“Male animals have hackles.”
He grunted. “What are hackles anyway?”
“Stan.”
Unfolding his legs, he rested elbows on his knees. “What do you shore people do for dinner down here? Is it the same? Crabs and lobster? Can I take you out someplace? And I didn’t see a hotel. Do I go further down the road or what? This place is in the middle of nowhere.”
“More like shrimp, snapper, tuna, mahi mahi, sea bass, flounder, grouper.”
“Hmph, listen to you. A shore native already.”
“It’s beach, not shore. I told you that. And we aren’t going anywhere. I have the fixings for a shrimp dinner right here. You can stay in Jeb’s room or upstairs in the guestroom, assuming you don’t mind pastels and a twin bed.”
“Don’t want to put you out,” Stan said from his seat as Callie went to the freezer and set two pounds of shrimp on the counter.
Peering around the open refrigerator door, she shook her head at the man. “You’re the best thing that could have happened to me at this moment. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” She drank in the crisp coldness of the appliance. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”
The doorbell rang.
“Want me to get that?” Stan asked.
She hesitated, and he noticed. Before she decided whether the local crowd needed to know about Stan, or whether she wanted to start accepting their condolences, he took charge and strolled to the door.
“May I help you?” she heard him say.
“Colleton Deputy Don Raysor.”
“Hey, Don. Stan Waltham. Come on in. Nice to finally meet you.”
Callie stiffly entered the foyer, noting that the men greeted each other like college buddies. “What do you want, Don?”
The ruddy-faced deputy held his cap. “Came to tell you I’m sorry for your loss, Callie. And to see if that rental belonged to who I thought it did.” He turned to Stan. “How was the trip, my man?”
“Good, good,” Stan said.
Callie sensed a set up, and the fact Stan was involved cut into her gut. “What the hell is this?”
Raysor smirked.
Stan, however, stepped toward Callie and took her arm. “He contacted me about your daddy, Callie.”
“Whatever.”
He avoided taking sides. “I know, but he at least showed concern.”
Bullshit. “He also accused me of interfering with their police work and fraternizing with an officer.” Her voice had escalated, and she fought it. The last thing she wanted to do was demonstrate weakness in front of Raysor. “He cornered and threatened me.”
Stan peered at Raysor who lightly shrugged.
She surprisingly thought of having to re-sage her house with this sleaze under her roof. For the first time, Chelsea Morning took on a sense of refuge, and she wasn’t having that fragile retreat violated.
“Get out,” she ordered in a voice once reserved for arrests.
“Fine,” Raysor said, backing up, as if innocently accused but too polite to cause a scene.
“Okay, well, thanks for checking on me, Don.” Stan took the man to the porch for another handshake then returned inside.
Callie waited beside the hallway credenza, seething.
Betrayed.
She shrugged off Stan’s touch once he came back in. The fire in her chest grew, and if she didn’t contain it, it would turn cold, then into a full-bore anxiety attack. She counted in her head.
“Chicklet,” he said. “Jesus Christ, what’s going on with you? You’ve been scattered since I arrived.”
She pivoted back toward the kitchen. Banging and clanging, she set a boiling pot on the stove for the shrimp. Stan watched from the edge of her bar as she began peeling potatoes.
What else, what else? She shoved aside mayonnaise, milk, pickles. She needed groceries. No coleslaw. No corn. Nothing else went with shrimp. Slamming the refrigerator shut, she threw fists on hips, lost what to do next, muscles twitching.
Stan slowly walked in and placed the shrimp back in the freezer. “Come on. I’m taking you out. Wining and dining, remember?”
She turned on him like a provoked dog. “These people don’t need to know about you. I don’t like them knowing anything about me. And Don doesn’t need to be in my business.”
Stan waved his arms out. “Fuck ’em! What difference does it make?”
The Stan she knew was smarter than this. “It gives them more targets, Stan! The more they know about me and mine, the more damage they can do. Somebody out there is messing with me, can’t you see that? Who says it’s not Raysor?”
By now her entire body shivered.
He came over and embraced her, rubbing up and down her back. “Shhh. Settle down. We’ll sort this all out. And I’m a big boy, in case you hadn’t noticed. Let me decide if I can handle being the talk of the shore.”
Callie wanted to correct his shore to beach again, but instead grit her teeth. Stan rocked with her. For long, slow minutes they let time pass with no noise except the occasional sound of tires on asphalt as tourists drove down Jungle Road and birdsong in the palmettos growing outside her kitchen window.
She ate up the hug, his breath in her hair, and the slow movement of his massive palm on her back as if he offered her water after two parched days in the desert. She couldn’t help but drink it in.
Chapter 22
ONCE CALLIE CHANGED into fresh clothes, Stan drove her to seek dinner. Three p.m. She directed him toward the Wyndham, hunkered in her seat, still pondering the tete-a-tete between him and Raysor. The deputy’s past behavior didn’t jibe with what had happened on her step. Stan, her last bastion of strength, chummy with the man who hated her most on Edisto.
They wound up at Grover’s, the most discrete eatery on the beach. Soft jazz played in the background. Few people populated the higher-end golf-resort bar and restaurant, since most tourists preferred the sandwich and pizza places.
