Callie forced down the bile. “This dress okay?”
The squints and head tilts told her Sophie pondered adjustment. “Good base, honey, but we need to deepen the make-up and poof your do. The jewelry works, but don’t you ever paint your nails?”
Just what Callie had expected. “I don’t have much make-up. Don’t own any nail polish, and what’s wrong with my hair?” She touched it, as if concerned. “Do we have enough time to fix this? Mason said be there at 5:30 and asked if you’d be nice enough to bring me. He said you’d be more than willing to drive.”
With a jump, Sophie squealed. “He’s getting you there before dusk, and I’m the pumpkin coach to your ball. This is fabulous! Yes, yes. This’ll be fun!”
The squeal pierced Callie’s head, and she smiled for show. “You have all this sex appeal, and I . . . I don’t . . .” Don’t know what the hell I’m doing!
“Throw off those shoes and park it on my sofa, girl.” Sophie scurried into her bedroom, shouting back. “I have a nail color that’ll make those gold sandals glitter decadent. And shadow to give you that come-hither-and-I’ll-do-you-right-now appeal. Oh, and I love that you didn’t wear a slip under that dress. Nicey dicey, honey.”
Callie sat and wrapped an arm across her midsection. A tremulous chill coursed through her body as she fought to put her actions into perspective. Costuming. That’s all this was. Dressing for the show. Going undercover.
At four thirty, Callie blew and waved her fingers to dry the polish and hide the shake as Sophie touched up her toes.
Over the past hour, Callie’s worry for Jeb would rise to red-hot levels of anxiety, then she’d push it down, reminding herself of why she was doing this. It repulsed her that she performed such frivolous behaviors while Jeb was probably freaked out of his mind.
She rued moving to Edisto. Her father’s decision to deed the house . . . She shoved his visage aside. She didn’t know why Mason had killed Lawton, but no doubt it connected to her presence, her actions, her inactions, and her ignorance.
Meanwhile, the Gypsy dabbed, painted, and stroked eight different products on Callie’s face, at one point smoothing her wrinkled forehead. “Chill. It’ll be fun.”
At five, Callie rested on the sofa, trying to hold down a Coke as Sophie primped herself in the bedroom, humming and flitting about as if she had the date.
Callie stumbled to the kitchen at one point, gulping air to hold down her drink. She washed the glass and hunted for a drying cloth. As she opened drawers in the foreign kitchen, she paused at the one near the stove. In a split second, she pilfered a paring knife, hiding the small weapon in her strappy gold bag. A bag too tiny for a gun and, hopefully, too innocent to warrant suspicion.
“Taa daa!” Sophie spun into the room, a bandana skirt tight and low on her hips but flared and flouncy around her legs. One large bandana tied across her breasts in halter style, secured behind her neck and waist. A dozen tiny sterling silver bracelets complemented huge circle earrings. Long silver chains hung to her naval, some with red glass beads. The lashes were new, contacts a different blue, and her curls kicked up like a Tinker Bell fairy.
“You put me to shame, Sophie,” Callie said. The clock read five fifteen. We need to go!
Sophie took Callie’s arm and escorted her to the door. “I am so thrilled,” the neighbor said, scrunching her shoulders. “Everyone will be just too jealous of us.”
At the door, however, Sophie took Callie’s arms and faced her with concern. “I know I push and prod, Callie, and I may be a bit of a busy gnat, but I have worried so much about you. Are you sure this is what you want?” She licked her finger and touched Callie’s brow. “Tell me the truth.”
“Sophie.” Callie inhaled deeply. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life.”
Chapter 32
AT 5:32 P.M. CALLIE’S bracelets, loaned by Sophie, clanked as she reached for the doorbell beside Water Spout’s huge eight-foot tall double doors. White-coated people carried items in and out of a catering van in the circular drive. How late would Mason consider two minutes?
Both doors swung in, Mason poised in the middle, an unlit cigar in his fingers. “Ladies! You’re the first to arrive. Welcome, welcome.”
