Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (21 page)

“Oh, any kind of sandwich is fine, ma’am.”

Lawton had taught her better than that. “When’s the last time someone cooked you a medium rare steak on the grill with a huge baked potato?”

His eyes lit up like she’d proposed with a two carat diamond. “You’d get no complaint outta me. And your steps’ll beat anything on this block.”

“Good,” she said, putting her sunglasses back on. “I’ll be back in another hour. I’m looking forward to Chelsea Morning in her new outfit. Let’s see just how great you talents are.”

CALLIE PUT THE steaks in a marinade and scrubbed potatoes, slathering butter on the skins. She wrapped them in foil and left them in the oven set on a timer. Cooking comfort food for two men felt nice. Peters probably hadn’t tasted steak in months, living out of his truck like he did.

Then she returned the overdue voice mail call to Stan.

“Okay, Stan,” she said when he answered, “what’s the deal with Raysor?”

“What took you so long, Morgan?” he exclaimed without a greeting.

“I had to pick up paint for the contractor to refinish my porches, then steaks for a cookout this afternoon.” How fantastic it felt to sound domestic. Somewhere in the universe, karma was letting her skip a day of crisis.

“Two days ago, I had to settle your ass down, Chicklet. I don’t mind telling you that I hung up damn worried. You sound good today. Anyway, I get this call from a deputy telling me you were seducing officers and undermining investigations. Told the guy he had the wrong person, but he described you down pat.” He drank something.

“Quit slurping.” Callie could picture the FBI mug given to him when the department worked a task force with the Boston Field Office. The cup was dark blue and hid the rings of the old coffee he never quite cleaned out before each refill. “The local acting chief wants my help,” she said. “You spoke with Raysor, the guy with all the bluster. He’s the one I don’t trust.”

“So they solved the case?”

“Cases,” she said. “And no.”

“Multiple murders?” His voice crescendoed, hitting that question mark hard.

“One murder and robbery. Then a couple more two-bit burglaries. Not sure what to call the other break-ins.”

He got quiet. “Any of this crap scare you?”

Of course it did. But last night’s date and Peters’ comfortable congeniality had kept her from peering incessantly over her shoulder for adversaries for one day. She hoped Stan wasn’t about to ruin the reprieve. But hearing him did make her feel ashamed about lowering her defenses.

“Somebody has a flashy MO, Stan. They don’t really break in. They wait until it’s easy to enter the house, and, get this, they leave a silver dollar from a collection missing from the murder.”

At mention of her stolen mug in Papa Beach’s house, Stan started barking orders. “Change your damn locks,” he said.

“I did, Stan.”

“Before or after the mug was stolen?”

“After.”

“Well, why the hell didn’t you change them before?”

“Stan,” she said, the muscles in her back knotting. “I’ve tightened up around here. Don’t treat me like a child.”

“Don’t like you being alone in all this.”

“I can handle—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you’re very capable and all that shit. But . . . anyway, be careful.”

“So what did Raysor say?”

Nothing Stan said surprised her, nothing she hadn’t already heard. The deputy had tattled, like it mattered. Then as if reading her mind, Stan asked, “Would that idiot deputy plant the cup to scare you? He seems a bit over the top. Is that typical of Southern law down there?”

“I declare, are you profiling, Captain Waltham?”

“Heh, heh, heh. You and that damn accent.” Paper wrinkled from what she guessed was a stick of cinnamon gum. “Got to admit you sound better this time, Chicklet. Don’t take no guff off that guy.”

“No problem. It’s always nice to hear from you, Stan, even when you’re grumpy. I take it you found nothing on Henry Beechum?”

“Other than a military record? No.”

She was glad to hear it. “Nice talking to you, Boss.”

“Give me a better reason to call you sometime, Morgan.”

“I’ll try. Tell Mindy hello for me.”

Silence.

“Stan?”

“We split, Chicklet.”

