Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (9 page)

When she’d worn a badge, she contemplated cases as she ran. Pondering clues and replaying interviews helped carry her until she’d achieved second wind. Then she would run forever, often finding new angles to pursue. After losing John, however, she’d abused the routine, pounding herself into the pavement to earn a stress fracture in her right foot. Being grounded the next three months almost drove her crazy.

That’s when she learned to appreciate a good drink.

Callie’s shoes dug into the sand as she fought for rhythm. Think. Think about the coins. Were they the burglar’s target? Weirder things had happened. Papa didn’t talk about himself much, unlike Sophie, so the number of people who knew the collection existed would be limited.

Why kill him, though? Unless Papa had recognized the person or caught him in the act. A young, inexperienced hoodlum could freak out, but the shot was too clean—right against the temple. Too steady.

Her feet found the best sandy strip and fought for a pace. Breathe-two-three-four.

Seabrook mentioned torture. Bruising? Broken bones? Did Papa have hidden assets? Maybe the son-of-a-bitch burglar was simply a sadistic bastard. The thought of the latter sickened her. She’d been right next door, for God’s sake. She could’ve made a difference.

But then Jeb could have been left an orphan, too.

Family. They were always a consideration in a murder. The first people detectives interviewed. Papa’s wife had predeceased him, leaving only Pauley, who’d rather take a beating than see his dad.

But what if this crime was a message to
her
, the coin turning up to scare
her
? He could be telling her that he knew exactly who she was and where she lived.

Stupid, stupid, stupid
. Now she saw everyone as Russian mafia.

Her hand strayed to her pocket, feeling the Morgan dollar. With Sophie’s house wide open all the time, no telling who had made himself at home. She’d been lucky, this time.

Callie had no choice but to take the coin to Officer Seabrook. She owed Zeus fifty bucks for misleading him, the approximate value, she guessed. After all, it wasn’t his treasure to keep.

Two piers down, she passed a lanky fisherman in cargo shorts and a loose white T-shirt, his cooler and bait bucket beside him. Licking her lips, she distanced herself from the smell of fish and refocused.

Breathe-two-three-four. Breathe-
deep
-two-three-four.

She passed a half dozen loggerhead turtle nests. Each sported orange tape, four stakes, and a note informing beachcombers not to disturb the unhatched babies. Callie remembered walking along the sand with Papa Beach, inspecting whichever turtle nest he agreed to monitor that season. She’d never once witnessed the hatchlings escape to the sea, but she spent little time at the beach during the summer, the most active season for loggerheads, as well as for tenants willing to pay top-shelf rates for vacations. That’s when Chelsea Morning
earned its keep, and Callie stayed in Middleton. Maybe this year she’d see hatchlings.

She gulped and fought for air. Geez, what on earth forced her to run today?

A half mile later, Callie sucked salt air like it was gelatin, thick and uncooperative with her stride. Her legs moved like stilts fording mud as she sought any sort of rhythm to make the effort less unforgiving.

Her gut lurched. She gulped down bile and slowed her pace. Before she’d left the house, she should have taken a swig of juice, a few bites of oatmeal. What the hell kind of berries did Zeus say? She imagined that coming back up and gulped again.

Callie pushed on in a slow jog.

As she passed joggers, she threw her shoulders back and quit mouth breathing, pretending to be the strong, ritualistic enthusiast. But the second after they nodded in acknowledgement, she sagged, and her ragged panting returned.

No way would she make three miles, much less five. Ten was bucket list level.

Shit, another jogger. She held her head up, chest out, arms pumping.

He approached, sweat indicating he’d already put in a couple miles. She nodded.

“Hey,” he said, slowing. “Hold up.”

Callie glanced back and slowed to a stop, grateful for the excuse.

“I know you,” he said, as he walked toward her. Hell, he wasn’t even huffing.

Her guard went up. Wait. The jogger from behind Papa B’s house. Mason Somebody.

“Did you catch the kid pilfering your trash?” He towered at least six-foot two.

Her empty stomach twisted. She stooped over, leaning on her knees. “No, no I didn’t. Sorry . . . sorry if I sounded harsh.”

