Of course it did. But last night’s date and Peters’ comfortable congeniality had kept her from peering incessantly over her shoulder for adversaries for one day. She hoped Stan wasn’t about to ruin the reprieve. But hearing him did make her feel ashamed about lowering her defenses.
“Somebody has a flashy MO, Stan. They don’t really break in. They wait until it’s easy to enter the house, and, get this, they leave a silver dollar from a collection missing from the murder.”
At mention of her stolen mug in Papa Beach’s house, Stan started barking orders. “Change your damn locks,” he said.
“I did, Stan.”
“Before or after the mug was stolen?”
“After.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you change them before?”
“Stan,” she said, the muscles in her back knotting. “I’ve tightened up around here. Don’t treat me like a child.”
“Don’t like you being alone in all this.”
“I can handle—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you’re very capable and all that shit. But . . . anyway, be careful.”
“So what did Raysor say?”
Nothing Stan said surprised her, nothing she hadn’t already heard. The deputy had tattled, like it mattered. Then as if reading her mind, Stan asked, “Would that idiot deputy plant the cup to scare you? He seems a bit over the top. Is that typical of Southern law down there?”
“I declare, are you profiling, Captain Waltham?”
“Heh, heh, heh. You and that damn accent.” Paper wrinkled from what she guessed was a stick of cinnamon gum. “Got to admit you sound better this time, Chicklet. Don’t take no guff off that guy.”
“No problem. It’s always nice to hear from you, Stan, even when you’re grumpy. I take it you found nothing on Henry Beechum?”
“Other than a military record? No.”
She was glad to hear it. “Nice talking to you, Boss.”
“Give me a better reason to call you sometime, Morgan.”
“I’ll try. Tell Mindy hello for me.”
Silence.
“Stan?”
“We split, Chicklet.”
Oh, damn! She couldn’t imagine this man single or without Mindy. Though his job was a chronic mistress, he never forgot his wife’s birthday, their anniversary. He’d been so proud taking her to Ireland several years ago. “Oh, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Long time coming.”
“Oh, I can’t believe that. You two seemed good.” She craved to give the big bear a hug, stroke his back, then bring him a coffee so he could vent to someone who wouldn’t judge. She hated the thousand miles between them right now.
“Don’t worry about me, or her. It’s congenial and all that, but if I need a shoulder, I know who to call.”
“I owe you at least that much. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, take care.”
CALLIE CONTINUED mulling over Stan and his split from his wife as she diced tomatoes and ripped lettuce. The innocence of the day had vanished with the news from Boston. Jeb watched the steaks outside.
Peters poked his head in the door. “Smelling mighty good. When do I clean up?”
“Now, if you want medium rare,” she said.
He turned to go outside.
“No, no, come inside,” she said, dropping her knife and grabbing a kitchen towel. “Follow me. You can use Jeb’s bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you need in there.”
Peters didn’t argue and closed the door behind him with thanks. He soon emerged rosy-cheeked, his hair washed, towel dried, and combed with a part. He smelled like mouthwash and way too much toothpaste. Callie made a note to find the toothbrush he used, in case he didn’t have his own.
Jeb brought in the steaks just as Callie put drinks on the table. Peters held out her seat, and Callie smiled, catching Jeb’s eye as if to say See? That’s how you do it for a lady.
Everyone sat.
Peters asked Jeb for the sour cream. “You headed to college this year, son, or you still in high school?”
“College of Charleston this fall,” Jeb said, passing the man the salt and pepper as well. “Business, I think, but they make you take stupid general education courses your first year or two. Still not sure what I want to do.” He passed the butter. “Do you like your work?”
“Jeb,” Callie cautioned.
“It’s okay,” Peters said. “I like my job well enough. Lets me be independent. Didn’t get a chance to go to school. Might not be living in a truck if I had. Could be a lot worse, though.” He took a bite of steak. “Hmm, umm, umm. I could get used to eating like this.”
“You work for yourself,” Jeb said. “So does everyone else out here. My friend Zeus makes good money with his fishing business. I like that.”
“What do you define as good money?” Peters pointed his fork at the boy. “I live off scraps from tables of those who did take advantage of opportunity, son. School may seem like a drag, but trust me, it pays.”
Callie felt it was time to change subjects. “How’re the steps going, Peters?”
“I think you’ll like them. Don’t go out the front door until tomorrow, though. I hung yellow tape across the top and the bottom. The amount of paint’ll be cutting it close with that darn dry wood. Guess it’s been a while since Beechum painted them, huh?”
Callie wanly smiled. “Don’t know, but you’re taking care of them now, and we appreciate it.”
Peters shoveled lettuce in his mouth, chewed with exaggeration, and swallowed. “Son?” he said to Jeb. “You’ve got a jewel of a mom here. Listen to her when she talks to you, you hear?”
Jeb hesitated before simply saying, “Yes, sir, I will.”
“Sir,” Peters repeated. “That’s what I’m talking about. Can’t remember when a kid called me sir.”
