Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (42 page)

Good God, this was agony!

Images of Jeb tried to block her ability to think clearly. She struggled past those visions, over the disabling fear that Jeb was already too gone to save.

Seabrook had never liked Mason. Mason’s direction for her to leave a message with Seabrook told her the cop wasn’t in on it. But she still couldn’t afford to call him for assistance. Until she figured out Jeb’s location, she would comply with her instructions. One slip, and Jeb would be gone. She was shrewd enough to know Mason planned to kill him anyway. Her, too. This was all about timing . . . and recognizing a split-second opportunity.

As a detective, she never related to those desperate people who took matters into their own hands, leaving cops out of the equation. Now she did. She needed complete control of the situation. The local PD had little experience with big crime, and the State Law Enforcement Division would take over the reins and cut her out. The more people involved, the more mistakes would be made. And they’d ban her from participation.

There was no stereotypical phone call or random note from a secluded kidnapper here. Mason would party out in the open at Water Spout with the beach crowd that loved his generous hospitality. And he had already delivered his ransom orally, in person. Mason could feign ignorance to everything.

Thinking of Pauley’s lifeless form, she swallowed hard. Rigor would set in soon and almost be complete by the time she went to the party. She had no proof Mason shot Pauley, especially using her gun. Everything she said against Mason could be easily explained away or covered up.

But none of that mattered if she lost Jeb.

Her stomach wrenched, and an imaginary fist squeezed her heart. If she couldn’t keep that thought suppressed, she’d never hold it together. She needed proof of life, which wouldn’t happen unless she went to that party and played this without the badges.

She slid from the bed, instinctively putting the coverlet and pillows neatly in place. One p.m. If she didn’t contact Sophie soon, she might come knocking in all her bangled glory, if for no other reason than to coax Callie again to go to this goddamn party.

As if preparing for company, Callie went to the linen closet and pulled out a quilt and a blanket, ever hunting for another cam. With a toss, she used the blanket to cover Pauley, the quilt to disguise the shape of the body, neither one tucked or smoothed. Just laundry piled on the floor.

Damn Mason for giving her so much time.

She should have listened to Seabrook from the start.

She’d go to Sophie’s and leave Chelsea Morning dark and unoccupied in keeping with her voice mail to Seabrook. Callie turned on the shower, her robe dropped to the floor, and as the water warmed, she wrote a note, carefully wording the day. A last declaration. Facts, no emotion. She signed it slowly, without flourish, an ominous veil of no return settling over her. Folding the paper, she laid it on her bed for Seabrook to find.

Then she stepped into the shower. As warm water flowed over her, she shifted positions and recalled with a wave of nausea that at one time she’d fondled erotic thoughts of Jeb’s kidnapper sharing her bath.

SHORTLY AFTER THREE, Callie paused on Sophie’s porch and adjusted her long earrings. With her hands stretched open then fisted, she inhaled for composure, pained that Mason’s instructions involved her carefree neighbor.

Sophie answered with a song on her lips that abruptly ceased. “Callie! I was getting ready to come over and—” She inhaled with drama. “Oh my, look at you. What’s up?”

Callie stared down at her cream-colored gauze dress, with gold and aqua embroidery crawling down the side and around the hem that brushed mid-calf. A belt cinched the dress taut to accent her figure, and the bodice dipped between her breasts with four gold chains drawing the eye to her cleavage. Beaded turquoise earrings hung low enough to tease her shoulders. A wide, wrapping multi-colored scarf traveled around her back and draped over each arm, her attempt to cover the burn scar.

“Is it too much?” she asked. “You are going to Mason’s event, aren’t you? Sorry I didn’t call first, but I was afraid I’d change my mind.”

Sophie beckoned Callie inside, the ex-cop’s gold strappy sandals taking a slight skid on the carpet. Callie had worn them once before, on holiday with John. Actually, the entire outfit had been mostly John’s choosing. Never had she hoped to wear it again, but this evening she chose to channel John’s presence to save their son.

“Honey.” Sophie glided in a circle around Callie. “You are so pretty!” Clasped hands to her chin, Sophie sang in singsong, “You’re going to the party.” Her sculpted brows waggled up and down. “And getting laid, I take it.”

Callie forced down the bile. “This dress okay?”

The squints and head tilts told her Sophie pondered adjustment. “Good base, honey, but we need to deepen the make-up and poof your do. The jewelry works, but don’t you ever paint your nails?”

Just what Callie had expected. “I don’t have much make-up. Don’t own any nail polish, and what’s wrong with my hair?” She touched it, as if concerned. “Do we have enough time to fix this? Mason said be there at 5:30 and asked if you’d be nice enough to bring me. He said you’d be more than willing to drive.”

