Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (29 page)

No, he didn’t. No damn way he could. His congeniality with Raysor was like John having coffee with one of her perps. The two had no business together.

“Pretend we’re in my office. If it takes a couple of drinks to settle your ass down, then fine,” he said, then he seemed to change his mind. “Unless you ought not be drinking.”

“I can drink,” she said, not wanting to lose it now.

Then Stan sat and listened as the gin loosened her up, sometimes inserting a question, but for the most part he gave her the floor. By the end of dinner, they conversed easily, just as they’d done long ago.

Stan wiped the butter on his empty plate of flounder with a last bite of yeast roll. “Hmph. Never thought I’d eat grits.” He washed the swallow down with his water, his one drink emptied an hour ago. “On the porch, I told Raysor to take you seriously, by the way. So you wasted all that mad energy.”

Callie shoved half of her BLT away and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “He’s an ass. He cornered me behind bushes in my drive, talking about dumping my body in the marsh. Still love the guy?”

“He tested you, Morgan, that’s all. He thinks you’re a lightweight, but neither one of you knows about the other’s past.” He set his napkin on the table. “At least he called and tried to find out more. You never asked me to check him out.”

“He’s a cop,” she said, hunting for a reason.

“Don’t take this wrong.”

She snorted a laugh. “I can imagine what
that
means.” She waved at the waiter.

“No more drinks,” Stan said.

“I’m not on duty,
sir
. And like I said, I have no place to be. Hell, I’ve got you as my designated driver.”

He didn’t find her remark humorous, his eyes sad while she ordered her fourth gin. “I thought the old Callie Morgan would eventually come back. Maybe to Boston PD, but more so in terms of personality. But she seems lost somewhere.”

“She is lost . . .” Callie trailed off, swirled her glass of half-melted ice, and gazed toward the long windows where a huge wash of sunshine reflected off the landscaped greenery. This was the fatherly side of Stan. The side she liked the least. The side that had often kept her in check back in the day. The fourth gin arrived. She sipped the crisp, unwatered-down freshness of it.

Sophie walked in, an unidentified woman friend with her. She waved, cocked her head at Stan, and started to come over.

Shit. Now what?

Callie gave a tiny shake of her head. Sophie halted, winked, and returned to her dinner partner.

“Let’s go, Stan. People are starting to come in.” Callie dropped off the tall chair and misstepped.

Touching the small of her back, Stan led her to the exit. “So who don’t you want to see me?”

“Everybody,” she said. “You’re my secret weapon, and they might use you against me. Raysor already tried.”

His mouth went askew in a playful manner. “Makes me feel loved, Morgan. So we go back to your place, or you want to show off your beach?”

A small grin creased her mouth. “You got
beach
right. I’m proud of you, Boss.”

Callie wasn’t about to show the man the main sand, either end of it, and especially not the in between where she’d dashed about armed in her frantic search for Jeb. And the last thing she needed was for Mason to jog up, all curious and eager for details.

So she guided Stan off incorporated Edisto Beach, up Highway 174, to the more secluded Botany Bay. They parked and strolled to the narrow causeway, a three-quarter mile boardwalk to the beach across a vista of marsh and water birds hunting clams and fiddler crabs, fringed by cabbage palmetto, wax myrtles, and oaks.

He scanned the flora. “Different.”

“History,” she said, avoiding the edge of the walk due to her unsteady gait. “Over three thousand acres protected in its original state. You don’t swim here, too dangerous. It’s a rustic stretch of water, so no hordes of tourists and kids.”

Stan draped an arm over her shoulder. “I like this. Kinda humid, but at least there’s a breeze. How do you feel?”

“Drunk.”

He encircled her shoulder and shook it a bit. “That’s all right. Relax for a change.”

She nestled into his hulk of a shape and let him guide her toward the water. “When I’m clearheaded, I can show you more. Daddy brought me out here many times.” Her speech broke at the sudden memory. “It’s two cotton plantations, owned by the Townsends back before the War.”

“Which war?”

She rolled her eyes. “The War of Northern Aggression, silly.”

He chuckled. “Oh,
that
war.
The war
means Revolutionary in my parts.”

“Well, you people actually controlled this area for a while,” she said.

He hugged her. “Well, I’m glad we gave it back.”

They reached the sand. Stan took in a deep, belly-bulging inhale. “Very nice, indeed.”

