Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries)

by C. Hope Clark

  Huge wet splotches saturated the shirt under Mason’s arms, and across his chest, down his back. But his odor measured little more than that of warm aftershave. “I don’t have to escort you, but in case you haven’t heard, there’s a killer on the loose. Besides, I want to talk to this guy doing your repair work. See if he’s okay.”

  “He’s fine, Mason. And don’t touch the new paint.” She took his arm and steered him away from the front steps with their yellow caution tape tied around the railings.

  Mason smiled. She let him go, awkward at his enjoyment of her touch. “He’d be around back,” she said. “What do you think of what’s done already?”

  Mason felt the smooth rail. “Decent job. Good price? The owners of my place do a helluva job keeping me happy, so I might do a few minor repairs as thanks.”

  “I guess they do want you happy with what you’re paying for that place.” Water Spout stood in a rental class all its own with fame and notoriety often accompanying each tenant. She scouted for Peters. “He charges a very reasonable price. But you have to provide dinner.”

  Peters’ tools sprawled random across her back step, the toolbox open, but no sign of recent work.

  “Well, another time,” she said, a foot on the bottom step. “He must be checking out a different house. I think he juggles several jobs at one time.”

  Mason leaned over for a kiss, and she held him at bay with a hand to the chest, feeling much more in control in the daylight. “Not this time, Mr. Howard.”

  “You’re going to make us fight over you, huh?” He leaned against her, not yet persuaded to fall back.

  “Us?”

  “Mike and me.”

  She outstared him, not falling prey to his ribbing. “I need a shower, and you need to go find another flirt. You want a water before you go?”

  “In the shower?”

  She mildly shoved him and headed up the steps. “See you later, Mason.” She glanced back as she locked the door, and he was gone.

  Once in her shower, warm water rolled over her, but she couldn’t place herself back into the sensual mood of the previous morning. She dressed, grabbed a banana, and went outside. Peters sanded away at the top steps.

  “Where you been?” she asked. “Someone was interested in hiring you.”

  Peters wiped his forehead with his free hand, the other resting on the sander. “I ran across the street. Got into my toolbox and realized I left a couple things at the water heater job. People just leave my belongings on their porches when I do that, so I was checking the last two places I worked.” He ran a leathered palm across the freshly sanded wood. “Okay for you?”

  She swallowed the last of her breakfast. “You do wonderful work, Peters. No wonder people use you so much.”

  He gave her a lopsided grin, lowered protective glasses over his eyes, and resumed sanding, the electric tool rotating under his careful guidance.

  She leaned against the railing, enjoying the lukewarm breeze off the marsh, observing a couple walking their Water Spaniel down Jungle Shores’ silt-based road. One would think living at an address where the front and back of a house exited on roads would make the noise factor an issue, but the beach was several blocks away, as was the main road. She preferred the peace of a silent marsh to the raucous pounding of the ocean anyway. The two-way drive was just convenience.

  The sander droned, but Callie thought she heard someone approaching during its pauses. Sophie soon appeared in cargo pants that molded around her buns just so, and a tank top that accented upper assets Callie suspected were augmented by her ex-husband’s pocketbook.

  “Zucchini muffins,” Sophie exclaimed, lofting a picnic basket in the air. “With flaxseed.”

  “You must own stock in the flax industry,” Callie said, accepting the muffins. She opened an edge of the cover and held it out to Peters, who wasted no time taking the warm treat and forcing himself to take a break. Sophie’s tightly-toned hip backed up to sit atop the picnic table.

  Callie opened the back door. “Be back in a sec with some tea. Or does anyone want coffee? Water?”

  In the kitchen, she pulled out tea glasses per everyone’s request and opened the refrigerator. Grabbing the pitcher, she shut the fridge and scanned outside the front window as she passed, forever scouting for anything amiss.

  “Oh my gosh,” she exclaimed, setting the pitcher on her counter, tea sloshing out, and grabbed her cell phone.

  A young adult man held onto a porch post at his house across the street and one address down to the right. His other hand pressed against his head. Re-gripping the post, as if about to lose his bearing, he yelled meekly for help.

  She dashed out the front, ripped the yellow tape loose, and leaped down the freshly repaired staircase. At the bottom, as she waited for three cars to pass, she dialed 9-1-1.

  As she reached the place, Seabrook came running up from her left, no siren, no lights, no uniform. Not even a cruiser.

  “Sit,” she said, assisting the injured man to a chaise.

  “9-1-1. How may I assist you?”

  Callie tossed her cell to Seabrook as he reached her side. He’d know dispatch and get things going quicker.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, studying the guy’s curly brown hair, trying to analyze a wound that didn’t seem to have a source. Blood ran from above and behind his ear, a trickle down his neck. At first glance not severe, but head wounds were deceiving and unpredictable.

  “Steve . . . Maxwell.”

  He tried to feel his head, and Callie lightly blocked him. “Don’t touch. Medical attention’s on its way. What happened?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, shaking his head, then stopping as a wave of dizziness obviously disturbed the effort. “Somebody please get my wife.”

