Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries)

by C. Hope Clark

  “Awww.” Sophie rushed over. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me. You just caught me unawares, is all. But you need to watch yourself with this robber on the loose. You could run into him.”

  Callie walked toward her. “You could have saved us all this trouble, Sophie.”

  Sophie shrugged. “I came in, saw the back of a man in my house and hauled butt to your place.”

  “I think we’re done,” Seabrook said. “Soon as you pick up there, you can go, Peters.”

  “Gotcha, thanks,” the man replied. “Hey, Callie, while you’re here . . . can I collect my money?”

  She frowned at his nonchalance. “I’ll put it in my mailbox when I get back.”

  He jammed his belongings in his pants pockets.

  “Peters?” Callie asked. “You’re not bothered we suspected you?”

  “Not really. I didn’t do it,” he replied. “Y’all would figure that out. Now what about dinner?”

  “Can’t.” Callie had no desire to let this guy grow accustomed to the inside of her home now. He already admitted he’d tried her door. She motioned for Seabrook to follow her to the back porch. “Can we talk?”

  As the glass door closed, Seabrook touched her elbow. “Sorry again about your daddy.”

  She reflected back to that night Seabrook had broken the news to them. He’d been so calm, so sympathetic, and had followed Jeb and her most of the way to Beverly’s place. “Yeah, thanks so much for how you handled it. I asked them to reanalyze the details. Daddy doesn’t drive into trees.”

  Seabrook just listened, much like the Middleton chief had.

  “Anyway,” she started.

  “How’d you injure the arm?”

  She pulled it against her body. “Old wound, bad habit.”

  His words hung up, as if he changed what he had to say. Callie sensed a waffling conflict between cop and doctor, and under other circumstances, would’ve appreciated the concern.

  “Regardless how Sophie’s break-in turned out,” Seabrook continued, “I’m glad you called us. The guy might not have been Peters.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you held a town meeting?” While Edisto needed its tourists, it also needed to be vigilant and let tenants and residents alike know about the break-ins.

  “Already did,” he replied. “While you were in Middleton. Had to keep it pretty general, though. Just told people to lock their doors and report anyone unusual. What else we going to tell them?” He seemed to gnaw the inside of his cheek.

  “What?” she asked, noticing he held something back.

  “Your name came up.”

  She wasn’t surprised. “So?”

  “Some think you have the talent to do these burglaries yourself.”

  Seriously? “And the murder?”

  “That too.”

  She shook her head, raking her scalp with her nails. “Un-friggin’ believeable.”

  “Stand in their shoes, Callie. Nothing happened until you arrived. I know that’s happenstance, but they—”

  “I smell Raysor all over this.”

  With pursed lips, he shook his head. “Nah, he wasn’t even there.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Ignore the rumors,” he said. “Nobody that matters suspects you.”

  Like nobody suspected Peters. Great. She was in such good company. She so wanted to trust Seabrook. He made more sense than anyone else out here. She just couldn’t comprehend the law enforcement methods on this beach. “Listen, I’m not some high-strung idiot. And somebody really broke into my place this morning,” she said. “For real.”

  Seabrook’s expression turned dark. “Steal anything? Leave a coin?”

  She described the box and the destroyed contents. “But I want you to see the rest.”

  Together they returned to Chelsea Morning. Callie led him toward the spot in her living room that gave her the window view of Papa’s house. The light was off. The paper gone. Pauley’s car not there. Embarrassingly, she couldn’t recall if it had been there before.

  “There was a sign . . . crap.” Callie hurried back to her bedroom. The box was still on her bed, the items broken and damaged.

  “This”—she motioned to the debris—“happened while I was out on the beach.”

  Seabrook bent over the items. “Junk’s all broken.”

  She yanked his arm and spun him around. “It’s not junk. It’s Papa’s stuff. That matters, don’t you think?”

  His raised arms in concession. “Okay, calm down.”

