Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (11 page)

She liked this man. She crossed her sneakers. “Did you talk to Mason Howard? I met him again this morning jogging on the beach.”

Seabrook wrinkled his nose. “Briefly, but he doesn’t know anything. So, ol’ Mason ask you out yet?”

“He invited me to one of his Friday parties. Sounds like they’re open invitation though.”

The officer reared back and raised a brow. “He’s got better radar than most boats in the marina for the new single ladies. His Friday night parties are practically on the town council’s calendar.” He ran his hand flat and level through the air. “Slick. Nothing rowdy, though, in case you decide to go. Had to remind him to keep his beachfront lights off once, but that’s it.”

“For the nesting loggerheads.” She understood how lights disoriented hatchlings seeking the ocean.

“Yeah,” he said. “People are protective about those turtles.”

“Well, I have no plans to attend one of Howard’s parties, but thanks for the concern.”

“No problem.” He relaxed his shoulders. “Serve and protect.”

Seabrook’s assurance felt rather endearing. His normal behavior . . . or her presence?

“I also met Jackson Peters,” she said. “He worked on the house across the street during the Rosewood break-in, but he only heard a scream. Saw nothing.”

Seabrook pulled a notepad over and lifted a pen from his red cup.

She gave him a mild frown. “Is Peters okay? I mean, he seems unusually knowledgeable about everyone’s house, when they’re home, what they do.”

“Callie, you just described half the residents on Edisto. But I don’t have a problem with Peters. I’d have more of an issue with Howard.”

“You told me he was harmless.”

The phone rang for the first time since she’d arrived.

“I distrust his type,” Seabrook said, watching the clerk take the call. “The temporary resident who stays long enough to infiltrate the community, entertain himself with the locals, then leave when he’s had his fill of our quaintness.”

“Anyway,” she said, impatient at straying from her mission. “Peters seems to be in the know around here. Wouldn’t hurt to connect with him.”

“Talk to Jack Peters. Check. Anything else?”

“Yes,” she said. “I came across another coin.”

His head came up, a no-nonsense glare. “Not at your place, I hope.”

“Um . . . not exactly. Sophie Bianchi’s son had one when he came over to see Jeb. I talked him into giving it to me.”

“Zeus,” he said with a mild chuckle as he jotted on his pad. “I’ll talk to him, too. You wouldn’t know how many coins were in Henry’s collection, would you? The son I called in Florida knew zilch about his daddy.”

“Twenty-five,” she said. “Six Morgans, nine Peace dollars, four Eisenhowers, and one beautiful Double Eagle. I used to count them as a kid. Papa’s wife framed them in 1975. The collection’s worth a few thousand, I imagine. Some of them were in pristine shape. Want me to write up a list?”

He scrubbed fingers across his scalp.

Crap. He thinks I’m dictating how to do his job.
“Sorry. I simply meant—”

“I almost wish they wouldn’t turn up.”

“Why?”

“More coins—more break-ins.” He sighed. “But go on.”

She didn’t want to overplay her city detective role, but he seemed amiable to the help. “The dollars could easily appear at the Pavilion, the grocery store, any of the gift shops,” she said. “Let business owners know so they’ll turn them in to you. They don’t have to show up at crime scenes.”

Seabrook nodded. “So, what year is your coin? Did you bring it?”

“A 1921, and, no. I don’t have it.”

“Keeping it safe at home?”

She huffed. “I wish. Sophie threw it in the marsh this morning.”

His brow arched. “Why the hell—pardon my French—would she do such a dumbass stunt, not that I should be surprised?” He wrote on his pad again. “That ditzy woman fishes without bait on her hook half the time.”

“She called it bad vibes.”

He shook his head in what Callie saw as complete understanding of who Sophie was.

However, Callie still wanted to share another burden.

Heavy footfalls sounded behind her. “Look who dropped in,” Deputy Raysor boomed. “Playing cop again, doll? Isn’t that what they call women
up north
?”

Callie twisted around. “I’m not from up
north
.”

He walked around her and leaned his hefty butt against Seabrook’s desk. “But you lived up there longer than down here. Sorta tells me you made a choice.”

She peered at Seabrook. “I came to help.”