A sympathetic smile crept across his thin, tanned face, his dark hair whipping around in the stiff breeze. He wore no ring, but his watch was no doubt expensive. “I heard you were hunting the person who shot Henry Beechum,” he said in a nondescript mild accent. “Are you in law enforcement?”

Damn this beach and its small town gossip. She shook her head, tried to rise, then changed her mind.

He reached out. “Well, we need a better introduction than that one. Like I said the other day, I rent Water Spout. Been here three months. Not sure when I’ll leave.” He spread out his arms. “It’s paradise out here.”

Callie nodded and gulped, waving off the handshake.

“Hey, tell me what really went down at the Beechum place. I heard—”

Callie vomited, jumping to spread her feet apart to avoid her sneakers.

Mason high-stepped backward. “Whoa there!”

Instinctively, she twisted away, closer to the water, and upchucked again. Dropping to her knees, she let nature take its course until she could heave no more.

Just what she needed, another reputation piled on top of her madcap gun escapade, discovering a murder, and being the mayor’s daughter. Eyes shut, she touched base with her gut, to see if it had paid all its dues for last night.

Mason took his cap off and soaked it in the surf. “Here,” he said, placing it on her head. “That ought to make you feel a little better. Sit here a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Unable to argue, she plopped her butt in the wet sand. Scooping up water, she washed out her mouth, spitting it back into the sea.

Moments later, Mason returned. “Sip on this,” he said, offering her a Coke he apparently bummed from a tenant in a nearby rental.

The sugary bubbles fizzed in her mouth, the ice-cool liquid caressing as it went down. “This is so embarrassing,” she said, studying the foam left in a wave’s ebb. “Thanks.”

He sat beside her and snickered.

“You’re laughing at me?” she asked.

“No, no,” he said, chuckling.

“Yes,” she said, his laughter making her smile. “Yes, you are.”

Taking the cap off her head, he soaked it again and positioned it back on her limp hair. “I puked one pier over the first week I moved in. Must be a rite of passage or something.”

“
Or something
is right.” She sipped again slowly.

“I’m Mason Howard,” he said. “In case you forgot.”

“I’m—”

“Callie Jean Cantrell Morgan,” he recited. “The Middleton mayor’s daughter who owns Chelsea Morning.”

Of course he knew.

He shifted to lean stiff-armed. “You’re the celebrity of the week. I’m sure that’ll change by the weekend when they find someone else.” He touched her sleeve. “Why the long sleeves, by the way? Aren’t you hot?”

“Heat has nothing to do with my sleeves,” she said hesitantly.

“Then let me ask something more discreet. What brings you to Edisto?”

“I’m just kicking back for the summer.” All he needed to know.

“Like me.” He grinned, warm and comical.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a trust fund baby dabbling in real estate. Grandfather made his money in restaurants. Ever heard of Angus Steer Steakhouse?”

She dusted sand from her thighs, trying not to be impressed. “As in
The Great Steak
jingle?”

Surprise raised his brow. “Nice. Not many Southerners have heard of us.”

Damn. Those restaurants are only in Canada.
“I—” She caught herself before explaining she used to live in Boston, and she and John made several trips across the border for both business and pleasure. “I used to have family in Buffalo, and I remember the commercials. That song sticks in your head.”

He brushed his palms together. “Well, enough about me. Feel like standing?”

Heat crept into her cheeks. “I believe so.”

“Let me walk you home.” He held out his hand, hoisting her up, the gesture of an interested male. His intentions seemed honest enough, but she wasn’t ready to take that step. She almost felt guilty about the calls to Stan, but those were long distance, and he’d known John.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Besides, I think I want to walk, at least cover the miles I meant to run.”

“May I accompany you?” He tried to take her elbow, and she acted like she lost her balance in the sand and sidestepped.

“Only as far as your place,” she said, knowing Water Spout’s three stories surveyed the beach a mere three piers away.

“Fair enough,” he said. “I have a party every Friday night. You may have heard of them. Consider yourself invited.”

She took the last swig of her drink, screwed on the cap, and dangled the empty bottle by its neck as they strolled. “A party’s not exactly appealing after the mess I just left on the beach. I think I’m giving up gin for life.”

