“Screwdriver, but he didn’t know that, because he didn’t wash the glass. I did.”
“Sophie! Did Zeus tell you he found a coin next to the drink?”
“Yes. That’s what he said, and my boy never lies.”
“And what was the date on that coin?”
“1921, though I didn’t see it until those Boy Scouts fished it out of the marsh.”
No problem. Callie had seen and held it before Sophie pitched the silver dollar to the fishes.
The interview took two hours. Could have taken one, but Sophie had her tangents.
In the end, Callie learned that Sophie knew Papa Beach. He had been her go-to person on things that went wrong with her house, just like the Cantrells had used him. She didn’t socialize with the other victims but had seen the Rosewoods at a few events like the Arts and Crafts Market and last year’s Governor’s Cup, now just a few weeks away. She’d been broken into early in the morning, when everyone knew she would be at yoga.
Callie quickly gathered her papers and recorder. “It’s ten till noon. I’ve got to go.”
“How did I do?” Sophie asked.
Callie squeezed her fingers. “Brilliantly. Didn’t hurt a bit, did it? Sorry, but I have another appointment.”
“With who?” Sophie asked as Callie sprinted toward the door.
“Thanks,” Callie said, evasive. “I appreciate it.” Sophie might tell the whole street what she was doing. Callie was tired of scooping up clues in this guy’s wake. It was time to maneuver in front of him.
She rushed next door, bolstered by the first interview. Ben Rosewood escorted her in. A middle-aged man in beige slacks, and in spite of a casual, loosely hung shirt, he seemed stiff. No Bianchi energy here. “What is this about again?” he asked, skepticism in his eyes.
“I’m helping the police department with interviews about the burglaries.” She prayed the couple didn’t stir up a fuss. Callie had scheduled these visits back to back. Mrs. Hanson expected her at three. The Maxwells at five thirty.
Sarah Rosewood waited at a beautiful burled maple kitchen table, coffee cup on a woven gold placemat. The whole house gleamed in an aura of tasteful decoration.
“Mike’s already been here. You aren’t even a cop,” Ben said, irritated.
Callie bit back an order for him to take his seat.
“Wait,” Sarah inserted with a soft touch. “We’d like to say how truly sorry we are about your father, Callie. We knew him.”
The woman had visited the funeral home but said her husband had obligations elsewhere. Callie felt awkward with this overlap of her personal and investigator life.
Ben didn’t appear to hold much sympathy, and instead, picked up the phone. “I’m calling Mike. This doesn’t feel right.”
Callie’s pulse quickened. She nodded, as if he had the perfect right to call, while her heart pounded like timpani drums.
Sarah blushed, briefly shutting her eyes at her husband’s behavior.
Callie prayed that Seabrook covered her butt. Prior to their weird, unspoken falling out, he had asked for her help. Hopefully he remembered.
Ben held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
She placed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“What the heck are you doing?”
She created a bright-eyed look for the Rosewoods’ sake. “That’s right. I finally got around to that assistance you asked for. Daddy’s funeral set me behind.”
“I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” he replied, but Callie heard enough in his tone to sense flexibility. “You’ve had too much personal involvement to be objective,” he added.
“That’s right, Mike. Years of training. I don’t mind at all.”
The silence gave her pause.
“Get those interviews to me ASAP,” he said, resigned. “Tomorrow at the latest. Understood?”
She forced the laugh, hiding the relief. “Sure thing. Appreciate that, Mike. You’re sweet.”
She delivered the phone back to Ben, and soon he sat stoic across from her at the table, next to his wife, explaining all he knew about the first break-in after Papa Beach’s murder. They acted like being burglarized was beneath them. Callie couldn’t explain Sarah’s odd case of nerves, a subservient manner, as if she’d been warned how to act. But Callie got her answers.