Oh, damn!
She couldn’t imagine this man single or without Mindy. Though his job was a chronic mistress, he never forgot his wife’s birthday, their anniversary. He’d been so proud taking her to Ireland several years ago. “Oh, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Long time coming.”

“Oh, I can’t believe that. You two seemed good.” She craved to give the big bear a hug, stroke his back, then bring him a coffee so he could vent to someone who wouldn’t judge. She hated the thousand miles between them right now.

“Don’t worry about me, or her. It’s congenial and all that, but if I need a shoulder, I know who to call.”

“I owe you at least that much. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, take care.”

CALLIE CONTINUED mulling over Stan and his split from his wife as she diced tomatoes and ripped lettuce. The innocence of the day had vanished with the news from Boston. Jeb watched the steaks outside.

Peters poked his head in the door. “Smelling mighty good. When do I clean up?”

“Now, if you want medium rare,” she said.

He turned to go outside.

“No, no, come inside,” she said, dropping her knife and grabbing a kitchen towel. “Follow me. You can use Jeb’s bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you need in there.”

Peters didn’t argue and closed the door behind him with thanks. He soon emerged rosy-cheeked, his hair washed, towel dried, and combed with a part. He smelled like mouthwash and way too much toothpaste. Callie made a note to find the toothbrush he used, in case he didn’t have his own.

Jeb brought in the steaks just as Callie put drinks on the table. Peters held out her seat, and Callie smiled, catching Jeb’s eye as if to say
See? That’s how you do it for a lady
.

Everyone sat.

Peters asked Jeb for the sour cream. “You headed to college this year, son, or you still in high school?”

“College of Charleston this fall,” Jeb said, passing the man the salt and pepper as well. “Business, I think, but they make you take stupid general education courses your first year or two. Still not sure what I want to do.” He passed the butter. “Do you like your work?”

“Jeb,” Callie cautioned.

“It’s okay,” Peters said. “I like my job well enough. Lets me be independent. Didn’t get a chance to go to school. Might not be living in a truck if I had. Could be a lot worse, though.” He took a bite of steak. “Hmm, umm, umm. I could get used to eating like this.”

“You work for yourself,” Jeb said. “So does everyone else out here. My friend Zeus makes good money with his fishing business. I like that.”

“What do you define as good money?” Peters pointed his fork at the boy. “I live off scraps from tables of those who did take advantage of opportunity, son. School may seem like a drag, but trust me, it pays.”

Callie felt it was time to change subjects. “How’re the steps going, Peters?”

“I think you’ll like them. Don’t go out the front door until tomorrow, though. I hung yellow tape across the top and the bottom. The amount of paint’ll be cutting it close with that darn dry wood. Guess it’s been a while since Beechum painted them, huh?”

Callie wanly smiled. “Don’t know, but you’re taking care of them now, and we appreciate it.”

Peters shoveled lettuce in his mouth, chewed with exaggeration, and swallowed. “Son?” he said to Jeb. “You’ve got a jewel of a mom here. Listen to her when she talks to you, you hear?”

Jeb hesitated before simply saying, “Yes, sir, I will.”

“Sir,” Peters repeated. “That’s what I’m talking about. Can’t remember when a kid called me
sir
.”

Peters’ accent was pure Lowcountry, as was his humor. He appreciated manners and treated Callie with respect. She couldn’t see him in the negative light Mason cast or as the suspect Raysor described. Peters wouldn’t have lasted this long doing what he did if a single homeowner had sensed the least hint of wrongdoing. Callie wouldn’t have asked him to dinner if she saw anything criminal in his ways.

Raysor was oversensitive about the man, his crime-fighting gusto too zealous for her taste. He’d probably never see another murder in his career, so maybe this was sport for him, means for a promotion, or a story to be told at the bar.

Callie caught herself swirling her glass, forgetting it was just water. Jeb finished up the last of his potato. She pushed half of hers on his plate, and he dove into it, adding more butter to her conservative one pat.