He took the empty bottle from her and waved it. “So come have a soft drink. It’s not a keg party, Ms. Morgan. Just adults enjoying the end of the week, staring inanely at the ocean—harmless. Feel free to come.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m telling you, I think fate keeps throwing us in each other’s way.”

What a pickup line.
It was a small beach and only the second time they’d seen each other. This guy tried way too hard.

Chapter 8

STILL WOBBLY FROM her hangover run, Callie planted a heavy foot on the first of two dozen steps to her porch. Her toe hit the lip of a riser. Several steps up, she went down, slamming her knee on an extruding nail head.

“Son of a stinking bitch!” Her string of curse words rang out nasty enough to embarrass her mother in the next town. She glanced around for listeners as she hobbled up the stairs to the top, let the pain ease, then limped inside. Did she even have a first aid kit? Luckily she was still good with her tetanus shot.

Showered, changed, knee doused in peroxide, she strode into the kitchen for a banana to settle her empty stomach. She lifted the phone to dial Papa Beach for advice on fixing steps . . . and whispered, “Damn,” as she hung up, remembering.

What would he tell her to do? He always used
his
tools. Did Daddy even keep tools here?

She grabbed her keys to the storage room on the ground level, under the house. A bright new toolbox sat behind some hurricane boards on a workbench near the window, the name
Cantrell
etched on a brass plate. Callie knew a Beverly gift when she saw one.

The box took both hands to lift, but she managed to haul it out. But no hammer. She couldn’t bury nails without a blasted hammer. She pulled out the heaviest tool in the collection, a wrench, and returned out front.

The first swing missed, but the second hit the nail, glancing off oddly. She repeated the ritual, a grunt escaping with the second and third blows.

“Can I help?”

She jerked and spun.

The scruffy, dark-headed man appeared mid-forties, but the wear and tear lines on his sun-weathered skin made his age tricky. His midsection tested the boundaries of a T-shirt. His tool belt hung low and heavy over skinny hips in paint-splotched cargo pants. Sophie’s friend from the pickup truck.

“Oh, hey.” Callie relaxed, her face flushing. “Trying to fix this board.”

The crow’s feet around his eyes deepened. “Not with a wrench, you’re not. Let me give it a go.” He lifted his hammer from its belt loop, motioned her aside, then in one hit sank the nail. He dropped the hammer back in its home. “Right tool for the job is half the battle.”

“Well, I don’t have a hammer.”

His thin lips parted in a homely smile. “I figured. Who’d choose a wrench over a hammer?” He rested an elbow on the railing. “Let me guess. Henry did all your work.”

“Pretty much.” She smiled, proud to give the old man credit. “Callie Morgan.”

“Yep, the mayor’s daughter. I’m Jackson Peters.” He shook her hand tightly, his calluses rough. “Call me Peters. Tried to get your daddy to hire me a few times, but he stayed dang loyal to Beechum.”

She wasn’t surprised. “Papa Beach was like family to us.”

“A lot of people will miss that old buzzard,” he replied.

Her smile dimmed. “I remember him as a rather sweet gentleman.”

Peters held his palm out. “Nothing against the guy. Hope they catch his killer real soon. Hate that happened around here.” He carefully smoothed his hand over the railing. “Want me to run a sander over these? Slap on a new coat of paint? And I can take care of all your loose steps.”

Papa B came without charge, only expecting a weekly dinner or a chat on the porch in return. Peters would have to be paid, but he seemed honest enough. “How much?” she asked.

His gaze traveled up the stairs and back down again. “You buy the paint, and I’ll do the rest. Two hundred dollars. An introductory offer to my services. How’s that sound?”

Callie nodded as she pondered the offer. “I’ll take it on one condition.”

Peters didn’t falter, accustomed to haggling. “And what would that be, miss?”

“Tell me how you knew so much about the Rosewood burglary. I saw you talking to my neighbor.” She nodded toward Sophie’s house. “You knew more than the cops did.”

Peters scratched at stubble on his jawline. “I’m the island hired hand. If it ain’t new construction, I can do it. Not that I can’t
do
the new stuff. Just don’t have the right license.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of soiled and wrinkled papers from which he teased out a business card. “There you go. Island Handyman.”