Duty belt squeaking, Raysor leaned closer. “You’re bored because you’re out of the business. And you sure ain’t on our payroll,
doll
.”

She turned and prodded a stiff finger at the flushed-faced, red-headed clown. “Quit calling me
doll
, or I’ll say something that’ll leave a scar. And I promise not to use words over four letters.”

“I got a Masters degree, so use whatever size word you want.”

Seabrook pushed up abruptly, his chair noisy across the floor. “Can I see you for a minute, Don? In Hank’s office?”

“What’s wrong with here?” Raysor asked.

“Just come with me, would you?” Seabrook squeezed around Raysor, who sneered at Callie as he turned.

The ex-chief’s office was right in front of her. The men’s voices muffled through the thin wooden door they’d pushed almost shut. She tried not to listen, feeling awkward being in the same room with the receptionist who pretended not to take notice, either.

Callie repositioned, embarrassed for Seabrook’s need to wield his rank in front of her. He meant well, and she appreciated the semblance of chivalry, but she could take care of herself. Back talking Raysor was refreshing, a throwback to her days of detectives versus uniforms when the banter became sport. She searched for a notepad to leave a message that she would catch up to Mike later. Muffles crystalized into words as the men’s voices amplified.

“Keep her out of this,” Raysor said.

“She could be of assistance, Don.”

“You’re too busy admiring her T and A to see she’s damaged goods.”

Geez, Raysor, you’re such a charmer.
She’d watch his glances from now on.

“She was a good detective from what I hear,” Mike said.

What did he hear? And from whom?
She caught herself moving to the front of her chair.
The receptionist stirred now. Callie shrugged and mouthed
Wow
when the woman glanced over.

“
Used to be
are the pertinent words,” Raysor continued. “She’s lost her nerve.”

“She’s already shown her instincts.”

“You used to be a doctor. I don’t see you suturing up people.”

A doctor?
“That’s different,” Seabrook said. “Besides, we’re shorthanded.”

“Not that shorthanded,” Raysor said.

“When’s the last time you reported to Walterboro instead of here?” Seabrook’s voice took on an authoritative slant, different from what Callie had heard up to now. “Technically, I’m your reporting officer on this beach. How about some respect?”

Yes! The nice cop had teeth!

The door opened, and Raysor stormed off. Seabrook returned to his seat. After a long moment, he regained his composure. He retrieved her Glock from a drawer and laid it on the desk.

“Maybe we ought to talk outside the station next time,” Callie said. “I’m not usurping your authority, or Deputy Raysor’s, but I can’t ignore what’s happening around me. Another set of eyes won’t hurt, and it’s not like I’m green.” Raysor had stirred up a piece of her old pride.

“What kind of friend would I be to Papa B if I slinked off, resigned that the Edisto Beach police force intimidated me? These three break-ins occurred within a stone’s throw of my door. I’m protecting my son.” She crossed her arms, then unloosed them. “I’ve investigated too many murders to count, and that doesn’t mean running crime scene tape and holding crowds back. I ran
and
solved cases.”

She briefly wondered where the hell that came from. But her pride had been slightly scorched by Raysor blowing her off like spent cigar ash and leaving before she could snuff him out. It was probably time to go.

Seabrook regarded her. “Sure you don’t want to jump back in the water? You’re a natural,” he said. “Town council would leap at the chance to hire you, especially since you live here. They might even make you chief.”

The flattering job offer destroyed her sermon. A voice in the back of her mind even told her to consider it. But the thought of such a commitment sent a chill across her shoulders.

“Sorry. I’m not job hunting,” she finally said and walked toward the counter. “You know where to find me if you have a question, though. I’ll call if I think of anything.”

Seabrook’s warmth returned to his smile. “I’d still like to pick your brain some evening. We didn’t finish talking about Sophie.”

Crap
. Hadn’t Sophie been the reason she came in the first place?

They made their way outside, walking into a wall of clinging heat. Raysor hung in the shade of the oak wiping his red brow with a handkerchief.

Seabrook let her go ahead of him on the sidewalk. “How about we talk later?”

Callie pulled out her phone. “Give me your cell number and—”

“You like barbecue?” he asked, as Raysor walked back into the station.

Lowering her phone, she stammered, “Um, sure.”