  Callie stooped in front of him. “Where is she?”

  Seabrook, no longer occupied with dispatch, leaned over beside her, radio at the ready. “I’ll send a unit to get her. Where?”

  “On the beach with our son. He’s three. Near entrance eighteen. Both are blond.”

  “Good,” Callie said. “You just worry about you now.”

  “Guess I’m the next robbery on y’all’s list,” he said with a wince.

  Seabrook lowered his radio. “Come again, sir?”

  “I think I must have walked in on the guy.” Steve squinted, peering up at the tall officer. “Saw the coin on the table next to a glass. Went closer, then found myself waking up from kissing the floor.”

  “Stay here,” Seabrook told Callie, then he disappeared inside.

  “Is this your home?” she asked the man. “You’re a resident here?”

  He started to nod and remembered not to. “Yes. Watched you move in. Been meaning to come over and welcome you to the street.”

  Before Seabrook returned, an ambulance pulled up, two EMTs soon reaching Maxwell’s side. Callie left them to their business and entered the house. Seabrook sniffed the goblet at the table without touching, a 1972 Eisenhower silver dollar smiling back from a prominent place beside it.

  “Mimosa,” Seabrook said.

  “He drinks whatever’s handy,” she said. “It’s more statement than drinking style.” The glass was half empty. He’d enjoyed his drink, taking too much time, apparently, since the owner came home before the intruder could leave.

  “No pitcher in the refrigerator, so nothing handy about it,” Seabrook said. “He mixed himself one drink after opening a bottle of champagne. The foil’s next to the sink, some of the champagne spewed on the counter. I’ll ask them later if they opened a bottle before they headed to the beach, but I doubt it. This is the only used glass.”

  Callie noted the toddler toys, a blanket on the sofa, a sippy cup in the sink. Nothing seemed disturbed. She moved back to the porch, Seabrook behind her. T
he EMTs escorted Maxwell down the steps, Mrs. Maxwell now shadowing them, the child in her arms. An Edisto unit parked behind the ambulance, the uniform from the hardware store standing nearby as if awaiting instructions, gesturing gawkers to keep driving past.

  Seabrook and Callie scanned the activity below, neighbors hovering on the fringes one and two doors down. “You’ll have to ask the Maxwells later about what’s missing,” she said.

  Sophie and Peters waited at her place, shielding sun from their eyes, Mason next to them holding Sophie’s arm, most likely to hold her back from interfering.

  Seabrook noticed the oglers. “You can go back, if you like.”

  Callie followed his gaze. “I’d rather help than stand around. Makes me feel safer. But that’s no reflection on you and your guys. It’s just—”

  “Proactivity beats waiting. I get that.”

  She tilted her head toward the uniform guiding traffic. “I’d keep your officer camped out here until the Maxwells return. Put some crime scene tape up.”

  “I get that too, Ms. Morgan.”

  She drew back. “What happened to Callie?”

  “Just keeping it professional,” he said.

  It didn’t sound that way to her. “You’re in jeans, and you show up on foot. Do you live that close, or are you up to something?”

  “Just freelancing,” he said.

  “So I heard. A special of some kind?”

  “Something like that.”

  She moved directly into his line of vision to capture his whole attention. “What’s sticking in your craw?”

  “Craw. We’re falling back on our southern roots, are we?”

  She followed his gaze, which had settled on the trio across the street. “You know I ate at Whaley’s with Mason Howard.”

  His jaw tightened.

  Hers tightened more. “Seriously?”

  “Something about that guy makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck,” he said. “Told you that before. You need to be careful.”

  She wasn’t believing this conversation. “It was dinner. Very innocent and very none of your business.”

  His facial muscles moved under the skin.

  “I told him like I told you,” she said. “I’m not interested.” She started down the stairs, then in a second’s decision, turned to make an even clearer point. “Get your priorities straight, Officer Seabrook. While you’re worried about whom I date, I’m losing sleep over who’s skulking around this street, and yes, it’s just this street, picking on the residents and shooting your police department the bird as he evades your remarkable prowess.”

  He dropped his stare to her. “What does that mean?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “It means I watch my back and trust damn few people. I’m retreating into my place and barring the doors until you and your force catch this guy. It’s obvious my assistance isn’t needed, though pray tell show me any progress. And maybe it’s time you held a town meeting and let everyone know what’s happened . . . and what you intend to do about it.”

  “We voice mailed and emailed everyone on the beach.”

  “I didn’t get the message,” she said.

  “Then I suggest you give your email and phone number to the police.”

  “Makes you wonder who else didn’t get it.” Her eyes narrowed. “Anyway, check the nanny cam.”

  His face changed, interested. “What?”

  “The Maxwells have a small child. They probably go out and leave him with a sitter. See if there’s a cam or two and what rooms they cover. If they can afford this beach house, they can afford cams.” She strutted back across the road. At least Mason didn’t care if Seabrook showed an interest in her; the playboy considered her a challenge.

  Sophie met her first, venturing into the road and walking her back to the group. “What happened?”

  “Another break-in,” Callie said with clipped words.