Sophie ran in and hugged him. “I’m so excited you asked me to escort your date. The two of you seem so cute together, Mason.” She twirled and held out her hand, expecting a kiss on it.
His lips brushed across her fingers. “So delicious. As is my spread tonight. Come in and see what the caterer has on his menu. He might just let you sample, Sophie.”
In a flurry of color, she took off inside, knowing her way.
Mason glanced up at the sky. “Plenty of daylight left. You should feel comfortable about that.” He held out his arm. Callie strolled in without taking it, but he wrenched her back by the wrist.
“Let me refresh your memory, sweetheart.” He shut the doors and pushed her ahead of him, maintaining a hold feigned as taking her elbow. He nodded to two of the catering assistants in passing and exited out a side door to a monstrous wrapped, covered porch that faced the gray Atlantic Ocean. Gunmetal-colored clouds dipped down to the water on the horizon, hinting of the rain expected the day before.
He lightly released her and said calmly, “He’s out there somewhere.”
She hung her head, crestfallen at his confirmation that Jeb was adrift on the water in God knows what type of boat, with God knows who. Assuming Mason even told the truth, which disturbed her more. She still saw no markers from which to judge the man or determine her potential action.
Cocked against a post, he clipped his cigar. “Then play the part. You’re my date. You’re extremely happy to be at my side. You’re dignified yet smitten. Some of the residents have concerns after so much has happened on your street, coincidentally from the day you moved in. Rumors galore. Tonight we replace it with new gossip of our own making, a tale that will make the others pale in comparison.” He lit the cigar, puffed it rapidly, then pulled in a longer draw, the end now glowing orange. The sweet smoke quickly whipped away in the growing breeze.
He was milking every emotional angle of this affair. Assuming he was a hit man, he’d probably been told to enjoy himself—to a certain degree. Or maybe he really was a Canadian restaurateur, with a twisted mind and sick fetishes who’d taken a liking to her and decided to set a game into play. Callie’s mind raced now that this scenario was in play, trying to deduce, seeking her bearings, but all she had was thin air and no clues.
“I’ll help Sophie,” Callie said, itching to search the house for signs of her son, for a camera feed from her house, maybe for a feed to Jeb.
Mason moved to a settee and patted the cushion. “I hire people to tend my needs and then pair them with the Sophies of this world.” He waved his cigar toward the water. “Sit.”
As if he owned the upscale rental, he spoke about the three-level house being custom designed by some Charleston architect, combining contemporary design features with Spanish influence. The house flaunted a concrete, not shell and gravel, driveway with parking for ten cars; soaring ceilings, multiple arches, floor to ceiling windows, and a four-door sliding access to the deck enhanced the spaciousness. The huge wall of glass offered an immense view of St. Helena Sound from the great room. All anyone would see from the road was parked cars. Action faced the water. Action Seabrook would never see from Seaswept, his home right across the street.
After a night in Walterboro with Peters, Seabrook had probably gone home and crashed. He ought to be up by now, shaking his head at yet another extravagant fete by Mason Howard. Seabrook probably had retrieved her voice mail, too, her change of heart niggling at him a bit.
He would worry about her well-being. He might try to call, then unable to get her, drive by her dark, unlit house. Her car would be in the drive, but he’d easily assume
they’d taken Jeb’s. Nothing appearing amiss. Just a woman who couldn’t control her emotions.
And as badly as she wanted him to read the shallowness of her voice mail and hunt for her, call Sophie, contact Beverly, she just as badly hoped he didn’t.
If he got creative enough to drop by and question Mason before Callie learned of Jeb’s whereabouts, her son was dead. Mason could deny any accusations she made, point to her paranoid behavior, and ultimately blame her for Pauley’s death. Maybe even Papa Beach’s as well. Seabrook had seen her take Pauley down and brandish a weapon in public; he knew her skills. Nobody pictured Mason in that sort of light, but everyone would suspect her.