  She picked up the smashed cam pieces and pressed them into his hand. “And this has been watching me in my bedroom.”

  He turned the broken unit over. “A camera? This the only one?”

  “I haven’t checked yet. Found it about the time Sophie beat down my door.” Why wasn’t he more upset?

  You liked his calm, remember?

  “Wish you hadn’t busted it,” he said. “I’m surprised you even touched it for fear of messing up prints.”

  “Sorry I didn’t pull out my gloves and fingerprint kit, Mike.” But he was right. She’d freaked. Feeling inept, she studied the indentation on the wall where the cam hit.

  Seabrook held the pieces up. “Why would someone do this to you and nobody else?”

  “If I knew, would I need your help?” she exclaimed, her etiquette filter gone. Then she snatched out her smartphone, punched buttons, and held up the picture of the sign. The screen outlining her porch made the word whore illegible.

  “What’s that say?” he asked, almost as if fearful of asking.

  Twisting it around and deeming it worthless, she shook her head. “You people beat all I ever saw.”

  “Wait. Who are you people?” Seabrook asked, his mouth tighter.

  “Raysor, Sophie, Pauley, the Edisto PD. You think I’m flawed, or damaged, or, or, whatever.” She fingered the gun in her pocket, the only sense of solace she had. No point in putting it away while he was still in the house, either. He might take it away again.

  Damn it, nobody seemed to be trying hard enough.

  She snatched the cam away from Seabrook and shook it. “This is perverted! This is dangerous! This stands for something far more sinister. Get your act together, acting chief. Do something!”

  Seabrook dipped to her level. “I’ve been as tolerant as anyone can be with you in light of all your . . . demons. I let you keep your precious mementoes. I agree this hidden camera needs our attention, but—”

  “You’ve had a homicide, an assault, and multiple burglaries.” Arms now stretched out to each side, she shook with emphasis. “I dealt with that on a daily basis for years, and all you can see are my demons. You have demons too, from what I hear, doctor.”

  The minute she said the words, she regretted them.

  “That was mean, but I’m still on your side,” he finally said. “Settle down if you want to think clearer. If you were in my shoes, you’d tell your victim the same thing.”

  Victim? She sucked in air, wanting to believe him. And goodness knows she wanted to settle down.

  “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything,” he added. “What else?”

  With nerves stretched thin and too little sleep, quivers traveled across her back and shoulders. “My Glock was stolen.”

  “Well, damn.” Lines deepened across his forehead. He extracted his memo book. “That’s definitely not good. Come down and file a report. I’ll put out a notice.”

  That was it? Apparently, the laid-back air of Edisto came with an ability to not express excitement. And the more frustrated she became about it, the crazier she knew she appeared. Her blood began to boil. “Listen to me, Seabrook.”

  “I’ve been listening,” he replied.

  “I tell you my gun�
��s gone, and it’s a problem.” She wished he weren’t so tall. “But when I show you broken mementoes, you think I’m nuts. I tell you about a sign in the window, and you don’t care. The cam and the gun barely got a rise out of you.”

  “You’re overwrought, Callie,” he said. “It’s not like that.”

  “No?” She shifted her wide stance. “Either I’m crazy or not. You believe me or you don’t. Because my little signs and broken junk might be real clues, chief. Or I could have lied about the gun or planted the cam myself. Am I credible or not? Make up your damn mind.”

  Callie’s jaw ached. Damn him! It took a murder and a stolen gun to get Seabrook to just raise his brow. And instead of finding a burglar, Raysor wrote traffic tickets like they were Class A felonies. Maybe she’d install her own security cameras and record the proof they needed, because they sure wouldn’t deduce anything on their own.

  “I’m not drunk, by the way,” she said. “Get that out of your head.”

  “Didn’t think you were.”

  Sure he didn’t. She bet he gave her a few good sniffs and analyzed the whites of her eyes before he came to that conclusion.

