Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (46 page)

Tears welled in her mother’s aging eyes.

“You learned to love Neil Diamond with Jeremy,” Callie said softly. “Those songs were your memories of him.” Much like her own memories, each song placing her in a special moment, with a special person, taking her back to her youth, to her time with John.

Oh, how she knew the feeling that swelled with certain refrains, the strings, the sensitive lyrics that drove loving pain straight into your heart.

Now Beverly wiped away tears on Callie’s cheeks. “Middleton is Lawton’s memory, hon, and I owe him to preserve it as such. Chelsea Morning is where I escaped to recall my old days with Jeremy.” She led Callie to the boxes. “Please, keep these here.”

Callie nodded. And she wished Jeb were present to hear Beverly’s words. Callie wasn’t sure she could explain this situation as eloquently as her mother.

“So, when I need to come listen, just find me a seat, bring me a gin, and pretend I’m not here.” She stroked her daughter’s face again. “Can you do that for me?”

Callie threw her arms around Beverly and nodded into the woman’s padded, perfumed shoulder. Her mother accepted her embrace and stroked her head.

So much made sense now. Yes, this was the least Callie could do for her mother. After all, they weren’t that much different once she thought about it.

SEVEN P.M. BEVERLY gone. Jeb not home yet. Callie donned her running shoes but didn’t run. Instead, she strolled to the beach, in no hurry, with no mission, but nowhere near Water Spout. This time of day, most tourists had consumed their fill of sand and surf. Aqua, navy, and gold seahorse towels hung at one house, and ones with crabs, dolphins, and sharks draped over the railings of another. Inner tubes and boogie boards thrown on porches, wet T-shirts laid out to dry. The air hung thick with salty humidity, and gulls screamed at each other in competition for findings on the beach. A gentle wind brought the tide in.

There was something settling about being here without a deadline, unlike all these renters who had to return home on Saturday. A family ate outside at Snow Crab,
a rental owned by Michigan snowbirds. Children played in their bathing suits, the adults holding glasses most likely alcohol filled. Callie waved. They returned the greeting. Another family would arrive eager on Sunday to replace them, begin their vacation, and briefly forget their jobs and school, car pools, and PTA meetings. They lived a dream for a week, while she could live hers until she chose not to.

She was grateful now. No, she was insanely blessed.

She needed to digest the Lawton and Beverly story. Maybe that’s why she’d been an only child. Would she and John have done something as odd, as distanced as they’d become after Bonnie’s death?

Yes, these thoughts would take some time.

Detective work still called her name, though. This whole ordeal with Mason and Peters had proven that. And if she lived at this retreat too long, she’d be unable to return to the job once her skills rusted. She hadn’t solved that dilemma yet.

She reached Palmetto Boulevard and crossed, dodging traffic more carefully than she had that first day when Jeb disappeared—when she’d introduced herself to Edisto Beach as that crazy woman with a gun. These new renters had no idea who she was, though. Only the residents did, but what could they say about her now? They’d been sucked in by Mason. But she’d cleaned up their precious community, ridding them of the man. Who knew how gossip would shake that out?

On the sand, she shed her shoes and sauntered along the water which ran about two hours from high tide. A half mile down, she smoothed out a half-built sand castle in front of an unhatched loggerhead nest so that the hatchlings wouldn’t be blocked from the water if they ventured out tonight. She sat a few feet away. Being on the Eastern Seaboard, a sunset over the water was out of the question, but the horizon was still beautiful as blues changed to greens, with whitecaps and foam accenting each hue.

“Hey,” said a male voice. “Saw you walking on Palmetto. Didn’t expect to see you out here this time of day.”

Seabrook threw a towel on the sand beside her. His uniform gone, the shorts and T-shirt became him. Worn sneakers and no socks suited him, too. As the wind gusted, his blond hair swirled and danced around his eyes.

His visual analysis of her felt more doctor than cop or potential beau. “It’s almost sundown,” he said. “How’re you doing with that?”

Callie threw her head back, inhaled salt air down to her navel, and held it. Letting it loose, she said, “I think I’m good. But thanks for asking. If I freak, you’ll know what to do.”

Smoothing the corners of his towel, he studied the sand. “I’m still so sorry, Callie. I stayed a step behind you in all this crap.” He grimaced mildly, yet Callie still found him charming. “You left that message for me,” he said, “yet I didn’t put two and two together and arrive until two the next morning to help. What you did . . . what you had to do.”