Peters’ accent was pure Lowcountry, as was his humor. He appreciated manners and treated Callie with respect. She couldn’t see him in the negative light Mason cast or as the suspect Raysor described. Peters wouldn’t have lasted this long doing what he did if a single homeowner had sensed the least hint of wrongdoing. Callie wouldn’t have asked him to dinner if she saw anything criminal in his ways.
Raysor was oversensitive about the man, his crime-fighting gusto too zealous for her taste. He’d probably never see another murder in his career, so maybe this was sport for him, means for a promotion, or a story to be told at the bar.
Callie caught herself swirling her glass, forgetting it was just water. Jeb finished up the last of his potato. She pushed half of hers on his plate, and he dove into it, adding more butter to her conservative one pat.
Soon, only the aroma of the steak remained with Peters all but licking the plate. Yep, Lawton Cantrell had taught her well. Treat a man with respect, and he’ll respect you right back. Too bad Beverly fell short of fathoming the lesson.
Moments later, Peters excused himself and thanked them for dinner. Callie put Jeb on the dishes and retired to the back porch, grateful the sun had already set on the marsh. She punched speed dial on her cell phone; she owed someone a promise.
“Daddy? It’s me. I’m calling Mother like you asked.”
“Great. Let me get her.”
“Wait a minute before you do that,” she said. The sun gone behind the water, soft ripples flowed in colors more reserved for a fall forest. She was so happy to be safely at home at this time of day.
“Can you talk to Jeb for me?” she asked. “I’m sensing mild reservations about college. Could be cold feet, or some dumb notion stuck in his head by new friends, but maybe you can instill in him the importance of that degree. Call him maybe? Or better yet, drop by and take him to dinner. Do something before this mild aversion bloats into something he acts on.”
He
r father gave a mild grunt. “We can’t have that now, can we? Saturday night?”
“It’s not urgent, Daddy.”
“No, no. I’m trying to ease into this retirement mentality. And I meant it when I said I wanted to spend more time with Jeb. Pick him up at five?”
“You’re my idol. Now put Mother on the phone so I can get you retired.”
Her body tensed when Beverly’s voice came closer in the background, chatting the whole way about some early fundraiser she orchestrated in preparation for the next campaign. Lawton said nothing more than, “Talk to your daughter. Be nice to her.”
Scuffling as the phone was exchanged. “Callie?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, but we need to talk. Don’t get upset, now.”
Beverly gave a ladylike snort. “That’s a warning for sure. What is it, dear?”
“It’s about Daddy. He’s missing Jeb. And I propose something that won’t set well with you.”
“Oh, it’s probably not as bad as you think. I’m a fairly grounded woman.”
“Well, how about letting Daddy retire. Let him bow out of politics and enjoy time on his own terms, doing what he wants. Y’all could travel. You could—”
“He doesn’t want that,” Beverly said, her voice turning cool.
“Talk to him. He might surprise you.”
The silence only stiffened Callie’s shoulders. More silence. She couldn’t stand it. “What, Mother?”
“Is this something you talked him into?”
Oh geez. “Seriously?”
“I’m not happy about this revelation. Don’t pry into our lives.”
“Maybe it wasn’t my idea.”
“Sure it was. Your father would’ve run it by me first,” Beverly said.
Callie pushed up from her Adirondack. “Maybe he did, and you weren’t listening.”
“Oh, I think I’d remember that, dear.”
Callie grit her teeth, holding back curses for the woman who’d spawned her. “Daddy has donated his life to public service. Middleton is fine, so let him bow out on a high. Give him a chance to sleep in, go fishing, do nothing. He never gets a day off.”
“He has much left to accomplish.”
“Damn it, Mother. It’s his career, not yours.”
Callie could hear the television vaguely in the background playing a Burger King commercial. Dishes clanked, her father pretending to be busy in the kitchen.
Beverly’s ire came across in her pause, before saying, “I need to go.”
“I’m sure you do.” Callie hung up, scowling at the perfect storm that continually brewed between her and her mother, wondering how Beverly would play it out to Lawton.
She jammed the phone into her pocket and mumbled, “Don’t think I did you any favors this time, Daddy. But then, you asked.”
“Mom?” Jeb shouted.
“What?” Callie hollered back.
The screen door opened. A smiling Sprite glided out as if walking on oil. Callie’s mind strayed to thoughts of the girl belly dancing, bending backward, smoothly shaking her assets in her son’s face. Jeb followed, smitten from the size of his grin. “We’re going out,” he said.
“Well, try not to make any babies,” she mumbled.
“What, Mom?”
“Try to stay safe,” she said louder.
“You always say that. You worry too much.” He led his date down the stairs.
“Wait,” Callie said. “Who’s driving?”
Sprite raised her hand. “I’ll be careful with him, Ms. Morgan.”
Callie grinned and raised a hand in return. “I’m sure you will, sweetheart.”
Chapter 17
CALLIE AWOKE replaying Beverly’s accusations about planting retirement into Lawton’s head. Give the man some credit. He’d served as mayor of Middleton for twenty-eight years. She shifted her attentions to more pleasing thoughts of newly painted steps.