Stan crossed the hardwood floor to the bar that bordered the empty dining room, and Callie hung back, not wanting to appear needy for a drink. Stan spoke to the waiter, then came back to escort Callie to a bistro table off in a corner. He held out the tall chair as she hopped up, then he settled into his own. Meal order placed, they sat silent.
The waiter arrived and placed a gin and tonic before her and a Scotch and water in front of Stan. Flashing back to her date with Mason, she hesitated at the thought of yet another man pushing a drink at her. She reached inside herself for a reason not to drink it . . . or a better reason to chug it down. She didn’t order a drink on purpose, but once it was there, she justified its existence. Her life was a mess . . . amen.
Then she sat there, not speaking a word, wringing the empty glass.
Stan studied her a second, then waved at the waiter for a refill.
“Go over this entire situation, Morgan. From the day you arrived to the day I got here. The crazies, the straights, the situations, the clues the PD don’t take seriously, and your gut. Throw it all on the table. I take it you got no place better to be?”
Callie shook her head. “Nope. I’m unemployed, uprooted to a new place, and have no connections to anybody, no goals, no future whatsoever.”
“I get it, Chicklet.”
No, he didn’t. No damn way he could. His congeniality with Raysor was like John having coffee with one of her perps. The two had no business together.
“Pretend we’re in my office. If it takes a couple of drinks to settle your ass down, then fine,” he said, then he seemed to change his mind. “Unless you ought not be drinking.”
“I can drink,” she said, not wanting to lose it now.
Then Stan sat and listened as the gin loosened her up, sometimes inserting a question, but for the most part he gave her the floor. By the end of
dinner, they conversed easily, just as they’d done long ago.
Stan wiped the butter on his empty plate of flounder with a last bite of yeast roll. “Hmph. Never thought I’d eat grits.” He washed the swallow down with his water, his one drink emptied an hour ago. “On the porch, I told Raysor to take you seriously, by the way. So you wasted all that mad energy.”
Callie shoved half of her BLT away and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “He’s an ass. He cornered me behind bushes in my drive, talking about dumping my body in the marsh. Still love the guy?”
“He tested you, Morgan, that’s all. He thinks you’re a lightweight, but neither one of you knows about the other’s past.” He set his napkin on the table. “At least he called and tried to find out more. You never asked me to check him out.”
“He’s a cop,” she said, hunting for a reason.
“Don’t take this wrong.”
She snorted a laugh. “I can imagine what that means.” She waved at the waiter.
“No more drinks,” Stan said.
“I’m not on duty, sir. And like I said, I have no place to be. Hell, I’ve got you as my designated driver.”
He didn’t find her remark humorous, his eyes sad while she ordered her fourth gin. “I thought the old Callie Morgan would eventually come back. Maybe to Boston PD, but more so in terms of personality. But she seems lost somewhere.”
“She is lost . . .” Callie trailed off, swirled her glass of half-melted ice, and gazed toward the long windows where a huge wash of sunshine reflected off the landscaped greenery. This was the fatherly side of Stan. The side she liked the least. The side that had often kept her in check back in the day. The fourth gin arrived. She sipped the crisp, unwatered-down freshness of it.
Sophie walked in, an unidentified woman friend with her. She waved, cocked her head at Stan, and started to come over.
Shit. Now what?
Callie gave a tiny shake of her head. Sophie halted, winked, and returned to her dinner partner.
“Let’s go, Stan. People are starting to come in.” Callie dropped off the tall chair and misstepped.
Touching the small of her back, Stan led her to the exit. “So who don’t you want to see me?”
“Everybody,” she said. “You’re my secret weapon, and they might use you against me. Raysor already tried.”
His mouth went askew in a playful manner. “Makes me feel loved, Morgan. So we go back to your place, or you want to show off your beach?”
A small grin creased her mouth. “You got beach right. I’m proud of you, Boss.”
Callie wasn’t about to show the man the main sand, either end of it, and especially not the in between where she’d dashed about armed in her frantic search for Jeb. And the last thing she needed was for Mason to jog up, all curious and eager for details.
So she guided Stan off incorporated Edisto Beach, up Highway 174, to the more secluded Botany Bay. They parked and strolled to the narrow causeway, a three-quarter mile boardwalk to the beach across a vista of marsh and water birds hunting clams and fiddler crabs, fringed by cabbage palmetto, wax myrtles, and oaks.
He scanned the flora. “Different.”
“History,” she said, avoiding the edge of the walk due to her unsteady gait. “Over three thousand acres protected in its original state. You don’t swim here, too dangerous. It’s a rustic stretch of water, so no hordes of tourists and kids.”
Stan draped an arm over her shoulder. “I like this. Kinda humid, but at least there’s a breeze. How do you feel?”
“Drunk.”
He encircled her shoulder and shook it a bit. “That’s all right. Relax for a change.”
She nestled into his hulk of a shape and let him guide her toward the water. “When I’m clearheaded, I can show you more. Daddy brought me out here many times.” Her speech broke at the sudden memory. “It’s two cotton plantations, owned by the Townsends back before the War.”