An hour later, Callie left with tight, simple responses to her questions. The burglar had poured himself a lowball glass of bourbon and Coke. He stole sixty dollars from the bedroom. The coin had been a silver dollar dated 1903. They’d met Sophie, knew Papa from a small job he’d done for them when Peters wasn’t available, and were familiar with Mrs. Hanson and the Maxwells only via waves across the street. They frequented the golf course at the private club.
So why take a small amount of cash when the home flaunted wealth?
Mrs. Hanson, bless her heart, waited for Callie with the door open, chocolate chip cookies at the ready, the chips still gooey. Callie took one as soon as she set foot inside and moaned at the pleasure. Lunch had come and gone unnoticed, her stomach making itself loudly known.
Mrs. Hanson was a retired teacher, and Mr. Hanson traveled on the road five days a week. Her phone calls to a sister occupied much of her time, a routine any break-in artist would relish. Mrs. Hanson knew Papa Beach well. Though Papa had ten years on the lady, Callie would almost swear there might’ve been a more social connection than chocolate chip cookies from the melancholy manner in which Mrs. Hanson spoke of her old friend Henry. She even dabbed an eye.
The perp’s drink of choice, wine. Mrs. Hanson said the alcohol belonged to her husband, and she never imbibed. Callie hid a smile at the tiny lie. The coin, a 1928 silver dollar. A sterling silver necklace stolen.
Kind older lady. Easy target. Easy enough for a repeat performance.
“I want you to change your routine,” Callie told Mrs. Hanson as she packed up. “Lock up more often, and don’t tell people I came by.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“The bad guy might not like us trying to catch him,” Callie whispered back.
With leftover cookies in a plastic bag, Callie backed out with innumerable thank-yous, goodbyes, and promises to be safe before she could escape the poor lady, who without a doubt was lonely with both husband and Papa Beach not around for company. Callie scurried two doors up to the Maxwells with five minutes to spare, scouring the street for eyes.
She waited behind a Hawthorn bush at the bottom of the steps, now concerned she would bring more flack on these people’s lives. She flipped through her notes and compartmentalized her ideas. This interview would be different: The robber had harmed his victim. Why the escalation, and what was unique?
Callie pulled out the map from Rhonda Benson, and the breeze caught the corners, fighting her effort. Black marker Xs identified each burgled resident’s lot.
The day was postcard clear and bright. Motivated and feeling rogue, Callie took a second to enjoy the ever-loving-hell out of her mission. Dickens drove by in a patrol car. She waved. He waved back, probably told by Seabrook to watch the street, maybe even scout for her. No problem. They could watch all they liked. They weren’t in her head. She was getting in theirs.
Later, she’d discretely interview Seabrook, too.
One detail remained consistent amongst the violated residents. None of them had seen Pauley for months, which lessened the suspicion she had about him, especially for the break-ins prior to his supposed arrival. Mrs. Hanson and Sophie knew of him. The Rosewoods didn’t.
But she still didn’t fathom why this criminal, whoever he was, would give away coins. Why not steal them from Papa Beach and keep them? And why use the oldest, most valuable coins as calling cards? Apparently money was not a motive. But what was?
“That you, Ms. Morg
an?”
Callie glanced up. Steve Maxwell peered down. People could spot like eagles from their upstairs porches. “Yes, it’s me. You ready?”
“Sure, come on up.”
She climbed the stairs and followed Mr. Maxwell inside. His three-year-old ran room to room, toy to toy, with the energy of ten adults. Alyce Maxwell stood guard, an eye on the child and an ear on Callie and her husband at the kitchen table, multi-tasking as young moms did. The woman was lovely with long blond hair tied up on her head, accenting her cheekbones and jawline.
The trespasser’s drink had been a mimosa. Coin was a 1972 Eisenhower. The Maxwells didn’t socialize with any of the locals, and their closest friends were ten miles inland. They had met Papa, though. He’d built their mailbox. Callie smiled. Mailboxes had been his specialty.
“So what was stolen, Steve?” she asked. The man had been too injured to answer before.
“A sterling silver mirror from my wife’s dresser. The set was a gift from her aunt at a bridal shower.”