The house seemed still in slumber. The surf’s whisper drifted ever so lightly through her locked window between the random traffic rumbling down Jungle Road. From the quiet, Jeb either slept late or fished with Zeus. She found his bed made and phone gone. Sprite jumped to mind, and Callie searched her memory. Yes, Jeb did come in last night, sometime around one. She scrunched her eyes shut. Was she seriously thinking about having an adult talk with her son about sex?
She dressed, drank a half glass of sweet tea, and headed to the beach for her run. Yesterday contained no crisis, except for the family kind, and for a change the concept of living at Edisto had palatability.
She needed to prioritize who to interview now that she’d handled Mason. Not that she’d handled him that well. He now knew more about her than vice versa. Mrs. Hanson seemed to like her. Maybe she’d start there.
She stared down the beach, the silhouette of Water Spout so obvious. Until Mason returned to Canada, she assumed he’d continue to watch for opportunities to woo her. His rental made for a suitable observation platform for a major section of the beach, especially with a telescope, which she wouldn’t be surprised existed the way he magically appeared when she ran.
Not ten minutes into her stride, he caught up with her. “Missed you yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t go too far with the grape sodas, did I? I’m still sorry about not taking you seriously about . . . you know.”
She pulled out her ear buds and tucked them into her shirt. Her opinions about the man swayed one way, then the other. Sophie had told him Callie was on a diet from booze, yet he’d slipped her those grape sodas. But the chivalry that followed, to include that delicate, sweet kiss, almost made up for his shenanigan. Frankly, the burden had been on her to not accept a drink.
“No apology necessary,” she said. “I’m having the stairs refinished. Repairman showed up early and I’d forgotten the paint. Had to forego the run.”
“Ah.” He jogged clean and steady, matching her. They paralleled the ebbing water, keeping on the moist part of the beach for ease. “You’re still using Peters, right?”
Callie tried to focus on her beat. “Yep.”
He rippled a brow. “I enjoyed our date, Ms. Morgan.”
“A light kiss, Mr. Howard. Nothing more.”
“A kiss is a kiss,” he said. “Anyway, let’s see what you got.” He picked up speed, and she let him take off ahead. Noticing her absence, he soon returned. “Not up to it?”
She put her buds in her ears. “I need to think, not compete. Go ahead.”
Instead, he slowed, staying in her blind spot one stride behind her. She almost felt bad not playing along with him, but she needed her thoughts. He’d probably peel off somewhere en route.
As she did in her Boston runs, she dissected the recent crimes in her head.
The amazing thing about this criminal was his appeal for daylight activity. Highly unusual. By day, beach activity and throngs of visitors absorbed the department’s attention, but more people could catch the thief in the act. He was street smart. He knew how to blend in. And he had a penchant for Jungle Road. Did he live there?
Was she so sure it was a man? Nothing required strength. No DNA, except maybe on the glasses the thief drank from at Mrs. Hanson’s and the Rosewoods’. But such a test was expensive. She couldn’t see Edisto Beach or Colleton County forking out money for DNA testing just to define male or female. Boston wouldn’t even bother.
Boston. If she were there, she’d have so many cases. Here she could easily fall into an obsession with just one. Not that she even had a case. She could have it if she took Seabrook up on his offer to help the PD, to work for the PD.
She still wished she’d taken him up on his dinner offer. And what was her abhorrence to calling him Mike?
She rounded the curve t
oward the sound. About three miles. Amazing progress with a clear head.
A family of four huddled around something. She slowed, pensive, hoping it wasn’t what she suspected. Tourists often caught sea life and held it, put it in cups, passed it around, studying nature up close, not realizing the damage they did.
Sure enough, a child about six years old held up an eight-inch baby hammerhead shark by the tail. The dad stepped back with a camera. “Smile and hold it up high,” he said, the mother and younger sister enthralled at the pose.
Callie slowed to a walk, and still panting heavily, she detoured toward their Kodak moment. “Please don’t do that,” she told the dad.
The thirty-year-old man eyed her up and down. “It’s a damn shark.”
“That animal’s part of this eco-system, a living creature. That shark probably won’t live as it is, but at least give it a chance.” She turned to the mother. “If nothing else, don’t teach your child to kill. Would you let him suffocate a kitten or a puppy?”
Sheepish, the mother went to her son, and holding his shoulders, directed him toward the water. The child threw the shark back in the surf, not as gently as Callie would have done, but at least it was back in its environment.
“Thank you,” Callie said, then promptly turned on her heel to avoid a scene. Time to head toward home.
Twenty yards later, a voice said, “Impressive. Touching, even.”
Callie about jumped out of her sneakers. “Oh geez, Mason, I practically forgot about you.”
He laughed loud and easy. “Nothing practically about it. You did forget. Thought you cops had this super sense about you.”
“Out of practice,” she said, her heart a tad faster than she liked to admit. She had forgotten he was there.
He escorted her back to the sidewalk on Palmetto Boulevard, going past his rental. Conversation danced from sharks to wildlife to what they loved about the beach. Soon Chelsea Morning appeared a block down.
“You didn’t have to walk me home,” she said, her shirt drenched, hair matted to her sweaty temples. They crossed the road to her house. Peters’ truck sat in the drive.
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 17