With a jump, Sophie squealed. “He’s getting you there before dusk, and I’m the pumpkin coach to your ball. This is fabulous! Yes, yes. This’ll be fun!”

The squeal pierced Callie’s head, and she smiled for show. “You have all this sex appeal, and I . . . I don’t . . .”
Don’t know what the hell I’m doing!

“Throw off those shoes and park it on my sofa, girl.” Sophie scurried into her bedroom, shouting back. “I have a nail color that’ll make those gold sandals glitter decadent. And shadow to give you that come-hither-and-I’ll-do-you-right-now appeal. Oh, and I love that you didn’t wear a slip under that dress. Nicey dicey, honey.”

Callie sat and wrapped an arm across her midsection. A tremulous chill coursed through her body as she fought to put her actions into perspective. Costuming. That’s all this was. Dressing for the show. Going undercover.

At four thirty, Callie blew and waved her fingers to dry the polish and hide the shake as Sophie touched up her toes.

Over the past hour, Callie’s worry for Jeb would rise to red-hot levels of anxiety, then she’d push it down, reminding herself of why she was doing this. It repulsed her that she performed such frivolous behaviors while Jeb was probably freaked out of his mind.

She rued moving to Edisto. Her father’s decision to deed the house . . . She shoved his visage aside. She didn’t know why Mason had killed Lawton, but no doubt it connected to her presence, her actions, her inactions, and her ignorance.

Meanwhile, the Gypsy dabbed, painted, and stroked eight different products on Callie’s face, at one point smoothing her wrinkled forehead. “Chill. It’ll be fun.”

At five, Callie rested on the sofa, trying to hold down a Coke as Sophie primped herself in the bedroom, humming and flitting about as if
she
had the date.

Callie stumbled to the kitchen at one point, gulping air to hold down her drink. She washed the glass and hunted for a drying cloth. As she opened drawers in the foreign kitchen, she paused at the one near the stove. In a split second, she pilfered a paring knife, hiding the small weapon in her strappy gold bag. A bag too tiny for a gun and, hopefully, too innocent to warrant suspicion.

“Taa daa!” Sophie spun into the room, a bandana skirt tight and low on her hips but flared and flouncy around her legs. One large bandana tied across her breasts in halter style, secured behind her neck and waist. A dozen tiny sterling silver bracelets complemented huge circle earrings. Long silver chains hung to her naval, some with red glass beads. The lashes were new, contacts a different blue, and her curls kicked up like a Tinker Bell fairy.

“You put me to shame, Sophie,” Callie said. The clock read five fifteen.
We need to go!

Sophie took Callie’s arm and escorted her to the door. “I am so thrilled,” the neighbor said, scrunching her shoulders. “Everyone will be just too jealous of us.”

At the door, however, Sophie took Callie’s arms and faced her with concern. “I know I push and prod, Callie, and I may be a bit of a busy gnat, but I have worried so much about you. Are you sure this is what you want?” She licked her finger and touched Callie’s brow. “Tell me the truth.”

“Sophie.” Callie inhaled deeply. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life.”

Chapter 32

AT 5:32 P.M. CALLIE’S bracelets, loaned by Sophie, clanked as she reached for the doorbell beside Water Spout’s
huge eight-foot tall double doors. White-coated people carried items in and out of a catering van in the circular drive. How late would Mason consider two minutes?

Both doors swung in, Mason poised in the middle, an unlit cigar in his fingers. “Ladies! You’re the first to arrive. Welcome, welcome.”

Sophie ran in and hugged him. “I’m so excited you asked me to escort your date. The two of you seem so cute together, Mason.” She twirled and held out her hand, expecting a kiss on it.

His lips brushed across her fingers. “So delicious. As is my spread tonight. Come in and see what the caterer has on his menu. He might just let you sample, Sophie.”

In a flurry of color, she took off inside, knowing her way.

Mason glanced up at the sky. “Plenty of daylight left. You should feel comfortable about that.” He held out his arm. Callie strolled in without taking it, but he wrenched her back by the wrist.

“Let me refresh your memory, sweetheart.” He shut the doors and pushed her ahead of him, maintaining a hold feigned as taking her elbow. He nodded to two of the catering assistants in passing and exited out a side door to a monstrous wrapped, covered porch that faced the gray Atlantic Ocean. Gunmetal-colored clouds dipped down to the water on the horizon, hinting of the rain expected the day before.

He lightly released her and said calmly, “He’s out there somewhere.”

She hung her head, crestfallen at his confirmation that Jeb was adrift on the water in God knows what type of boat, with God knows who. Assuming Mason even told the truth, which disturbed her more. She still saw no markers from which to judge the man or determine her potential action.