Soon, only the aroma of the steak remained with Peters all but licking the plate. Yep, Lawton Cantrell had taught her well. Treat a man with respect, and he’ll respect you right back. Too bad Beverly fell short of fathoming the lesson.

Moments later, Peters excused himself and thanked them for dinner. Callie put Jeb on the dishes and retired to the back porch, grateful the sun had already set on the marsh. She punched speed dial on her cell phone; she owed someone a promise.

“Daddy? It’s me. I’m calling Mother like you asked.”

“Great. Let me get her.”

“Wait a minute before you do that,” she said. The sun gone behind the water, soft ripples flowed in colors more reserved for a fall forest. She was so happy to be safely at home at this time of day.

“Can you talk to Jeb for me?” she asked. “I’m sensing mild reservations about college. Could be cold feet, or some dumb notion stuck in his head by new friends, but maybe you can instill in him the importance of that degree. Call him maybe? Or better yet, drop by and take him to dinner. Do something before this mild aversion bloats into something he acts on.”

Her father gave a mild grunt. “We can’t have that now, can we? Saturday night?”

“It’s not urgent, Daddy.”

“No, no. I’m trying to ease into this retirement mentality. And I meant it when I said I wanted to spend more time with Jeb. Pick him up at five?”

“You’re my idol. Now put Mother on the phone so I can get you retired.”

Her body tensed when Beverly’s voice came closer in the background, chatting the whole way about some early fundraiser she orchestrated in preparation for the next campaign. Lawton said nothing more than, “Talk to your daughter. Be nice to her.”

Scuffling as the phone was exchanged. “Callie?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, but we need to talk. Don’t get upset, now.”

Beverly gave a ladylike snort. “That’s a warning for sure. What is it, dear?”

“It’s about Daddy. He’s missing Jeb. And I propose something that won’t set well with you.”

“Oh, it’s probably not as bad as you think. I’m a fairly grounded woman.”

“Well, how about letting Daddy retire. Let him bow out of politics and enjoy time on his own terms, doing what he wants. Y’all could travel. You could—”

“He doesn’t want that,” Beverly said, her voice turning cool.

“Talk to him. He might surprise you.”

The silence only stiffened Callie’s shoulders. More silence. She couldn’t stand it. “What, Mother?”

“Is this something you talked him into?”

Oh geez. “Seriously?”

“I’m not happy about this revelation. Don’t pry into our lives.”

“Maybe it wasn’t my idea.”

“Sure it was. Your father would’ve run it by me first,” Beverly said.

Callie pushed up from her Adirondack. “Maybe he did, and you weren’t listening.”

“Oh, I think I’d remember that, dear.”

Callie grit her teeth, holding back curses for the woman who’d spawned her. “Daddy has donated his life to public service. Middleton is fine, so let him bow out on a high. Give him a chance to sleep in, go fishing, do nothing. He never gets a day off.”

“He has much left to accomplish.”

“Damn it, Mother. It’s his career, not yours.”

Callie could hear the television vaguely in the background playing a Burger King commercial. Dishes clanked, her father pretending to be busy in the kitchen.

Beverly’s ire came across in her pause, before saying, “I need to go.”

“I’m sure you do.” Callie hung up, scowling at the perfect storm that continually brewed between her and her mother, wondering how Beverly would play it out to Lawton.

She jammed the phone into her pocket and mumbled, “Don’t think I did you any favors this time, Daddy. But then, you asked.”

“Mom?” Jeb shouted.

“What?” Callie hollered back.

The screen door opened. A smiling Sprite glided out as if walking on oil. Callie’s mind strayed to thoughts of the girl belly dancing, bending backward, smoothly shaking her assets in her son’s face. Jeb followed, smitten from the size of his grin. “We’re going out,” he said.

“Well, try not to make any babies,” she mumbled.

“What, Mom?”

“Try to stay safe,” she said louder.

“You always say that. You worry too much.” He led his date down the stairs.

“Wait,” Callie said. “Who’s driving?”