But what was worse, in all the time lost in proving she was innocent, nobody would hunt for Jeb until the confusion settled and it was too late, if they searched at all. He was a teenager who ran off. Nobody had seen him kidnapped.
Even Sophie would testify that Callie had painted herself up for the Friday night gala. Who did that and left a body in her home? Insanity at its finest. Or a complete disregard for the law. The ex-detective irrationally taking matters into her own hands. Not too far from the truth.
She’d been suckered into Mason’s world and set up to fall. God, he was slick. He was also fucked up, sold-my-soul-to-the-devil crazy, and she was the only person who knew.
“What time does the party start?” she asked.
“Seven, but the eager ones are here by six thirty.” Mason draped an arm around her shoulders. “Jeb’s fine. Enjoy the moment. The caterer promised some grand hors d’oeuvres tonight the likes that Edisto’s never seen.”
Minutes dragged. Sophie brought them drinks with a giggle, then disappeared inside. Callie waited until Mason turned to blow smoke away, and she reached over to pour the liquor in the shrubbery.
He caught her arm. “How rude to waste my liquor. It’s top shelf gin, bought for you. Drink it.”
She downed the drink, his hand guiding her, barely giving her a breath. Like a morphine shot, it radiated throughout her system to warm her limbs and remove a fraction of her fear. She prayed it wasn’t drugged.
She wished it didn’t taste so good.
Voices sounded in the house. She turned, ever hopeful to capitalize on a chance. Two men appeared. “Mason!”
He stood. “Glad you could make it again.”
One of the guys peered around Mason to Callie. “Who do we have here? An import?”
“Oh no,” Mason said and swept his drink toward his date. “Callie, step over here and meet some of my guests. Gentlemen, this is Callista Jean Morgan, ex-Boston detective and newest permanent resident of Edisto Beach.” He tipped his head. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be shy.”
She made her way to his side, under the auspices of his possessive embrace. For that, she earned the first kiss of the night.The gentlemen chuckled. “Detective,” exclaimed one of the men. “I’m Edisto PD. Dickens spoke of you.”
She greeted him with a nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“Boy, Boston has some sweet detectives,” said the other. “I work at the fire department, by the way.”
She nodded. Mason blatantly had the beach wrapped around his finger. Even if she pulled these guys aside to help her, she’d have to undo her reputation to diminish Mason’s. A move difficult to accomplish with the players laced with booze and beholden for free, expensive food.
Hell, how was this going to work?
With people arriving, they moved inside. Mason introduced Callie to everyone as his love of the moment. She met town councilwomen, Wyndham executives, several attorneys, and a slew of local businesspeople.
“When did you make your move on this devil, Callie?” asked a flamboyant real estate agent whose name Callie had seen on three dozen signs along the beach.
“I wooed her, actually.” Mason ran a finger along the nape of Callie’s neck. She tried to smile at him as expected. But as she turned her head up, Mason planted his mouth on hers. She resisted. He backed away and whispered, “With tongue, Callie.”
His hand behind her head, he kissed her again, his tongue thrusting deep, owning her. She couldn’t swallow. Her stomach lurched in disgust, but she needed to hold strong. Then with a swift wrap around her waist, he bellied up against her. Horrified, she froze, but his fingertips embedded suddenly in her derriere, reminding her to reciprocate. She envisioned where this evening would end and almost vomited.
“Damn, Mason,” yelled a rotund resident from across the room. “That made me horny all the way over here!”
The room clapped, and a few catcalls bounced off the twenty-foot walls.
Callie drew back and feigned a coy reaction. Women, however, raised brows and frowned around the room.
This escapade was not about sex, but Mason still enjoyed the charade. Who the hell was he, or who did he represent? If she were still on the job, she’d mentally rifle her Rolodex of arrests hunting for a disgruntled perp. But this was tiny Edisto. And she hadn’t been a cop for over two years.
Psychopath, mob, mafia, any of a dozen ethnic and terrorist groups flashed in her mind. Any of those would have made more sense, if she’d been in Boston.