The little boy darted past them, running his hands along the table, then vanished into a bedroom.
Callie’s gaze followed the streak, then she turned to Steve. “Any chance your Flash Gordon loved the pretty mirror and hid it under a bed somewhere?”
“We scoured the house,” Alyce said, then disappeared after the child.
Callie jotted a few notes. “Bet she keeps busy.”
“You have no idea,” Steve said. “She’s endless energy. Wears me out watching them both.”
Says the twenty-nine-year-old, she thought. The child zipped past again, the mother after him, and Callie’s conversation with Seabrook the day of the break-in came back to mind. “Steve, do you have a nanny cam?”
“Um, no. We don’t go out much.”
Callie’s internal lie detector flashed red at the dart of his eyes. She’d just confirmed how inexpensive nanny cams were, how easy to install . . . and hide.
She pushed back her chair and wandered into the family room. “My son’s headed to college,” she said. “Wish I’d had the conveniences that parents have now. A nanny cam, for instance. Don’t even have to wire them; some store internally on their own memory.” She walked past the entertainment center, with glances back at Steve. “If I were you, I’d install one somewhere around . . .”
Steve’s eyes squinted.
“Here,” Callie said, finding a cam peeking over a bookend.
“Good Lord,” Alyce said, covering her face. Steve broke eye contact.
Callie appraised them both. “What’s the problem? And before you try to create another story, I want you to know that whatever it is, I’ve seen and heard worse. The point is to catch who injured you, before he does worse to someone else.”
They held humiliated poses, throwing glances at each other.
Shaking her head, Callie returned to the table and sat. “Sex tape would be my guess.”
Alyce cringed. Steve’s gaze fell away. Bingo.
Callie’s heartbeat raced at an opportunity for bona fide proof of the burglar, but she maintained her calm. “Listen, nobody cares. We want the burglar, your attacker. Let’s try to ID somebody on the tape. Is it on a motion sensor?”
Surprisingly, Alyce spoke up first. “Okay, we accidentally recorded me dancing nude for Steve. We forgot it was motion activated and didn’t think to turn it off when we came in.”
Her husband’s head jerked up. “Geez, honey!”
Alyce pointed to Callie. “I don’t mind showing it to her. I just didn’t want that bunch of guys at the police station drooling over it, you know?” She walked over to the table and glanced back quickly at the toddler finally playing on the floor. “Is there some way to cut out just the pertinent part? I almost deleted the whole thing, but couldn’t do it. There is a guy on there.”
Fantastic. This was the first damn piece of concrete evidence that could break this case open. “Can you make me a copy?”
“All of it?” Steve asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
He walked to his computer housed in a small cabinet in the den’s corner and retrieved a flash drive. “We weren’t sure how to cut off parts. I worried it would destroy its ability to stand up in court in case somebody, like you, needed it.”
She changed her mind about them, impressed at the forethought. She was so excited at evidence that her facial muscles twitched.
She waited for him to pass it to her instead of acting like it was hers to take. This evidence might mean everything. While she, or Seabrook, could get a subpoena, the Maxwells volunteering the evidence would clinch a more cooperative spirit, for now and later, if it indeed went to court.
Steve gave it to her. “Don’t let those regular Edisto cops see any of it, you hear? You don’t know how this island can be.”
Callie gingerly accepted the drive. “I’ll do my best. I know exactly how the gossip works around here. You have the original in a safe place?”
“Oh, yes,” Alyce said, the sterner of the two. “And the minute you no longer need it, it’s going in my fire pit out back.”
Fingering the drive, Callie stared at one, then the other. “Before I study it, tell me if you recognized him.”
“It’s not so obvious. It was a man, though,” Alyce said.
Steve just nodded as a ditto to his wife’s comments.
Callie asked a couple more questions, more to settle them down and maintain their confidence in her than gather facts. She was still in their house, and they could change their minds. But her guts churned with anticipation.