She’d kick herself about John for a long time to come, but Seabrook now had a double dose of these feelings. His dead wife, and now her. “I couldn’t have you there, Mike. Not before I found Jeb. You know that. But I get what you’re saying. I really do.”

They stared out to sea, leaning back on their hands.

“Seems we’re back where we started, huh?” he finally said.

“Just don’t throw me in the back of your squad car.”

He chuckled. “Agreed. But how’d you like to go to dinner with me?”

She smiled. Clouds reflected the sun going down behind them on the other side of the island. Oranges and pinks showed off in a final wash of color as eight pelicans glided by in a synchronized line.

She turned. “Before I decide, why were you hiding in that house across from Papa Beach’s place? If you say watching for other burglaries, the answer’s no for dinner. That’s just so lame, Mike.”

“Watching you,” he said. “And that wasn’t the only day. I had enough sense to know that someone had set his sights on upsetting you.” His feet dug into the sand. “I knew you had the talent to catch this guy, but you were off balance, distracted, and vulnerable. And with you holding me at arm’s length, it was the only tactic I could think of without parking in front of your house. Just wish I’d spotted Mason and solved this mess earlier.”

Suddenly the scent of a close man teased her on the breeze. “I, um, don’t know what to say,” she said. “Thank you.”

He dared to lay his arm across her shoulder.

She let him, and after a moment, leaned into him. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll go to dinner.”

“Will you come work for Edisto PD?” he added.

She sniffed. “No, not ready for any of that yet.”

One step at a time
.

The pastels eased into blacks and grays. Callie sat quietly, slightly nervous about being outside, and allowed it to wash over her, as if waiting to turn to stone for staring into the eyes of dusk. But she won over the evening.

No counting, no deep breaths, no heartbeats throbbing into her ears. Just a safe, silent ride into the night.

She could do one step at a time for a long time. Hopefully one night she’d see turtles hatch and think of Papa Beach being proud of her. And she could listen to Neil Diamond any time she wanted and simply enjoy singing the words.

One step at a time
.

The End

(Please continue reading for more information about the author)

Acknowledgements

This story propelled me in a direction I never wanted, but proved to be a catalyst I needed.

My editor, Pat Van Wie, pushed me into a new series giving me three parameters: a female cop, an intriguing setting in South Carolina, and family drama. With those sparse guidelines, I wrangled with what I first felt an impossible task and then created a story, then a series, that excited me and opened my creativity toward new horizons. Like having another child, I don’t have less love for my firstborn Carolina Slade but instead learned I harbored more than enough love for my second born, too. Welcome to the world, Callie Jean Morgan. Thanks, Pat, for pushing me.

Of course this book would mean so much less without its setting, the illustrious paradise of Edisto Beach. What has turned into my home away from home, took on new dimension as Callie began to wander the beach in my mind in search of herself. My love for the area has greatly deepened, its beauty and personality embedded in my soul. What a grand opportunity now to be able to slip away to the beach “for research” several times a year (and write it off my taxes).

Thanks to the Edisto Police Department for their understanding of my sleight of hand in this story in regards to their duties, staff, and performance. Chief Bill Coffey, I owe you lunch and a cup of coffee, and we can laugh over the details.

Deni, you are an inspiration. Thanks for allowing me the literary license to insert snippets of your spirit in these pages. When you moved to Edisto, you changed lives more than your own, my friend, and I hope they appreciate your influence.

I could not write without the keen, critical, stern, and caring eyes of Sid, Barrie, Sharon, Margaret, Mike, and the members of the Writing Well. You understand how much I’ve grown more than anyone.

Thanks to Gary for our evenings overlooking the lake. Between our sips of bourbon and your lessons on smoking a good cigar, you listened as I read, vented, spun, and scribbled to bring this new idea to fruition. You’re my rock, my light, and the most patient man on the planet.

And I still love you, Neil Diamond, and have since I was fourteen years old.

About the Author

C
. Hope Clark holds a fascination with the mystery genre and is author of The Carolina Slade Mystery Series as well as the Edisto Beach Series, both set in her home state of South Carolina. In her previous federal life, she performed administrative investigations and married the agent she met on a bribery investigation. She enjoys nothing more than editing her books on the back porch with him, overlooking the lake with bourbons in hand. She can be found either on the banks of Lake Murray or Edisto Beach with one or two dachshunds in her lap. Hope is also editor of the award-winning FundsforWriters.com. Find out more about her at
chopeclark.com