Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (37 page)

Taking her time in the shower, leaning on the wall, she let the water run down her back, and she basked in her newfound confidence. Instead of last night’s scare on the porch stealing her strength, it had flipped her switch.

She shut off the water and stepped onto her plush bath rug with a large sand dollar image in the center. Bent over, she toweled her wet hair with a frenzy. Tossing it over, she combed it back slick and studied herself again. Yep, she was 10-8, in service, and thoroughly wired for duty.

Chapter 28

CALLIE CHEWED ON wheat toast slathered in raspberry jam, her interview notes scattered across the breakfast table. Even after scrambling a couple of eggs for a serious breakfast, her nerves still jittered. Food couldn’t hurt; she needed the pounds. She just craved a dash of something stronger in her orange juice.

She’d risen early unable to sleep, her mind awhirl with plans. Running wasn’t in them with so much to do. She had hoped to interview the Rosewoods first, but they wouldn’t be home until noon, much like the day they were burglarized. Callie had already noted the pattern. The burglar would have, too.

So that meant Sophie first. Callie’s head hurt at the thought of how convoluted that conversation would be. Her neighbor greeted every dawn, so when Callie called and asked to come over early, at the top of the hour, Sophie agreed completely alert. The stove clock gave Callie ten more minutes.

Purchased with the cams, her new handheld recorder seemed simple enough. Astounding even. Flash drive capability as well as internal memory. Seventy-hours of recording time on the batteries, but she packed extras in her pocket. Always be prepared. She’d still depend on her notes, fast written and organized in a method honed in Boston, but she didn’t want to risk a he-said-she-said situation. She’d transcribe the recordings later and make mp3 copies of the recording, covering all her bases. Callie closed the notebook and thrust three pens into her purse in case one decided not to work. The tools, the interview outlines, hell, just the fact she was doing something productive, cranked up her adrenaline like she hadn’t felt in two years.

A badge sure would make all this easier, though. Badges could force a degree of cooperation, but without that shield, asking someone to swear to an oath could shut them up faster than a bear trap. So no oaths. She’d have to finesse. That was okay. She knew how to read people’s eyes.

After placing her dishes in the sink, she checked herself in the mirror and headed next door.

“Hey, girl, come on in,” Sophie said as Callie arrived on the top step before she had a chance to knock. “So what is this about?”

“Seabrook asked me to interview people who were involved in the break-ins.” Sort of the truth.

Sophie tilted her head, blinking fast in her daily choice of brown contacts. “Can we move outside on the porch?”

Callie shrugged. “Sure.”

The gypsy woman headed to a picnic table on her porch, earrings jingling. No way Sophie could burgle with that racket.

With the recorder placed between them, they covered the basics of date, time, name, address, and occupation. Then Callie began her interview, maintaining eye contact with Sophie so she wouldn’t be distracted by the recorder. “What was stolen?”

“An NFL ring.”

Check. “Where was it kept when it was stolen?”

“In Sunbeam’s litter box. Not in a bag, either, but in all the nasty stuff. It was crusty.”

Sophie was doing great. Callie continued. “Explain what was found in your kitchen.”

“He poured himself an orange juice and vodka and left a coin on the table.” Sophie dipped her chin with a nod, as if putting a period on the end of her sentence.

“Wait a minute,” Callie said. “I thought it was just orange juice.”

“No.” Sophie shook her head. “A screwdriver. I smelled it when I washed the glass.”

They tended a few more questions to settle Sophie into a routine, then Callie asked, “So he left a coin?”

“I guess. You said he did.”

Callie reworded. “Did your son Zeus find a coin beside the orange juice?”

“Screwdriver, but he didn’t know that, because he didn’t wash the glass. I did.”

“Sophie! Did Zeus tell you he found a coin next to the drink?”

“Yes. That’s what he said, and my boy never lies.”

“And what was the date on that coin?”

“1921, though I didn’t see it until those Boy Scouts fished it out of the marsh.”

No problem. Callie had seen and held it before Sophie pitched the silver dollar to the fishes.

The interview took two hours. Could have taken one, but Sophie had her tangents.

