Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (7 page)

Sophie nodded, knowingly. “That basket will do you good, girl. I’ve included a blue quartz crystal for healing your mind and body, along with a CD of music made by crystal bowls to unlock the Chakras, your energy centers. A lavender and flaxseed face mask. And a black candle to light on each New Moon for good luck.”

Holy hippie
. “Thanks,” Callie replied. “I’m fresh out of lavender and flax.”

Sophie cocked her head, all cute and understanding. “Go ahead and laugh. I can tell you need my class. You’re strung like piano wire. Not enough fluidity in your life.” She pointed up to Callie’s head, then down to the floor. “I see it all over you. Bet you can’t put your hands flat on the floor.”

“Yes, I can.”

Sophie scowled. “Show me. Feet together, not spread.”

Reaching down, Callie stopped midway, wondering why she had to prove anything. “What’s wrong with being a runner?”

“Oh, nothing if you run for the right purpose and don’t beat yourself up in the process. I’ll teach you to love your muscles, not just work them.”

This subject needed changing. “Care for something to drink?”

Sophie scouted the kitchen for a clock. “It’s lunchtime, and I normally wait until five, but hey, since we’re celebrating your move, I’ll break the rules. A light gin and tonic, please.”

Callie halted at the cabinet door to the glassware. “I was thinking iced tea, but I’m sure my mother has the makings of a drink around here.” She pulled out two tumblers and found a new bottle of Bombay Sapphire in the freezer and two one-liter bottles of tonic in the back of the refrigerator.
Yay, Beverly
.

Callie had all the time in the world and no place to be, so why not drink in the middle of the day? “I’m surprised you didn’t know my parents since you live next door. My mother took your yoga class, I believe.”

“Oh, I know your folks.”

Gin glug-glugged into the glasses. Callie was disappointed with herself for being caught unawares. “So you know who I am.”

“Me and half the island. The daughter of the Middleton mayor. You married some Yankee.”

Callie’s shoulders relaxed at the generalization. “Yep, that’s me.”

Merely being the mayor’s daughter suited her fine. Thank goodness Beverly hadn’t spread Callie’s tragedy over Edisto. Another rare tick mark in the positive column. Two in one day was a record.

Callie sat back at the table. “So why haven’t you asked me to dish about next door?”

Sophie’s short hair shook as her earrings bobbed under her ears. “Not here,” she said. “Your house is clean. Outside. Later.” Then she hunched over and whispered conspiratorially. “But I definitely want to know the details.”

Callie’s phone rang. “Well, hello Mother,” she mumbled at the caller ID.

Sophie waved. “Tell her hey for me. If she knows I’m here, she might not talk long. Honey, I know how to handle the Beverlys of this world.”

“Mother,” Callie answered.

“Hello, dear. I wanted to check on you and Jeb. Gracious, what a shock! I barely slept last night. Have they caught the man?”

The lightheartedness of the last hour fell away at the image of Papa Beach’s home violated, his life stolen. “It’s too soon, Mother, but we’re taking precautions.”

With no weapon found and no suspect to compare prints against, assuming he was in the system, the perp could most likely elude authorities. Police departments only announced the ones they caught, not the ones that got away . . . more often than the public knew.

“Well, stay in touch with the police, dear. Keep us apprised.”

“I will, Mother. Thanks for the gin, by the way.”

“Oh, I forgot that was there.”

Sure she did, like Callie knew nothing of Beverly’s own five-o’clock habit.

“Hello, Mrs. Cantrell,” hollered Sophie.

“Who is that?” Beverly asked.

“Sophie Bianchi,” Callie replied.

Silence hung on the phone a moment. “Oh, that Bohemian woman,” Beverly replied dryly. “Be careful. She’s an odd bird. Circus material, in my opinion.”

Callie loved her new neighbor even more.

A siren blurped down the street once, then twice, as if trying to part traffic.

Sophie leaped up and ran to the front door.

“What was that?” Beverly asked, breathless in her drama. “Are they going back to Henry’s house?”

Little happened on the island to warrant a siren, so maybe a taste of drama was in order. “Let me go check it out, Mother. Probably a traffic stop. The tourists are pretty thick.”

“Let me know—”

“Later, Mother.” Callie pocketed her phone and hurried to the porch. Sophie stretched over the railing and studied the house fronts along Jungle Road.

“Where did they stop?” Callie held a hand over her eyes, feeling every bit the rubbernecker like those she’d seen yesterday.

