Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (26 page)

“Please, I’m sorry. Come back and sit. I’m sure I have cinnamon in the cupboard.”

But Sophie shook her head. “I’ll see you another time. Right now, however, I need to pretend you didn’t just blame my son for your son’s instinctive nature to question his life’s choices. And I need to pretend that I’m not pissed as hell that you’re so insecure about your family that you have to accuse someone else’s to feel good about yourself.”

“Wait a damn minute,” Callie said, shifting abruptly from sheepish to pissed.

Sophie rapidly descended the stairs. “Nope. This conversation is over.” She turned at the bottom for a dramatic pause. “But you’re still welcome to come to yoga in the morning. You need it more than ever.” Then she fast-walked home, her back stiff and very un-yogaish.

Callie shut the door a bit too loud before she realized Sophie would only be appeased by the noise. She rued her words, chagrinned at Sophie’s efficient, articulate dismantlement of Callie’s questions. She rubbed at her scar, wishing so desperately she had a sounding board to tell her what she could’ve done differently.

As a detective, decisions once flowed from her spot on right, her logic and deductions so solid that rookies and seasoned officers alike took her word as gospel. A fact, then two, laced with suspicion, glued with dialogue from one party then another. Without much thought, she could sort which pieces completed the puzzle.

She apparently wasn’t so savvy anymore. And rude to boot.

But hadn’t she told Seabrook she was a loner now?

She caught herself standing before the cabinet, moving bottles aside. She slammed it back shut, recognizing her mindless move to grab a glass and fill it with something other than tea.

Seabrook’s open offer to call him before she took a drink floated back. Bet he no longer meant it. Moving to the window, she stared across the street and down, hoping to see his movement in the empty house again. He could have had Raysor drop him off so that he could reenter the house around back.

If he appeared, she’d call him. If he didn’t, then screw him. The microwave clock read quarter to four. He had ten minutes.

She jerked back from the window as the back door opened.

Jeb walked in. “Mom? Grandpa still coming? If he’s not, I have a date with Sprite.”

Callie glanced at the clock. Time had flown by.

Jeb considered her. “What’re you doing?”

“Um, thought I saw someone who didn’t belong walking the street,” she replied.

“How would you know?” He frowned. “You look guilty.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Now, what were you saying?”

“Grandpa still coming?” he asked. “If not—”

“Yes, he’s coming.” Callie yanked his shirt. “Go get ready in case he arrives early. Be thinking where he can take you. And listen to his advice. He’s a wise man.”

“Boy,” Jeb said. “If this isn’t a set up, I don’t know what is. Wonder what it is you can’t discuss that you dumped on him to tell me instead.”

“Go!” she said, feeling so damn transparent these days.

A HALF HOUR later, Callie watched television in the living room. In the recliner across the room, Jeb texted on his phone, probably with Sprite, still bitter about Callie’s leash on him and his obligation to the guy-to-guy dinner with his grandfather.

Lawton Cantrell would gain the boy’s confidence. Callie knew it. He’d get Jeb to analyze himself by guiding the child in the right direction, asking subtle questions, leaving Jeb proud of himself in the end. It had worked so many times on her growing up, sometimes talking her through the latest tiff with her mother. She wouldn’t have lasted under that roof without her daddy’s gentle patience.

Jeb threw down his smartphone and grabbed the remote off the sofa. “Wish it were football season.”

Living in Middleton for a year had endeared him to the sport, in a high school known across the state for its history and trophies. Maybe a football college would attract him more.

She studied him, worried, then returned her gaze to the TV.

Her phone rang, the harsh bell sound ripping the expectant air. “Hello?”

“What’re you doing tonight?”

“Mason,” she said irritated, “I’m busy.”

“You busy later?”

“Not tonight. Seriously, I’ve got things on my mind.”

Jeb heard her and cast a sullen look.

“So, another night then?” Mason asked. “You just said—”

“Not now,” she said. “See you later.”

As she hung up, Jeb pounded buttons on his controller. “That your boyfriend?”

Ah, part of his problem
. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Jeb,” she said.

“People saw you at Whaley’s. Lit up.”

She retrieved her phone and, in stride, glanced out to the porch, across to Pauley’s place. “That was just dinner.” Her dad was late.