Fifteen minutes later, she hugged Alyce with reassurance they’d done the right thing. Steve walked her to the porch. “Please don’t let me find any of that on YouTube.”
Once he went inside, Callie jogged across the street to Chelsea Morning.
Her laptop wouldn’t come on. She ran for the adaptor and plugged it in, booting up the machine. She poured a tea, kicked off her shoes, and returned with a notepad. She caught herself rocking in her seat. This was too good, too damn good to be true.
She itched to see who would appear in the video. The Maxwells naturally would have told Seabrook there was no nanny cam if he or Raysor were on the recording. Her thoughts zigzagged. Hurry up, machine.
Finally, she plugged in the flash drive and located the file.
Scenes started and stopped, triggered by the sensor. Mrs. Maxwell belly danced nude for an inebriated Mr. Maxwell backed up to the kitchen sink in his boxers. As comical as this would be any other time, Callie couldn’t care less now about their kinky home life. Nude, they finally moved off camera.
The picture changed abruptly, the sensor again triggered. A man kept his back and side to the camera, but summer light pouring in the kitchen allowed her to see his beige cargo pants, thick waist, and T-shirt. A ball cap hid his hair color, but the edges showed a man in need of a trim. His movements weren’t young, more middle-aged. No noticeable jewelry.
He rummaged items in the refrigerator, withdrew the champagne, seeming to take time to study the label. In no hurry, he popped the cork, poured some in a glass, then found orange juice to top it off. Not the standard mixology steps for a mimosa, but he got the ingredients right. After sipping, the concoction pleasant per the head nod, he set the glass down and left the camera’s range. He returned from off camera with something that might be the silver mirror.
Turn toward me.
There! A front-on face shot. Peters!
He dragged out a seat and sat, reached down with considerable effort, removed a shoe, and extracted something crammed all the way down to the toe. Callie felt eighty percent sure the man now held the coin. She became a hundred percent confident when he set it on the table and adjusted it to suit him.
Dang it. At Sophie’s, Callie had told Seabroo
k to make Peters empty his pockets. She had never considered having him take off his shoes.
An acute rush of relief fell over her, but then so did regret. She hated Peters screwing up this way. The man was not a nasty guy. Yet here he was, proof positive, in at least one case, that he was the silver dollar thief. He wore no mask and made no attempt at disguise. Damn it, Peters. He was either overly confident or plain stupid.
But she couldn’t envision him killing Papa Beach.
Peters exited. The picture went dark. Callie sat back and waited through the intermission. The picture popped back up as Mr. Maxwell triggered the cam when he entered the kitchen, pausing, puzzled by the champagne foil on the counter, and opened the refrigerator. A portion of a man entered stage left, a bigger man, in a polo shirt, again in a ball cap but a different shade, the face mostly hidden by the appliance door. After he grabbed the champagne bottle from Steve’s grasp, the intruder hit him in the head with it. Steve dropped to the floor. The intruder stooped over, even more hidden, then straightened, his back to the camera. Light briefly appeared at the top of the screen, flashing a sunburst at the camera as the attacker left the house, his victim motionless on the linoleum.
Callie replayed the recording a dozen times, each time seeking a new fact, noting the time stamps. Clothing, body language. She wrote notes, each replay focused on another aspect of the scene. Damn it all to hell! No definitive image whatsoever on the second guy, but she at least noted a ring on hands that weren’t as big as the first invader.
Two different people.
Replay. Again, again. She worked on her interview statements, prepping them for Seabrook, then went back and replayed the scenes, hoping the break had heightened her observation abilities.
Her phone rang, the caller ID indicating Seabrook. He could cool his heels. An hour wasn’t nearly enough time to dissect the recording and put her interviews in proper order. The call went to voice mail, but he immediately called again.
“Hello,” Callie answered, her gaze stuck on the screen, eyes unblinking, this time watching the floor for shoe recognition. The second intruder wore deck shoes versus Peters’ sneakers.
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 30