“Two places south of mine. That’s the Rosewood home.” Sophie spun around, mouth open and eyes wide, like a child longing for her turn to perform. “You want to run down there with me?”

Oh God.
Every crime came with the pain-in-the-ass snoops who craved a glimpse of blood.

Sophie scrambled down the stairs. “Get your sunglasses!”

Callie snared her glasses and locked up only to find Sophie running back up the steps to grab her wrist.

“Girl,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “We’ve gotta talk about that Fort Knox habit of yours. Come on!”

By the time they reached the Rosewood residence, a dozen people gathered to gape. Callie stayed back under a tree next door, arms crossed, wishing to stay invisible after her exhibition on the beach the day before. However, Sophie dove in, interrogating everyone, flitting in and out of the gathering onlookers like a chipmunk searching for the right nut.

An empty Edisto Beach PD vehicle sat in the drive. A woman’s voice drifted from inside the house, distraught but not over-the-top crazy.

Someone in the crowd spoke up. “Anybody else get murdered?”

Callie shook her head at the public’s thirst for calamity, then recognizing the ranks she’d fallen into, she took another step back.

A truck slowed, the driver studying the commotion. Sophie went to him. They conversed and then he drove on. She returned to Callie. “What’re you doing standing back here?”

“Staying out of the way.” Callie glanced around, then whispered, “Find out anything?”

“Yeah, that was Jackson Peters in the truck. He’s the handyman around here and was working across the street, and honey, he don’t miss a trick. Somebody broke into the house while the Rosewoods shopped in Charleston. Sometime between eleven and one. They barely missed him.” She hugged herself. “What if they’d been home? Like Mr. Beechum.” Her aqua eyes widened as her voice hitched an octave. “Could’ve been another murder, you know?”

“The Rosewoods live here year round?” Callie asked.

“Yes,” Sophie exclaimed. “Does that mean something?” She gasped. “And both cases have been on our street! What if they’re targeting everyone on this road?”

“It was just a question, Sophie.”

A dead body one day and a burglary the next. How did anyone
not
overthink this?

Another Edisto blue and white pulled up. Seabrook’s long legs stepped out as the door opened. He headed toward the stairs, the locals shouting, calling him by name as if he were a celebrity walking the red carpet at the Oscars. He stopped when he saw Callie and Sophie. Speaking into his radio, he veered in their direction.

“Ladies,” he said, then peered at Callie. “Can we talk?”

Sophie winked and returned to the small throng of the rumor machine. Heat warmed Callie’s cheeks at the unspoken insinuation.

Seabrook nodded in greeting. “Mind if I run some of this by you?”

Callie straightened, welcoming the overture to express her professional opinion. “What you got?”

“No
body
this time,” he said.

“Always good,” she replied.

He glanced for eavesdroppers. Callie stepped closer, his sandalwood aftershave striking her nose.

“The burglar stole money kept in a dresser drawer,” he said. “Left the jewelry. Sounds like a kid or a tweeker, right?”

She shrugged.

He took his voice even lower. “But then he poured himself a Jack and Coke over ice and had a drink. Barely a ring left on the table.”

“Doesn’t sound like a kid or a drug addict.” She scanned the crowd. “A bragger with something to prove, and he needs an audience to do it.”

Seabrook nodded. “Yeah, but what he did next connects him to the Beechum murder.”

She focused on him instead of who was listening. “How?”

“This guy deposited a 1903 antique silver dollar on the table. Like he was leaving a tip.”

A calling card. A warning went off in her head, the way it used to on a fresh case with all its clues scattered around for the gathering. “One of Papa Beach’s coins?” she asked. A 1903 would be one of the Morgan dollars. Worth a hundred or so, per Papa.

“We think so. We’d like you to look at it, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. You know where to find me. In the meantime, check out a man named Jackson Peters. He was supposedly working across the street at the time and may have seen something.”

Seabrook winked. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

“And has anyone called Pauley Beechum?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I notified him about his father’s death late last night.”

“How’d he take it?”

“He seemed distraught, but due to his father’s age, wasn’t surprised,” Seabrook said.

“Was he at home, or did you call him on his cell?”

“Cell,” he said, forehead knotting. “Why?”

Seabrook’s puzzlement showed he hadn’t considered the son in this crime at all. Callie, however, hadn’t ruled him out. Family always served as the first, and best, suspects. Pauley’s whereabouts needed confirmation. Then she told herself to tone it down. She wasn’t lead investigator here. She wasn’t any kind of investigator anywhere. “He and Papa weren’t close, is all. I’d want to know where he was when Papa died.”