“Save it, Mom.”

She turned to her son. “Jeb, that evening wasn’t—”

The doorbell rang. Callie jerked. When she reached the door, Seabrook waited on the porch in jeans.

She raised her brow. “This is a surprise.”

The phone rang, and Seabrook took it from her.

Callie gawked at him. “I don’t even know who that is.” Time to have a meeting of the minds with the cop. “Jeb’s about to go out to dinner. When he leaves, we need to clear the air, Mr. Seabrook. I don’t follow what your problem is, but—”

Seabrook stepped into the foyer and closed the door. “Callie, your father’s been in an accident. His car left the road somewhere on Highway 165.”

Callie felt Jeb’s arms encircle her from behind.

Seabrook studied his feet before meeting her pleading gaze. “I’m so sorry. He died instantly.”

Chapter 20

CALLIE TURNED AWAY from the receiving line and faced the wall to dab her eyes, the strangling scent of carnations burning her sinuses. Two hundred people waited to console Beverly, Callie, and Jeb, streaming out the funeral home’s reception area, into the hall, into the sanctuary fifty yards away where they wove in and out of the pews like a popular Disney attraction. County councilmen, business owners, and assorted government directors stacked up with their spouses on their arms, yet people continued to arrive.

The governor had already come and gone. He left while speaking to the state’s junior US senator.

Earlier that afternoon, mentally numb, Callie had groomed Jeb, the child unable to recall how to tie his tie. She’d tried to help Beverly dress, too, only to be told to leave. So with her family tended to, she’d found herself dressed with too much time to spend. She’d wandered out back to her father’s workshop, sat down on the concrete floor, and cried for the first time since Seabrook had broken the news in her foyer four nights ago.

Now standing in line, she was bone-weary and wrung out.

Make-up already stained the shoulders and lapels of Jeb’s new suit, his pale complexion eliciting hugs and pitiful laments from mothers. An attendant offered all three of them a fresh, cold cup of whatever yellow drink was in the punch bowl. She’d had two cups already and still couldn’t identify the taste.

Beverly, adorned in a navy silk suit, the silver blouse accenting her coiffure, held more energy than Callie and Jeb combined. Each mourner revved the widow’s spirit, then received a unique word, eye contact, an unwavering smile, their hand grasped by both of Beverly’s, one beneath and the other on top. Callie knew her mother’d had a drink, because she’d done so as well, both of them throwing back a gin barely splashed with tonic before entering the fray. Callie saw her choice as alcohol or Valium. Beverly chose both.

Callie had spent two hours with a distraught Jeb the night before, talking to him. He wavered between blaming himself for needing Lawton’s attention and blaming Callie for inviting the man to Edisto in the first place. Between his rants, she’d detailed what the funeral director expected and that if Jeb became overwhelmed, he could escape to a certain room reserved for them. Three funerals in three years. Too many for a teen.

Too many for her.

John’s funeral had consisted of wall-to-wall law enforcement who understood losing one of their own. They held Callie up for weeks with visits, calls, food, chores, and errands. Some, like Stan, had tended to Jeb’s needs with a male shoulder and diversion tactics like a Red Sox game or a movie.

But this.
Jesus
. This was cable television material. She’d seen two reporters with cameramen already.

She tired of the suits, the perfect manicures, the overwhelming show of politicians and well-heeled businessmen who offered their condolences with one eye scouting who hovered before, behind, or off to the side of them. She had no idea who half these people were.

Her father had appreciated the importance of this type of behavior, but he hadn’t operated along those rules. He’d respected the need to glad-hand but had guarded his humanitarian side. Still, this parading, prancing, and posturing sea of people loved him, never quite registering how to function like he had.

Her daddy had been so damn special. He’d sacrificed too many years for these people. He’d sacrificed himself for her. It wasn’t Jeb’s fault Lawton drove to Edisto. It was hers.

Callie brushed damp eyes and shifted as the balls of her feet throbbed. Beverly, contrary to the other sixtyish women in the room, sported tasteful two-inch narrow heels with a pointed toe.

“How’re you doing?” Callie whispered to Jeb as a husband and wife chatted with the power couple behind them. The break offered the grieving family fifteen seconds of peace.

