Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (23 page)

Callie noted the toddler toys, a blanket on the sofa, a sippy cup in the sink. Nothing seemed disturbed. She moved back to the porch, Seabrook behind her. The EMTs escorted Maxwell down the steps, Mrs. Maxwell now shadowing them, the child in her arms. An Edisto unit parked behind the ambulance, the uniform from the hardware store standing nearby as if awaiting instructions, gesturing gawkers to keep driving past.

Seabrook and Callie scanned the activity below, neighbors hovering on the fringes one and two doors down. “You’ll have to ask the Maxwells later about what’s missing,” she said.

Sophie and Peters waited at her place, shielding sun from their eyes, Mason next to them holding Sophie’s arm, most likely to hold her back from interfering.

Seabrook noticed the oglers. “You can go back, if you like.”

Callie followed his gaze. “I’d rather help than stand around. Makes me feel safer. But that’s no reflection on you and your guys. It’s just—”

“Proactivity beats waiting. I get that.”

She tilted her head toward the uniform guiding traffic. “I’d keep your officer camped out here until the Maxwells return. Put some crime scene tape up.”

“I get that too, Ms. Morgan.”

She drew back. “What happened to Callie?”

“Just keeping it professional,” he said.

It didn’t sound that way to her. “You’re in jeans, and you show up on foot. Do you live that close, or are you up to something?”

“Just freelancing,” he said.

“So I heard. A
special
of some kind?”

“Something like that.”

She moved directly into his line of vision to capture his whole attention. “What’s sticking in your craw?”

“Craw. We’re falling back on our southern roots, are we?”

She followed his gaze, which had settled on the trio across the street. “You know I ate at Whaley’s with Mason Howard.”

His jaw tightened.

Hers tightened more. “Seriously?”

“Something about that guy makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck,” he said. “Told you that before. You need to be careful.”

She wasn’t believing this conversation. “It was dinner. Very innocent and very none of your business.”

His facial muscles moved under the skin.

“I told him like I told you,” she said. “I’m not interested.” She started down the stairs, then in a second’s decision, turned to make an even clearer point. “Get your priorities straight, Officer Seabrook. While you’re worried about whom I date, I’m losing sleep over who’s skulking around this street, and yes, it’s just this street, picking on the residents and shooting your police department the bird as he evades your remarkable prowess.”

He dropped his stare to her. “What does that mean?”

She narrowed her eyes. “It means I watch my back and trust damn few people. I’m retreating into my place and barring the doors until you and your force catch this guy. It’s obvious my assistance isn’t needed, though pray tell show me any progress. And maybe it’s time you held a town meeting and let everyone know what’s happened . . . and what you intend to do about it.”

“We voice mailed and emailed everyone on the beach.”

“I didn’t get the message,” she said.

“Then I suggest you give your email and phone number to the police.”

“Makes you wonder who else didn’t get it.” Her eyes narrowed. “Anyway, check the nanny cam.”

His face changed, interested. “What?”

“The Maxwells have a small child. They probably go out and leave him with a sitter. See if there’s a cam or two and what rooms they cover. If they can afford this beach house, they can afford cams.” She strutted back across the road. At least Mason didn’t care if Seabrook showed an interest in her; the playboy considered her a challenge.

Sophie met her first, venturing into the road and walking her back to the group. “What happened?”

“Another break-in,” Callie said with clipped words.

“Anyone hurt?” Mason asked.

“Don’t think so,” she replied. “But it seems our burglar panicked, knocking the homeowner over the head.”

Peters stared at the house. “Wait, I thought this guy was just stealing little stuff and having a drink. Just being nosy.”

Raysor’s words echoed in her head about the contractor being the prime suspect, but Peters appeared genuinely concerned about the injury. “He’s getting bolder,” she said, then faced Sophie. “Please lock your doors.”

Sophie took her arm. “What else happened?”

“You’re making me want to say
move along, people
,” Callie replied, not keen on sharing. “Seabrook will take it from here.”

“Humph.” Sophie’s nose lifted in a pout.

“I got work to do anyway,” Peters said, stopping at the broken tape on Callie’s steps to retie it.

“Don’t trust that guy,” Mason murmured as Peters left.

“You said that already. Why are you even here? You left to go home,” Callie said.