“Okay, um, thanks. But what do you think about the coin thing?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Her head played all the options thus far. She couldn’t help it. It’d been over a year since she’d worked a case, but her instincts still kicked in.

Ordinarily, she’d have considered these two crimes unrelated, but the coin changed things. This criminal left his mark. Chances were he would leave it again. This was a personality who’d tasted getting away with murder and wanted to let the island know he enjoyed it.

And unless she was premature in her logic, he enjoyed playing the game with the permanent residents.

He knew these people along with their daily itineraries. He might strike again . . . and take more chances. Getting away with murder empowered some people to raise the bar. And heaven help her, a part of her wished she could be there when it happened.

Chapter 6

AS CALLIE CONTINUED to chat with Officer Seabrook, Sophie stared over her shoulder from the herd of snoopy onlookers in the Rosewood yard. The afternoon blazed with heat, the sea breezes lazier than usual, but the weather didn’t deter the curious from the burglary scene.

“What about SLED, the state boys?” Callie asked. “Don’t little towns get that sort of assistance? Especially with a murder.”

“Those guys came and went like a rain shower,” he replied. “They reckon Beechum was a robbery turned homicide by a local kid. A
call-us-if-you-need-us
thing. Guess they’re slammed, too.”

The tall, soft-spoken man carried a genteel way about him, a quiescence that maintained itself amidst everyone else’s agitation. Not the usual beat cop nature. She liked it.

“Seems we have a sophisticated crime spree,” Seabrook said. “Without a police chief, we can use the help of a professional.” He dipped his chin and regarded her. “You showed up just in time to assist, Detective.”

The offer blindsided her. Tempting, yet frightening. That way of life represented the highest peak and lowest valley of her life, and she was afraid of riding that roller coaster again. Still . . .

“I left the badge in Boston,” Callie said, the words painful in so many ways.

“Badges are a dime a dozen,” he said. “What we lack is experience. I doubt you left your instincts back there.”

She diverted the subject. “So your ill-tempered Deputy Raysor is here because you’re short of uniforms?”

Seabrook scrunched his face and shook his head. “Colleton County always shares a deputy or two with us. Our old chief got offered a job in North Carolina—bigger beach. I’m the interim honcho for now, leaving us with six uniforms. No replacement yet.”

“Budget?” she asked.

His mouth gave her a halfhearted upturn. “Town council tends to think the lure of the beach will offset salary expectations.”

She got that. She’d only shopped big city departments out of college for that very reason—salary. “Hope you get the job.”

Walking away, he spoke over his shoulder. “Not applying for it.”

She watched him stroll away into a crowd that seemed to settle down with his presence. He took two stairs at a time up to the residence.

She’d have smiled at the
dime a dozen
comment if the situation weren’t so dire. People came to this secluded piece of the world for solitude, where the community allowed little commercialism, no franchises, and no motels except for the Wyndham at the tip of the island that housed the more urbanite souls. Eighty percent of the housing properties were rentals. The seven hundred long-term residents usually harbored a backstory—pre-Edisto. This skinny stretch of land between ocean and marsh was about living in the moment with the tide. Anyone could walk in your front door or share a drink on your porch.

Unfortunately, now a criminal seemed keen to join in, too. Six cops weren’t nearly enough to cope if this guy got weird. However, her doors would stay locked, her Glock and .38 handy, and the Sophies of the island could continue to knock to be let in.

Callie walked the two short lots home, glad for her sunglasses. The three o’clock sun was fierce. Sophie caught up, her beads and bangles rattling like a New Orleans parade. “You leaving?”

“Nothing to see.” She could easily bid the woman goodbye. However, something about this
Tinkerbell
breached Callie’s steel wall of trust. John had been her last close friend. Besides Stan, of course.

Sophie took her arm. Callie stiffened mildly at the unexpected intimacy.

“Love to know what Mike Seabrook said to you all private-like back there,” Sophie said.

Callie exaggerated a Southern drawl. “Sugar, he was just asking about you.”

Sophie sucked in. “Really?”

Wow, this woman was too easy to mess with. “No, he asked me if I remembered anything more about the Papa Beach incident, that’s all.”

“Humph. Seemed more than that to me.”

“Not interested, Sophie. He’s all yours.”

They climbed Callie’s porch steps. Sophie rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue at the sign of keys. Callie swung open the door and surveyed the immediate rooms. “Think of it as locking in the sage for safekeeping.”