Seabrook gave her his number. “I’ll pick you up at five.”

She should’ve seen that coming.

Seabrook broke a wry grin. “What can it hurt? You gotta eat.”

Indeed, what harm could come from sharing a pork sandwich? But a simple social outing could wind up extremely uncomfortable. She’d forgotten how to dance this dance.

So she changed the subject. “That coin wasn’t there when Sophie went to yoga or Zeus went fishing, assuming you can trust what both of them said. Someone left it on the table thanks to Sophie leaving her house wide open.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, the culprit busted Papa Beach’s door, but at Sophie’s he could waltz in, make himself a sandwich, catch TV for an hour, then wait for her in the bedroom for a repeat of Papa B’s brain scramble. She’s not thinking about the kids.”

“In her twisted way, she thinks she is. Talk to her,” Callie said. “She isn’t listening to me.”

Seabrook studied her. “Guess that’s a no for supper?”

Callie unlocked her car. “We don’t have proof of a crime now, thanks to her stupid karma stuff. The guy might escalate, not happy law enforcement didn’t give his new appearance due recognition. I can see him angered by that.”

The cop tapped on the roof of her car. “I’ll go talk to her.”

She prattled on. “She has an alarm, but I doubt it’s been used in years.”

Inserting her key in the ignition, Callie stopped before turning it. Ignoring his dinner offer wasn’t fair, or polite. “I know it seems like I’m blowing you off, Mike, but it’s complicated. I haven’t . . .” She watched a grackle preen his reflective blue-black feathers on a picnic table near the water kiosk. What should she say next?

“No need to explain,” he replied.

This wasn’t right. “Wait, want to go grab a tea someplace?” she asked, fighting to regroup. Tea was safe.

“We’re good, Callie.” He shut her door and backed away from the car. “Watch yourself.” He turned and left with those long, strong strides.

Her forehead drooped on the steering wheel. What would it have hurt to accept his offer? Shit and double damn. She felt so out of step.

She once knew how to deflect male advances and still leave them smiling. Co-workers, CIs, witnesses, didn’t matter. They never felt bruised, and they often came away marching to her beat. After months as a private citizen, it was apparent she’d lost those abilities.
Damaged goods
, according to Raysor. Maybe he wasn’t so far off the mark.

She drove her Escape off the gravel lot and headed back home, where she would . . . do what? Paint? Cook? Garden? Write a book?

She raised her head. Wait. Socializing was the lifeblood of Edisto. The people just didn’t have to know they were being interviewed. Maybe she could slip back in the game after all.

Just not the dating game.

Chapter 10

CALLIE’S DASHBOARD clock read three p.m. The two miles home from the police station seemed like twenty as she wondered how to interview people without being a cop. Family ranked first as suspects, but Papa’s son was supposedly in Florida. Next in her sights would be the Rosewoods. Yes, she’d contact them. Then Jackson Peters, the handyman and first non-victim on the scene.

A drink would be nice, especially in this heat. Just one to relax and organize her thoughts as she designed interview outlines. She was sure she could stop at one. Besides, Jeb would be watching her, judging, when he came home.

Halfway down Jungle Road, she spotted a white BMW in her drive. Her shoulders drooped. What was her mother doing here? Callie was seeing more of Beverly at Edisto than she had back in Middleton. Wasn’t the point to be out from under her mother’s oversight?

Callie parked on the crushed shells. Sweat trickled between her breasts, her underarms moist from talking too long in the heat with Seabrook, the trip home too short for the car to cool.

She felt she’d lost the right to call him by his first name.

She climbed the stairs to the porch and stopped. “Daddy?”

Lawton Cantrell leaned on his knees as he pushed himself up off the rattan settee. “Callie Scallywag. How’s the new house treating you?”

A smile blossomed at his presence. Daddies could sure make things right. “Why didn’t you let yourself in? It’s a hundred degrees out here.”

Callie put a key to the lock, but the door swung open at her touch. Her stomach dropped. She lifted the Glock from her purse. “Daddy, did you go in earlier?”

“Only knocked. I can’t go letting myself into someone else’s home,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Stay here.” She shoved the door fully open with her foot and metered through the doorway, gun in a low ready position. “Jeb? You in here?”