“As a chuckle, I wanted to remind you about the party again, though my event pales in light of all this thievery and violence. However, the invitation still stands, even with you grumpy.” He grinned. “I’d be happy to escort you there and back. Hate the idea of you being alone.”

Sophie winked and turned away, overplaying the drama of acting invisible.

“Sophie, too,” he said. “So nobody can call it a date.”

The yoga maven spun around. “Oh, please come, Callie. Please?”

“What is with you two?” Callie exclaimed. “The neighborhood is going to pot, and the party is still on? No, sorry. I’m not in a partying mood.”

Mason donned a sad-cow-eyed look. “Hiding at home and shutting down our lives won’t cure anything.”

Callie maintained her disgust, but Mason’s comment resurfaced a thought. The party could host a slew of suspects. It could also occupy people, giving the burglar easy pickings.

He gave her a short nod. “Well, let me be on my way then. I have a ball to prepare for,” he said as he slightly stooped at the waist.

Sophie giggled like someone a third her age. “Me, too. You’ll still come retrieve me, Mason? I won’t rebuff your intentions.”

Callie walked away, their dramatics irritating. The crime pattern was becoming blatantly apparent. Full-time residents of the beach. She should lay this out on paper, study the crimes, analyze the similarities and the differences. She was missing a serious connection, but wasn’t sure she knew enough about the players to be able to tell. Seabrook would know, and together they might uncover some clue from the facts, but he seemed rather juvenile at the moment.

“Callie,” Mason called and fast-walked back to her, Sophie having returned home.

Not again.

“Had a comment I didn’t want Sophie to hear,” he said. “Peters either.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, expecting more plastic endearments.

“Where did Seabrook come from? No car, no uniform.”

She found it uncomfortable discussing Seabrook with Mason.

“You noticed, too,” he said. “I could tell. He lives across the street from me on Palmetto Boulevard in Seaswept. And he wasn’t attired for jogging, so what was he up to?”

“I know what you’re doing, and thanks for the warning.”

“Trust me. I see things.”

“Later, Mason.”

She went inside. Leaning against the kitchen counter drinking her watered-down tea, Callie decided she’d been premature making friends on this island. These people were too intertwined with each other, making them blind to who might be running this crime spree. And if she got overly involved with them, she’d be just as blind.

No longer would she take hospitality and neighborly attention at face value. The deeper she let anyone into her life, the more she risked. A murderer, a robber, whatever he or they were, she’d let the police catch him before she opened up to beach society.

Everyone at arm’s length now.

She called Jeb, identifying his location and estimated arrival. When he came home, they’d have a chat again about whether Edisto’s ambience was worth weathering such rampant crime. Boston had had its share of violence. She got that. But she’d run from Russians for too long not to ignore the fact that five houses within sight of her front porch had been violated. She’d be a fool not to think she was somewhere next on the list.

Chapter 18

THE CHAT WITH Jeb did not go well. He blew up when she tightened his leash, requiring a check-in call every hour. But when she’d hinted about Edisto maybe not suiting their short-term needs, he tried to walk away, a reaction fast becoming habit.

“Don’t you leave this room until we’re done,” Callie scolded.

He spun around. “It hasn’t been a week, Mom. A damn week, and you’re wanting to run away. Thought we had a New Year’s agreement.”

Her fist had been on her hip so long her hand had fallen asleep. “Murder. Grand theft. Burglary. Aggravated assault in the commission of a felony. Those sound reasonable enough for concern?”

His young biceps bulged as he crossed his arms. “You sound like a cop again.”

“What do you expect?”

“And what town
is
completely safe?” he asked. “Recognize this for what it is, Mom. You’re running. Running away from”—he waved around his face—“. . . from whatever forces keep messing with your head.”

She flicked her hand out toward his face, then placed it back on her hip. “I quit the profession for the both of us. But if I can’t help solve the crime, I need to avoid it. That’s what the smart civilian does. I don’t fully trust the local police to solve this. In the meantime, you follow my rules until the final decision is made. And I’ll do research on a new security system.”

He struck the wall with his palm.

“That’s enough,” she said.

“My first home since . . . the fire, and you want to take that away.”

“You’re going to college in two months.”

“What, I’m not supposed to have a home to come back to?”

“Of course you are,” she said. “You sure this isn’t about Sprite?”