  “Bet you didn’t check the nanny cam at the Maxwell place like I suggested, either,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “They said they didn’t have one.”

  “And you believed them?” she jeered. “Of course you did.” An affluent couple with an only child and no nanny cam. Maybe paranoia ran thicker up north, but these days she’d post a camera on people who kept her toddler.

  Seabrook gave Callie a glance she couldn’t read. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like anything anymore.

  “Callie?” Sophie appeared at the base of the stairs.

  Callie turned. “What, Sophie.”

  In bare feet, Miss Yoga padded up to them, having slipped in the back door.

  “Before I leave, you want me to help you hunt for more cameras?” Seabrook asked low.

  “No,” Callie said sternly. “I’ll take care of myself, like I’ve already been doing.”

  He blew out. “Call me if you find anything else.”

  What would he do about it if she did?

  Seabrook turned to leave, halting long enough to say to Sophie, “I’m tired of telling you to lock your doors.”

  “It was a false alarm, Mike,” she said.

  He stooped to her height. “It’s your pretty little neck, Sophie. This guy’s still out there. Don’t welcome him.”

  Sophie shrugged and mumbled, “Peters wasn’t a break-in.”

  He left. Sophie ran to the door, locked it to Callie’s surprise, and watched until Seabrook got in his car. Then running back, she drew Callie to the kitchen and seated herself where they first met. “Fix me a drink,” she said, her words rushed.

  Callie retrieved two glasses and imagined Maker’s Mark on her tongue, in her system, soothing nerves that never seemed to stop misfiring. She put one back. She set a bourbon before Sophie. Maybe once Sophie leaves I’ll pour a small one. God knows she’d earned it.

  “What’s your problem this time?” Callie asked as Sophie moaned with her first, deep sip.

  The pixie woman bent over the table, her arms and shoulders knotted as she coveted the drink. “Someone did steal something.”

  Callie jumped up. “Now? While Peters was here? I need to get Seabrook—”

  “No, no, no,” Sophie said, snaring Callie’s sleeve. “I’m talking about the last time with the coin. I realized it later and was afraid to say anything. Then time got away from me, and I didn’t want Seabrook to get mad at me.”

  What the heck? Callie scrunched her brow, anxious to hear what moronic piece of withheld information might still require her to call the cop back. “You sure it wasn’t Peters today?”

  “Positive.”

  “What was it then?” Callie asked.

  “It was my ex’s NFL ring. Never told him I kept it,” Sophie whispered. “I couldn’t after he filed an insurance claim for it.”

  Callie dropped her head to the counter. Then she lifted up to peer at Sophie. “Surely you’re smarter than this. It’s a clue, for goodness sake. Like the coin you threw in the marsh. So, tell me where you kept the ring.”

  “Sunbeam’s litter box.”

  “What?”

  “I know, I know,” Sophie said rapidly. “It sounds stupid, but it’s my way of both hiding it and treating my ex in the manner in which he deserves.”

  Grabbing a notepad from a drawer, Callie laid her gun on the counter and started taking notes. “Have you scoured that house from top to bottom?”

  Sophie stared at the .38. “Yes. Nothing else is gone.”

  “Okay. Describe that ring. Did you hide it in a baggie, a box?”

  “Neither.” Sophie pouted with a flash of humor in her eyes. “I let Sunbeam poop all over it. Made me have to use gloves changing the litter, but it was so worth the satisfaction. Damn thing stayed green and nasty.”

  Callie wrote that down, too, but what gnawed at her already worked-up stomach was how anyone would know to go in a litter box. Not a stranger anyway. She needed to take this to Seabrook . . . later. Now she had to hunt for more cams. And chill herself down a notch.

  Sophie drank her bourbon as Callie made notes and relaxed to a slower, forced rhythm.

  Little jolts of panic wouldn’t let her reach calm, though. Someone had wandered around her house after she’d changed her locks. Possibly hidden and watched as she entertained Stan.