In the end, Callie learned that Sophie knew Papa Beach. He had been her go-to person on things that went wrong with her house, just like the Cantrells had used him. She didn’t socialize with the other victims but had seen the Rosewoods at a few events like the Arts and Crafts Market and last year’s Governor’s Cup, now just a few weeks away. She’d been broken into early in the morning, when everyone knew she would be at yoga.

Callie quickly gathered her papers and recorder. “It’s ten till noon. I’ve got to go.”

“How did I do?” Sophie asked.

Callie squeezed her fingers. “Brilliantly. Didn’t hurt a bit, did it? Sorry, but I have another appointment.”

“With who?” Sophie asked as Callie sprinted toward the door.

“Thanks,” Callie said, evasive. “I appreciate it.” Sophie might tell the whole street what she was doing. Callie was tired of scooping up clues in this guy’s wake. It was time to maneuver in front of him.

She rushed next door, bolstered by the first interview. Ben Rosewood escorted her in. A middle-aged man in beige slacks, and in spite of a casual, loosely hung shirt, he seemed stiff. No Bianchi energy here. “What is this about again?” he asked, skepticism in his eyes.

“I’m helping the police department with interviews about the burglaries.” She prayed the couple didn’t stir up a fuss. Callie had scheduled these visits back to back. Mrs. Hanson expected her at three. The Maxwells at five thirty.

Sarah Rosewood waited at a beautiful burled maple kitchen table, coffee cup on a woven gold placemat. The whole house gleamed in an aura of tasteful decoration.

“Mike’s already been here. You aren’t even a cop,” Ben said, irritated.

Callie bit back an order for him to take his seat.

“Wait,” Sarah inserted with a soft touch. “We’d like to say how truly sorry we are about your father, Callie. We knew him.”

The woman had visited the funeral home but said her husband had obligations elsewhere. Callie felt awkward with this overlap of her personal and investigator life.

Ben didn’t appear to hold much sympathy, and instead, picked up the phone. “I’m calling Mike. This doesn’t feel right.”

Callie’s pulse quickened. She nodded, as if he had the perfect right to call, while her heart pounded like timpani drums.

Sarah blushed, briefly shutting her eyes at her husband’s behavior.

Callie prayed that Seabrook covered her butt. Prior to their weird, unspoken falling out, he
had
asked for her help. Hopefully he remembered.

Ben held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

She placed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“What the heck are you doing?”

She created a bright-eyed look for the Rosewoods’ sake. “That’s right. I finally got around to that assistance you asked for. Daddy’s funeral set me behind.”

“I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” he replied, but Callie heard enough in his tone to sense flexibility. “You’ve had too much personal involvement to be objective,” he added.

“That’s right, Mike. Years of training. I don’t mind at all.”

The silence gave her pause.

“Get those interviews to me ASAP,” he said, resigned. “Tomorrow at the latest. Understood?”

She forced the laugh, hiding the relief. “Sure thing. Appreciate that, Mike. You’re sweet.”

She delivered the phone back to Ben, and soon he sat stoic across from her at the table, next to his wife, explaining all he knew about the first break-in after Papa Beach’s murder. They acted like being burglarized was beneath them. Callie couldn’t explain Sarah’s odd case of nerves, a subservient manner, as if she’d been warned how to act. But Callie got her answers.

An hour later, Callie left with tight, simple responses to her questions. The burglar had poured himself a lowball glass of bourbon and Coke. He stole sixty dollars from the bedroom. The coin had been a silver dollar dated 1903. They’d met Sophie, knew Papa from a small job he’d done for them when Peters wasn’t available, and were familiar with Mrs. Hanson and the Maxwells only via waves across the street. They frequented the golf course at the private club.

So why take a small amount of cash when the home flaunted wealth?

Mrs. Hanson, bless her heart, waited for Callie with the door open, chocolate chip cookies at the ready, the chips still gooey. Callie took one as soon as she set foot inside and moaned at the pleasure. Lunch had come and gone unnoticed, her stomach making itself loudly known.