Cocked against a post, he clipped his cigar. “Then play the part. You’re my date. You’re extremely happy to be at my side. You’re dignified yet smitten. Some of the residents have concerns after so much has happened on your street, coincidentally from the day you moved in. Rumors galore. Tonight we replace it with new gossip of our own making, a tale that will make the others pale in comparison.” He lit the cigar, puffed it rapidly, then pulled in a longer draw, the end now glowing orange. The sweet smoke quickly whipped away in the growing breeze.

He was milking every emotional angle of this affair. Assuming he was a hit man, he’d probably been told to enjoy himself—to a certain degree. Or maybe he really was a Canadian restaurateur, with a twisted mind and sick fetishes who’d taken a liking to her and decided to set a game into play. Callie’s mind raced now that this scenario was in play, trying to deduce, seeking her bearings, but all she had was thin air and no clues.

“I’ll help Sophie,” Callie said, itching to search the house for signs of her son, for a camera feed from her house, maybe for a feed to Jeb.

Mason moved to a settee and patted the cushion. “I hire people to tend my needs and then pair them with the Sophies of this world.” He waved his cigar toward the water. “Sit.”

As if he owned the upscale rental, he spoke about the three-level house being custom designed by some Charleston architect, combining contemporary design features with Spanish influence. The house flaunted a concrete, not shell and gravel, driveway with parking for ten cars; soaring ceilings, multiple arches, floor to ceiling windows, and a four-door sliding access to the deck enhanced the spaciousness. The huge wall of glass offered an immense view of St. Helena Sound from the great room. All anyone would see from the road was parked cars. Action faced the water. Action Seabrook would never see from Seaswept, his home right across the street.

After a night in Walterboro with Peters, Seabrook had probably gone home and crashed. He ought to be up by now, shaking his head at yet another extravagant fete by Mason Howard. Seabrook probably had retrieved her voice mail, too, her change of heart niggling at him a bit.

He would worry about her well-being. He might try to call, then unable to get her, drive by her dark, unlit house. Her car would be in the drive, but he’d easily assume they’d taken Jeb’s. Nothing appearing amiss. Just a woman who couldn’t control her emotions.

And as badly as she wanted him to read the shallowness of her voice mail and hunt for her, call Sophie, contact Beverly, she just as badly hoped he didn’t.

If he got creative enough to drop by and question Mason before Callie learned of Jeb’s whereabouts, her son was dead. Mason could deny any accusations she made, point to her paranoid behavior, and ultimately blame her for Pauley’s death. Maybe even Papa Beach’s as well. Seabrook had seen her take Pauley down and brandish a weapon in public; he knew her skills. Nobody pictured Mason in that sort of light, but everyone would suspect her.

But what was worse, in all the time lost in proving she was innocent, nobody would hunt for Jeb until the confusion settled and it was too late, if they searched at all. He was a teenager who ran off. Nobody had seen him kidnapped.

Even Sophie would testify that Callie had painted herself up for the Friday night gala. Who did that and left a body in her home? Insanity at its finest. Or a complete disregard for the law. The ex-detective irrationally taking matters into her own hands. Not too far from the truth.

She’d been suckered into Mason’s world and set up to fall. God, he was slick. He was also fucked up, sold-my-soul-to-the-devil crazy, and she was the only person who knew.

“What time does the party start?” she asked.

“Seven, but the eager ones are here by six thirty.” Mason draped an arm around her shoulders. “Jeb’s fine. Enjoy the moment. The caterer promised some grand hors d’oeuvres tonight the likes that Edisto’s never seen.”

Minutes dragged. Sophie brought them drinks with a giggle, then disappeared inside. Callie waited until Mason turned to blow smoke away, and she reached over to pour the liquor in the shrubbery.

He caught her arm. “How rude to waste my liquor. It’s top shelf gin, bought for you. Drink it.”

She downed the drink, his hand guiding her, barely giving her a breath. Like a morphine shot, it radiated throughout her system to warm her limbs and remove a fraction of her fear. She prayed it wasn’t drugged.

She wished it didn’t taste so good.

Voices sounded in the house. She turned, ever hopeful to capitalize on a chance. Two men appeared. “Mason!”

He stood. “Glad you could make it again.”

One of the guys peered around Mason to Callie. “Who do we have here? An import?”

“Oh no,” Mason said and swept his drink toward his date. “Callie, step over here and meet some of my guests. Gentlemen, this is Callista Jean Morgan, ex-Boston detective and newest permanent resident of Edisto Beach.” He tipped his head. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be shy.”