“What if it is?”

They faced each other, one breathing hard, the other afraid to.

“I’m a parent, trying to protect her family,” she said. “As a civilian, my options are limited.”

“Lucky us. The last time you were a cop our lives went to hell,” he said deep in a voice she’d never heard.

“How dare you.” Her temper flared, but she fought to turn down the heat. He was young, not appreciating the danger. In love? “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Mom, face it. You can barely keep your head on straight.”

The remark smacked her, and she stepped back as if it had left a mark on her cheek. “Jeb.”

His expression flashed a mixture of embarrassment, frustration, and anger before he pivoted to his room, slamming his bedroom door like a thirteen-year-old adolescent. She was tiring of that behavior. He’d been sweeter in Middleton.

She retreated to the kitchen and poured a lowball glass of her father’s bourbon, pushing fast to outrun any hesitation. The amber liquid slid down in one gulp. She poured another, feeling justified now, the ice broken. Then she exited to the side porch once she set up three albums on the turntable. Outside she listened to Neil Diamond turned down low so Jeb wouldn’t come out and smell what was in her glass.

Three tunes in, the songs weren’t doing their job. That’s when she poured a refill.

She felt damned no matter what she did, what direction she took, what decision she made. Two more songs, and she started to rise for another refill, then wondered if her father would notice the missing liquor when he arrived to take Jeb to dinner.

She’d just have a new bottle of Maker’s Mark waiting when he showed up at five tomorrow. A thank-you for mentoring her son.

“I could kill you again for leaving me, John,” she mumbled, then polished off the last two fingers’ worth of bourbon.

THREE HANGOVERS in a week meant four days sober. Or that’s what Callie tried to rationalize as she fought the cotton in her head the next morning. Ten a.m. per her alarm clock, which, thank goodness, she hadn’t set.

Throwing an arm over her face, she chastised herself. She shouldn’t have opened the bottle.

She dragged herself to the shower and turned it on, then dropped and sat on the tiled bottom, half dozing, half straining to clear her head, something Jeb said she hadn’t the ability to do. Next thing she knew, the water ran cold, and she hadn’t washed her hair. By the time she rinsed out the strawberry-scented suds, her wits were sharper and her lips blue.

She had three text messages from Jeb on her phone. One when he left at dawn to work with Zeus and twice again when he checked in. Voice mail had been her intention, but as mad as he was, she’d settle for this, for now.

In the kitchen, he’d left dishes on the counter. She’d find clothes on the floor in his room, too, in a retaliatory gesture—clothes she’d make him pick up later. John wouldn’t have tolerated the pout, but then Jeb might not be such a butt if John were here. Or he’d be a different form of butt. Eighteen was not an easy age for an almost-adult about to leave home. She remembered those years under Beverly’s roof, then wondered if Jeb felt the same.

Sipping her coffee, she canvassed the windows, studying the steady whiz of cars driving too fast on her street, most with out-of-state tags. Few clouds dotted the intensely blue sky. A real estate agent put a sign in Papa Beach’s yard.

What?

For reasons she didn’t immediately comprehend, she put on sneakers, locked up, and rushed outside. This was much too soon to sell Papa’s house. Wasn’t it?

“Hey,” Callie called as the agent placed an inch-thick stack of flyers in a plastic box affixed to the sign’s edge. Crime scene tape no longer dangled in the breeze. “Isn’t this rather fast to list a house in an estate?” She held out her hand. “I’m Callie, by the way, and . . . hey, don’t I know you?”

The agent had a smoky chuckle, Callie suspecting a routine of cigarettes and booze. “I have a few years on you, hon, but I handled renters for your dad. Fine man that Lawton Cantrell. Handsome in a Paul Newman way.”

Beverly would wring this woman’s neck. And Daddy doesn’t look anything like Paul Newman.

The tanned bleached blonde wore jewel-toned sandals and a yellow sundress a size too small for a midriff too accustomed to evening cocktails. “I’m Rhonda Benson. And you’re Lawton’s daughter. I’ve been to a few of your mother’s soirees. Honey, I’ve known you since you were skateboard age.”

Callie recalled the cackling laugh. “Nice to see you again. About the house?”

“Oh, Henry had a life estate, having deeded his home to his son five years ago. You know, to avoid probate and taxes. The son listed it just this morning.”