“This sucks so bad!” he whispered through his teeth.

She rubbed his sleeve. “I know, baby. Not much longer. This ceremony displays respect and gives your grandmother strength.”

Jeb scoffed. “She could do this for days, Mom. She’s stronger than anybody in this room.”

The Middleton police chief made his entrance in full dress regalia. Relief washed over Callie, her knees almost going weak. The image of a cop captured her heart, as if more was right with the world by his presence.

“Excuse me,” she said, dipping her head to a middle-aged woman with pin curls dyed auburn to match her dress and enough diamonds on her fingers to fund Middleton’s budget for the next two years. Callie moved to the side of the room, the chief in gentle tow. God knows, she ached to spend the rest of the evening in the shadow of a uniform heavy with brass and ribbons.

“Sorry about your daddy,” the tall man said, stooping way over to softly speak in Callie’s ear.

She bowed her head in return then stared with purpose. “He was a conservative driver. It was five in the afternoon on a Saturday, and he had a light schedule. He told me so. That’s why he was coming to see us. He didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. He didn’t text.” She’d already spoken to other law enforcement and said all these things. Just not the chief. He could make investigators dig deeper.

The big man settled back on his heel, as if listening to a speeder’s explanation about how he couldn’t have been going that fast. “I sent a car to the scene, Ms. Morgan, then I came along forty-five minutes later since the victim, sorry, was our mayor.”

“And I thank you for that attention,” Callie said. “Daddy deserved it.”

He nodded in agreement.

“So what happened other than his car left the road and hit an oak? What made him leave the pavement?” she asked, fighting not to rush the words. She needed answers so badly.

“We’re not sure,” he replied. “Something took his attention away, and the skid marks indicate he tried to regain control. No contact transfer that we can find. Whether he took a phone call or someone ran him off the road, nobody knows. Not sure we ever will, ma’am.”

“I can check his cell phone and most likely rule that out,” she said.

Again, the tight, formal smile.

She recognized the cop labeling her as a family member blind to reality, trying to exert her law enforcement connection to gain favor, ignoring what could be a simple driving mistake. Cops grew accustomed to families begging for a better answer for their loved one’s death.

But her daddy didn’t make such mistakes.

“Mom? Grandma’s unhappy you left,” Jeb said, appearing at her side.

“I’ll be there in a moment.” She made firm eye contact with the lawman, afraid to let him go without assurances. “Please take a deeper look, Chief. He was a public figure. You know my background. I appreciate your position. But Daddy didn’t
just
stray off the road and hit a tree.”

“Accidents happen, Ms. M—”

“Not to me and mine,” she said louder than expected.

Jeb nudged her. “Mom.”

A dozen people turned.

“Humor me, then,” she said, her tone more polite. “Give it another going over. For Daddy.”

“Highway Patrol has jurisdiction.” His stoic façade barely cracked as his gaze met hers and then softened. “But in light of Mr. Cantrell’s position, I’ll make the request.”

“Thank you.” But the promise didn’t make her happier, not like she thought it would. She returned to the receiving line where an eightyish woman in a dated blue suit awaited, anxious to speak.

The gloved hand patted Callie’s as she stepped back into place. “This must be difficult for you after losing your husband such a short period ago, honey. A fire, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Callie marveled at the hunger people had for details of carnage.

“I heard you had a bad time with that.”

“Geez,” Jeb said under his breath.

Callie tapped the side of his shoe with her own. “Yes, ma’am. I found it quite difficult to have a good time that night.”

Jeb grinned to the side.

Beverly grabbed the lady’s hand and eased her further along, shooting a short, reproachful glance at Callie. “How are you, Mrs. Ashton? I heard about your lovely roses outdoing themselves this year. You must be proud.”

Callie leaned into Jeb. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

“That was actually awesome, Mom,” he said.

A warmth spread through her, a feeling she thought impossible under the circumstances. That was the first positive remark Jeb had given her in a week.

A girl Jeb’s age, accompanied by her father, moved forward. She shyly glanced at Jeb and said, “Sorry about your grandfather.”

“Of course, that’s another way of handling it, too,” Callie whispered, grateful to see Jeb attracted. She eyed the father’s watch, wondering if it was too much to ask the funeral director to shut the doors at nine.