window for movement in the old place.

  “Listen here,” he said, his order neutered by the nasal in his voice. “I’m holding you responsible.”

  “I’m not your rent-a-cop. Quit calling me.”

  Silence hung on the other end. “Then I’ll accuse you of breaking in if stuff goes missing. You had a key. You’re a single parent now. You probably need the money.”

  What a freak. “Don’t call me again, and don’t you dare come to my house.”

  She hung up and rang Stan. “What have you found out on Pauley Beechum?” she asked, without the normal jokes between them.

  “Love you, too, Chicklet. Why, yes, I’m just fine. Nice of you to ask,” he said in a buoyant delivery that served to slow her down.

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s better. Now,” he said. “I take it something happened.”

  She relayed the light next door, the coin at Sophie’s, the Hanson break-in, and then the incredulous conversation with Pauley. Her eagerness to go after someone escalated as she explained each event.

  “I see. Well, I did manage to check your Pauley out. Assault about twenty years ago, but nothing along those lines since. However, he’s added insurance fraud to his resume twice. Actually did a little time and paid restitution for it. Something about tornados and false claims.”

  “He does live in Florida. That it?”

  “What else you want?”

  “He’s demanding, tried to be threatening,” she said with a grumble. “I want him arrested for something.”

  “For a change, I’m glad you’re not ranting over a Russian.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she wished she could stare the big man down. “Are you not taking me seriously?”

  “I am, Morgan. It’s just refreshing to see you fired up on the offensive. Long overdue, I say. Long overdue.”

  And with that she smiled, some tension draining out of her at his backhanded compliment. She let the conversation shift to chatter about the staff in Boston and hung up a half hour later.

  With the silence, however, came the memories. She ached at what would become of Papa’s accumulated life collected in that house. What a selfish, hedonistic son. No closure, no way for her and others to say goodbye.

  Even at eighty, Papa had left too soon. She’d have been tickled to share a cup of cocoa with him right now, in spite of the summer heat. Cocoa had been Papa’s way of saying everything would be all right. But now the cocoa reminded her of the two cups a murderer had set up to harass her.

  On the offensive, she reminded herself. She liked that. Stan’s observations had always been pure gold. She dialed her neighbor as planned before Pauley’s interruption. “Hey, Sophie. Got a minute?”

  “Why?” Sophie whispered. “What’s wrong? Every time I see you there’s a crime.”

  “Thanks a lot. I wanted to ask you some questions and not do it under your roof,” Callie said, drawing upon her coaxing skills. “Thought we could meet over tea. A ladylike thing, you know.”

  Sophie’s guffaw echoed over the phone. “A ladylike thing? Just call it what it is. A drink. I’ll be right there.”

  The knock sounded minutes later, no doubt curiosity driving the prompt arrival. Callie had two iced teas poured, and she set them at the bar before answering. Sophie came inside, glanced uncertainly at the glasses, and perched on her barstool.

  “This is tea,” she said after sampling to be sure.

  “Yes,” Callie said. “I’m off alcohol. Dieting.”

  Sophie studied her then caught herself. “Okay, I can go with that. So, what are your questions?”

  “What was stolen from your house when that guy left you the coin?”

  “No—thing,” she sang back. “Just like I told Mike. And you’re going to mess up your house talking about this.”

  Callie settled on the next stool and ignored the sage referral. “Something has to be missing. It’s the way this guy operates. If he left a coin, he took something. Like the tooth fairy.”

  “Not in my house,” she said.

  “I think you’re being naive.”

  Sophie’s earrings jingled at the back-and-forth of her head. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Callie stood. “Come on. We’re going back to your place to search it.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Sophie jumped. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

  “Well, it’s not a burglar,” Callie said, moving toward the entryway. As she rounded the corner, Mason Howard waved through the window. Well, this was just great. If this man thought he could now gravitate from the occasional run on the beach to regular visits to her home, he had best think twice.

  Today she’d become Ground Zero for the daffy, the disturbed, and the philandering.

  “Not sure I recognize you without running shorts,” Callie said, inviting the man in.

  She wanted to dig more out of Sophie about what had happened at her place, then what she knew about the Rosewoods, Mrs. Hanson, maybe Pauley. Some of that might not be appropriate in front of Mason. But then maybe her two guests could feed off each other.

  Mason followed her to the kitchen.

  “Care for a glass of tea?” Callie asked, keeping the refreshments virgin.

  “No booze,” Sophie said, holding up her glass. “Somebody’s on a diet.”

  Mason snickered. “Tea’s fine. How are you, Sophie?”

  “Wonderful, Mason. Ready for Friday night?”

  Ample charm shined in that smile. “It’s just another gathering.”

  Sophie leaned in Callie’s direction, as if sharing a secret. “A gathering, he says. It’s quite the event. I’ve been three times and wouldn’t miss it now. Shrimp, fish, all sorts of appetizers. And anything you’d like to drink, handled by real bartenders. One time he flew in fresh halibut, for Pete’s sake.”

  Callie poured his drink and placed it on a cardboard coaster from the stack on the bar. “Maybe Seabrook wasn’t so far off base when he called you playboy, Mr. Howard.”

  “She won’t call him Mike,” Sophie cooed. “I think she’s afraid to.”

  Letting loose a sigh of disgust, Callie stared at her neighbor for the remark.

  “Mike’s all right, I guess,” Mason said, hiding behind his glass as he drank.

  “Hmm,” Sophie said. “Mike will be single the rest of his days. Wouldn’t you say so, Mason?”

  “I’ve only heard rumor, my dear.” He set down his g
lass. “Keep in mind, I’m a mere tenant. I get all my gossip at the party, but that seems to be the consensus.”

  Callie scoffed. “So one goes to this party to either hear gossip or avoid being gossiped about. That the way it works?” Then maybe she should go, to study all the players and glean for suspects. Discover the secret feuds that always existed in a small community. Endless possibilities.

  Sophie reached her arms out wide. “Everybody’s gossip around here, honey. It’s part of the culture.”

  “Then what do they say about Seabrook . . . um, Mike?” The question just spilled out.

  A wicked grin of recognition crept into Sophie’s expression, and she jumped on the opportunity. “He can’t date anyone more than three times.”

  “Twice,” Mason said. “And he avoids anyone involved with medicine.”

  Sophie wrapped an arm around Mason’s shoulder and lowered her voice as she peered at Callie. “They say he killed his wife when he was a doctor.”

  Callie’s brow wrinkled. “Wasn’t that a movie titled The Fugitive? Your gossip isn’t even original.”

  “That’s the real word,” Mason said.

  “He’s not kidding,” Sophie added.

  Surely not. Callie got up to rinse her glass in the sink, watching the water circle the drain. The depth of Seabrook’s sincerity last night held new meaning for her if any of this was true. He’d walked in her shoes losing his spouse. She shut off the water. “How would you two like being talked about?”

  “Hey, I’m the playboy,” Mason said.

  “I’m the Gypsy,” Sophie echoed. “Or the hippie, but I don’t find that as exciting.” She faced Mason. “Don’t you like Gypsy better?”

  He nodded innocently. “Bohemian.”

  Callie turned toward them. “So, what am I called?”

  The two guests studied each other, no doubt wondering who could come up with a suitable tag. Sophie shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything, really.”