“Which war?”
She rolled her eyes. “The War of Northern Aggression, silly.”
He chuckled. “Oh, that war. The war means Revolutionary in my parts.”
“Well, you people actually controlled this area for a while,” she said.
He hugged her. “Well, I’m glad we gave it back.”
They reached the sand. Stan took in a deep, belly-bulging inhale. “Very nice, indeed.”
She left the protection of his arm, enchanted by the water. En route she wove in and out of the wooden boneyard that displayed skeletons of leafless oak trees reaching up to scratch the sky. As expected, only a few visitors wandered. She kicked off her shoes.
Waves rolled in around her ankles, then receded, taking sand from under her toes. She sidestepped to keep her balance and let it happen again, now a yard farther into the surf. A particularly big wave rushed in and splashed up to her knees. With a wobble, she tried to lift a leg to reposition, but the water impeded her effort. Stan caught her before she fell.
His rolled up khakis showed meaty calves not nearly as tanned as the men around the Lowcountry, his socks and shoes back on the beach. He half-grinned as she checked out his legs. “Five hundred dollar Italian loafers and salt water don’t mix,” he said.
Callie rolled her shoulders then stretched out her arms to the side, then over her head. “I think John smiled on us just now,” she said.
“I know how you must miss him, Chicklet.”
She let her arms drop, following the movement to gaze down to the water where tiny shells and sand grains tumbled and flickered in the sun and then rolled swept away. “Yes, I do. But Papa B’s murder shifted my reality somewhat.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the back and forth of the moving beach under the water. “John’s turning into my past, Stan.” She faced back toward the water’s horizon, eyes moist.
Stan patted her back.
“I’m sorry,” she said and wiped her eyes. “How are you?”
His shrug seemed small and pitiful on such a huge body. “I’m in a small apartment not far from the office. Gives me more time at work.”
Callie couldn’t imagine losing someone still living. “Aww, Stan.”
His shadow of a grin thanked her. “Mindy could have taken her career in other directions, but she stayed with me and my job. Guess it bothered her more than I thought. My twelve-hour days at the department didn’t help. She says she gave it her all, and I didn’t appreciate her sacrifice.”
This time Callie wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned against him. He squeezed her close, petting her back.
Callie was first to pull loose. She shook off the relentless melancholy and moved back from the water. “Come, let’s sit.” She tottered ahead to sit ungraciously on a fallen tree trunk, the hollowed out sand around it showing that others had held the same idea. Feet dug in, legs stiff and straight, she perched on the horizontal three-foot thick tree.
“As far as the other stuff around here, sounds like someone in the community has a vendetta,” Stan said, as the tree shivered slightly under his weight. “If you still worked for me, I’d start with gathering history on everyone. Since you have this bad vibe about Raysor, and a hint of one about Seabrook, start with them. Want me to help you with that when I get back?”
She nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Then I need to see what’s up on the neighbors who were broken into. What their backgrounds are. I can use Seabrook for that, keeping him close while using him.”
“There you go,” Stan said. “Who else?”
“The lady you saw at Grover’s. Sophie Bianchi. I doubt she’s an issue, but I’m not sure about her son or her ex. Then Peters, the contractor. I guess some of the real estate agents.” She turned and almost fell off the tree. “Henry Beechum’s son is real high on my list, though. Pauley wasn’t necessarily in Florida, and frankly, I wouldn’t put it
past him to kill his daddy for the money. Nobody on Edisto likes him.”
They went around and around with supposed motives and insinuations, Callie’s spirits uplifted by the mental exercise. Stan had helped her define her focus and feel better about herself. She hoped she’d done the same for him, though she couldn’t see how.
Almost nobody left on the sand, a few couples walked toward their cars. The sun settled, its dying light off toward the west, making foamy saltwater wave tips shine yellow and orange with spits of white as they curled over and softly exploded onto the ocean floor. Even with her senses muted from the drinks, Callie’s heart picked up its pace. They might have waited around a bit too long.
She gripped a limb crooked at a forty-five degree angle to balance her. “We need to go.”
Stan frowned. “Why?”
She headed toward the boardwalk, jittery. “Because . . . it’s late.”
“But it’s not.” He faced the sea. “Check out those boats on the horizon. Sure wish I had binoculars. And the light. This is just remarkable, Chicklet. Let yourself bask in the evening. Come.” He held out his arm. “Let’s talk some more. It’ll be good for you.”
“No, Stan!”
A glower fell over him. “What the hell is wrong . . .” Then realization showed in his eyes.
The late sun caused the shadows behind Callie to deepen, the ocean roaring. The waves, however, reflected brighter. Flickering. He reached for her at the sudden understanding.
But she bolted and ran for the parking lot.
The boardwalk strung out forever, her footfalls pounding wood, then sand. As she dashed around two older women, she tripped. Touching ground for balance, she righted herself and took off again. She finally made it to Stan’s car and yanked. Locked! She spun and searched for a haven. Stan hustled up the walk awkwardly, shoes in hand.
Callie ran to him. “Give me your keys!”
He rummaged his pocket and tossed them to her.
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 23