Or . . . could he be a political enemy of Lawton?
What was his weakness? He was a murderer. Slick. He couldn’t afford not to kill her.
No doubt about it . . . she’d just have to kill him first.
Her eyes darted back to the water that served as backdrop to the house. Night had fallen, and surprisingly, her concern for Jeb had overwhelmed her fear of dusk.
No lights shined on the horizon. But the boat holding Jeb hostage could float dark, or be so far out, north or south along the coast, that he was out of view. Or there wasn’t a boat at all. She really needed to search the house.
“Bathroom break, Mason.”
He shoved another drink at her. The third. Each more potent than the one before. “Drink this before you go.”
She chugged it down and returned the glass, like a mental patient required to take her meds.
“Now I can spare you a minute,” he replied, then turned to a new guest carrying a plate loaded with prosciutto-wrapped figs, endive boats of crabmeat, and sea bass wraps. As the food passed by her, she held her breath against the smells that suddenly disagreed with her.
The bathroom in the hallway was occupied. She ran down the hall to another door. Locked. Then further, until she found herself in the master suite. After securing the master bath door behind her, she stooped over the commode, rammed fingers down her throat, and vomited every drop of gin she could muster.
She had to keep sober, or the night was for naught.
After washing her mouth, she turned and rested her forehead against the cool marble wall. Nausea subsided, she snatched open drawers and searched the cabinets for anything to use against the man. With the place being a rental and a cleaning service at Mason’s disposal, the cabinets were bare. She pulled out the last. Shaving supplies. She stole the manicure scissors and buried them into the backside of her woven belt. One weapon in her purse, another on her. Too much time was passing. She could feel herself becoming desperate.
She exited into the bedroom, a colorful composite of harsh reds and golds and bold lines of black, with an ornate folk art tapestry of horses on the high wall at the head of the bed. Very masculine with an exotic flavor. Gold braid and tassels.
Hearing nobody coming, she turned back the deep, plush red comforter and searched under the mattress then the pillows for a weapon. He’d stolen two of her guns and probably hoarded a couple of his own. Anyone armed kept a gun near the bed. But she found nothing.
“Callie?”
Mason’s voice came from down the hall at the other bathroom door. He probably thought she’d locked herself in.
She smoothed the rumpled comforter. Then she pee
red in his mirror to put the proper expression on her face.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked in the doorway.
She rubbed her lips together and closed her lipstick tube. “Someone else was in the bathroom. I came back here to use yours.”
He strode over, lifted her purse, and extracted the knife as if sure of its existence. “Guess the kitchen’s off limits for you.” Passing the purse to her, he palmed the knife and escorted her back to the party. Leaning over, he whispered, “You’re too cool, my dear. Who puts on lipstick while wondering if her son is alive? I assume you found no weapons?”
With that jolt of reality, she slowed. He grinned, excellent at reading her. Was she too aloof? Not scared enough? How the hell was she supposed to act?
They reentered the throng in the living room, winding amongst Edisto’s finest who’d taken over this home. Two waiters could barely keep up with the refills. Mason passed the knife to one of them and took Callie to the porch where at least twenty people draped in the dark across banisters, railings, and chairs, the food and drink having lightened everyone’s spirits. Her nerves hummed just under the skin. She fought the urge to scratch the scar on her arm.
“Drink,” Mason said, with another full glass.
She took a sip, then under his piercing stare, drank a third of the contents. His face softened, then as he carried on a conversation about politics, she snagged three hors d’oeuvres from a waiter who glided by. She wolfed them down before Mason could notice, to soak up the booze.
Anything for Jeb.
TWO IN THE MORNING. With most of the guests gone, Mason rounded up the inebriated stragglers and had one of his hired assistants take them home. As he aided one guest down the stairs along with a dramatic dose of thanks for attending the event, Sophie scooted over to Callie in the foyer. “Mike called. Asked why you weren’t answering your phone. I told him I didn’t know. Was that okay?”
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 34