  Most likely recorded them in her bed.

  A key tried her front lock, fumbling, missing its mark.

  Callie retrieved her gun. Sophie squeaked and tucked her legs beneath her, wrapped in a ball, hands over her mouth.

  Chapter 25

  SOMEONE JIGGLED Chelsea Morning’s front door handle, and then per the scraping noise, attempted to work the lock. Callie lifted her .38 from the table. She’d drawn her weapon more in the last two weeks than the last five years.

  Sophie sat twisted in a knot at the kitchen table. Callie, however, skulked toward the entryway edgy, hungry, and sleep deprived.

  It had been a long damn day.

  The person behind the distorted glass image jerked the handle once more then pressed a face against the glass. “Callie? Let me in. My key won’t work.”

  Callie opened the door. “Mother?”

  Beverly waltzed in chin up, as if she still owned the place. “Did you change the locks? I hope you made me a key.”

  “Geez, Mother. Let me know when you’re coming, please. I could have shot you.”

  Beverly’s eyes widened at the gun then moved to Callie’s bandage. “Oh, dear, have your episodes become that bad?” Her words fell out in a Bless your heart manner, a condescending cliché of pity.

  A hug would have been nice. Any move of compassion welcomed, but no, her mother’s stinging criticism remained true to form.

  “Pour your mother a drink, dear.” She drew back, squinting. “You’re complexion is horrible. Haven’t you been sleeping? We gave you this place so you could rest.”

  Callie rubbed a tired eye. Her irritation festered just under the surface as her mother consumed the room. “We don’t have time for a social call, Mother. And I don’t have any booze,” she lied.

  Beverly raised fingers to her neck. “Since when do you keep an empty bar?”

  Callie held back a retort. She was spent, with only a fine, thin filter between her manners and a red-hot temper.

  The older woman fanned her face. “Tea will have to suffice, I guess. This heat’s oppressive.” She rounded the corner toward the living room and came up short when she saw Sophie. “Oh, who do we have here?”

  But Sophie didn’t miss a beat
. “Sophie Bianchi, Ms. Cantrell. We’ve practiced yoga together.” She jumped up, inserted herself in the woman’s space, and took her hand. “I’m so, so sorry about your husband. My deepest condolences. He is watching down on us, you know. He so wishes to be here with you and Callie.”

  Leery, Beverly tried to discretely add distance between their bodies, but Sophie only moved closer. “I’ll burn a candle for him,” she said. “But don’t hold onto his spirit too long. He needs to pass over.”

  Before Callie could moderate these two worlds colliding, Beverly yanked away. “How dare you speak of my deceased husband, you . . . you Bohemian thing.”

  Callie shoved a glass at her mother. “Here’s your tea.”

  But Beverly continued to glare, and Sophie stood her ground. “If I can help you, let me know,” Sophie said, like a nurse to a patient.

  Callie intervened and directed Beverly to the side door to the porch, still feeling mildly paranoid about hidden cams. “Let’s go sit outside.”

  “Why?” Beverly said, settling into her cushion. “It’s June, for God’s sake.”

  Fine. Coddling the woman might work quicker. “Have your friends been over?”

  Beverly seemed glued to studying Sophie, then forced herself to turn and reply. “Why, I’ve been swamped with my friends. They’re helping me weather this difficult time. Since I’m all alone in that house.”

  “You sent me away, and Jeb stayed behind so you wouldn’t be alone,” Callie said. “But I’m glad to hear you had company.” She glanced at the doorway. “Where is Jeb, by the way?”

  “At home,” she sighed, staring up the ceiling, as if forced to venture out solo.

  Callie wished Sophie would read the vibes and leave. Instead, the neighbor propped up on a barstool, leg under her, observing, her fear of the morning’s events gone. “What brought you out here, Mother?”

  “Can you stay?” Sophie asked. “I’d love to have you in yoga in the morning. You’d feel so much better.”