Mrs. Hanson was a retired teacher, and Mr. Hanson traveled on the road five days a week. Her phone calls to a sister occupied much of her time, a routine any break-in artist would relish. Mrs. Hanson knew Papa Beach well. Though Papa had ten years on the lady, Callie would almost swear there might’ve been a more social connection than chocolate chip cookies from the melancholy manner in which Mrs. Hanson spoke of her old friend Henry. She even dabbed an eye.

The perp’s drink of choice, wine. Mrs. Hanson said the alcohol belonged to her husband, and she never imbibed. Callie hid a smile at the tiny lie. The coin, a 1928 silver dollar. A sterling silver necklace stolen.

Kind older lady. Easy target. Easy enough for a repeat performance.

“I want you to change your routine,” Callie told Mrs. Hanson as she packed up. “Lock up more often, and don’t tell people I came by.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“The bad guy might not like us trying to catch him,” Callie whispered back.

With leftover cookies in a plastic bag, Callie backed out with innumerable thank-yous, goodbyes, and promises to be safe before she could escape the poor lady, who without a doubt was lonely with both husband and Papa Beach not around for company. Callie scurried two doors up to the Maxwells with five minutes to spare, scouring the street for eyes.

She waited behind a Hawthorn bush at the bottom of the steps, now concerned she would bring more flack on these people’s lives. She flipped through her notes and compartmentalized her ideas. This interview would be different: The robber had harmed his victim. Why the escalation, and what was unique?

Callie pulled out the map from Rhonda Benson, and the breeze caught the corners, fighting her effort. Black marker
X
s identified each burgled resident’s lot.

The day was postcard clear and bright. Motivated and feeling rogue, Callie took a second to enjoy the ever-loving-hell out of her mission. Dickens drove by in a patrol car. She waved. He waved back, probably told by Seabrook to watch the street, maybe even scout for her. No problem. They could watch all they liked. They weren’t in her head. She was getting in theirs.

Later, she’d discretely interview Seabrook, too.

One detail remained consistent amongst the violated residents. None of them had seen Pauley for months, which lessened the suspicion she had about him, especially for the break-ins prior to his supposed arrival. Mrs. Hanson and Sophie knew of him. The Rosewoods didn’t.

But she still didn’t fathom why this criminal, whoever he was, would give away coins. Why not steal them from Papa Beach and keep them? And why use the oldest, most valuable coins as calling cards? Apparently money was not a motive. But what was?

“That you, Ms. Morgan?”

Callie glanced up. Steve Maxwell peered down. People could spot like eagles from their upstairs porches. “Yes, it’s me. You ready?”

“Sure, come on up.”

She climbed the stairs and followed Mr. Maxwell inside. His three-year-old ran room to room, toy to toy, with the energy of ten adults. Alyce Maxwell stood guard, an eye on the child and an ear on Callie and her husband at the kitchen table, multi-tasking as young moms did. The woman was lovely with long blond hair tied up on her head, accenting her cheekbones and jawline.

The trespasser’s drink had been a mimosa. Coin was a 1972 Eisenhower. The Maxwells didn’t socialize with any of the locals, and their closest friends were ten miles inland. They had met Papa, though. He’d built their mailbox. Callie smiled. Mailboxes had been his specialty.

“So what was stolen, Steve?” she asked. The man had been too injured to answer before.

“A sterling silver mirror from my wife’s dresser. The set was a gift from her aunt at a bridal shower.”

The little boy darted past them, running his hands along the table, then vanished into a bedroom.

Callie’s gaze followed the streak, then she turned to Steve. “Any chance your Flash Gordon loved the pretty mirror and hid it under a bed somewhere?”

“We scoured the house,” Alyce said, then disappeared after the child.

Callie jotted a few notes. “Bet she keeps busy.”

“You have no idea,” Steve said. “She’s endless energy. Wears me out watching them both.”

Says the twenty-nine-year-old, she thought. The child zipped past again, the mother after him, and Callie’s conversation with Seabrook the day of the break-in came back to mind. “Steve, do you have a nanny cam?”

“Um, no. We don’t go out much.”

Callie’s internal lie detector flashed red at the dart of his eyes. She’d just confirmed how inexpensive nanny cams were, how easy to install . . . and hide.