  “Anyone hurt?” Mason asked.

  “Don’t think so,” she replied. “But it seems our burglar panicked, knocking the homeowner over the head.”

  Peters stared at the house. “Wait, I thought this guy was just stealing little stuff and having a drink. Just being nosy.”

  Raysor’s words echoed in her head about the contractor being the prime suspect, but Peters appeared genuinely concerned about the injury. “He’s getting bolder,” she said, then faced Sophie. “Please lock your doors.”

  Sophie took her arm. “What else happened?”

  “You’re making me want to say move along, people,” Callie replied, not keen on sharing. “Seabrook will take it from here.”

  “Humph.” Sophie’s nose lifted in a pout.

  “I got work to do anyway,” Peters said, stopping at the broken tape on Callie’s steps to retie it.

  “Don’t trust that guy,” Mason murmured as Peters left.

  “You said that already. Why are you even here? You left to go home,” Callie said.

  “As a chuckle, I wanted to remind you about the party again, though my event pales in light of all this thievery and violence. However, the invitation still stands, even with you grumpy.” He grinned. “I’d be happy to escort you there and back. Hate the idea of you being alone.”

  Sophie winked and turned away, overplaying the drama of acting invisible.

  “Sophie, too,” he said. “So nobody can call it a date.”

  The yoga maven spun around. “Oh, please come, Callie. Please?”

  “What is with you two?” Callie exclaimed. “The neighborhood is going to pot, and the party is still on? No, sorry. I’m not in a partying mood.”

  Mason donned a sad-cow-eyed look. “Hiding at home and shutting down our lives won’t cure anything.”

  Callie maintained her disgust, but Mason’s comment resurfaced a thought. The party could host a slew of suspects. It could also occupy people, giving the burglar easy pickings.

  He gave her a short nod. “Well, let me be on my way then. I have a ball to prepare for,” he said as he slightly stooped at the waist.

  Sophie giggled like someone a third her age. “Me, too. You’ll still come retrieve me, Mason? I won’t rebuff your intentions.”

  Callie walked away, their dramatics irritating. The crime pattern was becoming blatantly apparent. Full-time residents of the beach. She should lay this out on paper, study the crimes, analyze the similarities and the differences. She was missing a serious connection, but wasn’t sure she knew enough about the players to be able to tell. Seabrook would know, and together they might uncover some clue from the facts, but he seemed rather juvenile at the moment.

  “Callie,” Mason called and fast-walked back to her, Sophie having returned home.

  Not again.

  “Had a comment I didn’t want Sophie to hear,” he said. “Peters either.”

  “And what would that be?” she asked, expecting more plastic endearments.

  “Where did Seabrook come from? No car, no uniform.”

  She found it uncomfortable discussing Seabrook with Mason.

  “You noticed, too,” he said. “I could tell. He lives across the street from me on Palmetto Boulevard in Seaswept. And he wasn’t attired for jogging, so what was he up to?”

  “I know what you’re doing, and thanks for the warning.”

  “Trust me. I see things.”

  “Later, Mason.”

  She went inside. Leaning against the kitchen counter drinking her watered-down tea, Callie decided she’d been premature making friends on this island. These people were too intertwined with each other, making them blind to who might be running this crime spree. And if she got overly involved with them, she’d be just as blind.

  No longer would she take hospitality and neighborly attention at face value. The deepe
r she let anyone into her life, the more she risked. A murderer, a robber, whatever he or they were, she’d let the police catch him before she opened up to beach society.

  Everyone at arm’s length now.

  She called Jeb, identifying his location and estimated arrival. When he came home, they’d have a chat again about whether Edisto’s ambience was worth weathering such rampant crime. Boston had had its share of violence. She got that. But she’d run from Russians for too long not to ignore the fact that five houses within sight of her front porch had been violated. She’d be a fool not to think she was somewhere next on the list.

  Chapter 18

  THE CHAT WITH Jeb did not go well. He blew up when she tightened his leash, requiring a check-in call every hour. But when she’d hinted about Edisto maybe not suiting their short-term needs, he tried to walk away, a reaction fast becoming habit.

  “Don’t you leave this room until we’re done,” Callie scolded.

  He spun around. “It hasn’t been a week, Mom. A damn week, and you’re wanting to run away. Thought we had a New Year’s agreement.”

  Her fist had been on her hip so long her hand had fallen asleep. “Murder. Grand theft. Burglary. Aggravated assault in the commission of a felony. Those sound reasonable enough for concern?”

  His young biceps bulged as he crossed his arms. “You sound like a cop again.”

  “What do you expect?”

  “And what town is completely safe?” he asked. “Recognize this for what it is, Mom. You’re running. Running away from”—he waved around his face—“. . . from whatever forces keep messing with your head.”

  She flicked her hand out toward his face, then placed it back on her hip. “I quit the profession for the both of us. But if I can’t help solve the crime, I need to avoid it. That’s what the smart civilian does. I don’t fully trust the local police to solve this. In the meantime, you follow my rules until the final decision is made. And I’ll do research on a new security system.”