Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (14 page)

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 creases 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?”

He took a back step, his expression feigning shock. “No malicious intention, Callie. When I saw it was yours, I chose to leave so you wouldn’t think I was stalking you.”

She laid fists on her hips. “Why the hell would you search the inside of a parked car? Just what are the limits to your nosiness?”

“Wow,” he said. “You even sound like a detective.”

“Answer the question,” she said.

“Which one?”

“Let’s start with why
you
were there?”

“I was asking about the procedures for owning a handgun,” he said. “Don’t spread that around, please.”

Almost laughable. “I’m not the one who’s the walking tabloid. Besides, you’re Canadian. Thought they didn’t do guns.”

He let out a
harrumph
. “Some of us aren’t as milquetoast as you Americans think.”

She stared down
her
nose this time. Massachusetts wasn’t keen on gun-toters, so she’d grown accustomed to the police being hands-on in that regard. But in South Carolina, carry permits were as common as camo ball caps. The tourists had freaked about her Glock the other day because they were predominantly visitors, not residents. But Canadians? Even US law enforcement didn’t carry weapons across that border.

He continued jogging in place. “I own my grandfather’s .45 Webley revolver. He served with the British Commandos during World War II. It’s in the house. I don’t want that thief grabbing it, and then I get in trouble for possession.”

“This state isn’t that way.” She stretched her hamstring as doubt about his story nudged her. “But I’m impressed you’d check. Good job. Cool weapon. Get yourself a lock box and bolt it onto a shelf in a closet.”

She jogged off. He caught up.

“Quit the chatter,” Callie said. “I need to do another two miles, and I was in my zone before you interrupted.”

“Yes, madam detective,” he said. “Oh, about that party Friday. You’re still more than welcome.”

“Yeah,” she said, fighting for rhythm. “I heard about your parties, playboy.”

His hand went to his chest. “Was that cynicism? I’m so hurt!”

“Sure you are,” she replied. “But you have a good time.”

Digging in, she returned to a respectable stride, giving Mason her back.

The man was likeable enough, with his sophisticated, worldly attractiveness, but damn, he was awful sure of himself. His first aid to her hangover yesterday had been touching, but something about Seabrook’s description of Water Spout’s
wealthy tenant told her that a safe arm’s length approach made a lot more sense.

HALF AN HOUR later, Callie walked up Jungle Road to a repeat image of a county and two local cruisers parked at Papa Beach’s residence. She was hoping they’d be gone by now, but then, this was an extension of the murder investigation. They’d take all the time they needed. Edisto-time ran on its own clock, and fast wasn’t part of the mechanism.

She reached the bottom of Papa B’s stairs, started to call for Seabrook, and then changed her mind.

Raysor opened the screen door, barking at someone inside. When he spotted her, he stared a second, as if sizing her up for the deed.