She left the protection of his arm, enchanted by the water. En route she wove in and out of the wooden boneyard that displayed skeletons of leafless oak trees reaching up to scratch the sky. As expected, only a few visitors wandered. She kicked off her shoes.

Waves rolled in around her ankles, then receded, taking sand from under her toes. She sidestepped to keep her balance and let it happen again, now a yard farther into the surf. A particularly big wave rushed in and splashed up to her knees. With a wobble, she tried to lift a leg to reposition, but the water impeded her effort. Stan caught her before she fell.

His rolled up khakis showed meaty calves not nearly as tanned as the men around the Lowcountry, his socks and shoes back on the beach. He half-grinned as she checked out his legs. “Five hundred dollar Italian loafers and salt water don’t mix,” he said.

Callie rolled her shoulders then stretched out her arms to the side, then over her head. “I think John smiled on us just now,” she said.

“I know how you must miss him, Chicklet.”

She let her arms drop, following the movement to gaze down to the water where tiny shells and sand grains tumbled and flickered in the sun and then rolled swept away. “Yes, I do. But Papa B’s murder shifted my reality somewhat.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the back and forth of the moving beach under the water. “John’s turning into my past, Stan.” She faced back toward the water’s horizon, eyes moist.

Stan patted her back.

“I’m sorry,” she said and wiped her eyes. “How are
you
?”

His shrug seemed small and pitiful on such a huge body. “I’m in a small apartment not far from the office. Gives me more time at work.”

Callie couldn’t imagine losing someone still living. “Aww, Stan.”

His shadow of a grin thanked her. “Mindy could have taken her career in other directions, but she stayed with me and my job. Guess it bothered her more than I thought. My twelve-hour days at the department didn’t help. She says she gave it her all, and I didn’t appreciate her sacrifice.”

This time Callie wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned against him. He squeezed her close, petting her back.

Callie was first to pull loose. She shook off the relentless melancholy and moved back from the water. “Come, let’s sit.” She tottered ahead to sit ungraciously on a fallen tree trunk, the hollowed out sand around it showing that others had held the same idea. Feet dug in, legs stiff and straight, she perched on the horizontal three-foot thick tree.

“As far as the other stuff around here, sounds like someone in the community has a vendetta,” Stan said, as the tree shivered slightly under his weight. “If you still worked for me, I’d start with gathering history on everyone. Since you have this bad vibe about Raysor, and a hint of one about Seabrook, start with them. Want me to help you with that when I get back?”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Then I need to see what’s up on the neighbors who were broken into. What their backgrounds are. I can use Seabrook for that, keeping him close while using him.”

“There you go,” Stan said. “Who else?”

“The lady you saw at Grover’s. Sophie Bianchi. I doubt she’s an issue, but I’m not sure about her son or her ex. Then Peters, the contractor. I guess some of the real estate agents.” She turned and almost fell off the tree. “Henry Beechum’s son is real high on my list, though. Pauley wasn’t necessarily in Florida, and frankly, I wouldn’t put it past him to kill his daddy for the money. Nobody on Edisto likes him.”

They went around and around with supposed motives and insinuations, Callie’s spirits uplifted by the mental exercise. Stan had helped her define her focus and feel better about herself. She hoped she’d done the same for him, though she couldn’t see how.

Almost nobody left on the sand, a few couples walked toward their cars. The sun settled, its dying light off toward the west, making foamy saltwater wave tips shine yellow and orange with spits of white as they curled over and softly exploded onto the ocean floor. Even with her senses muted from the drinks, Callie’s heart picked up its pace. They might have waited around a bit too long.

She gripped a limb crooked at a forty-five degree angle to balance her. “We need to go.”

Stan frowned. “Why?”

She headed toward the boardwalk, jittery. “Because . . . it’s late.”

“But it’s not.” He faced the sea. “Check out those boats on the horizon. Sure wish I had binoculars. And the light. This is just remarkable, Chicklet. Let yourself bask in the evening. Come.” He held out his arm. “Let’s talk some more. It’ll be good for you.”

“No, Stan!”

A glower fell over him. “What the hell is wrong . . .” Then realization showed in his eyes.

The late sun caused the shadows behind Callie to deepen, the ocean roaring. The waves, however, reflected brighter. Flickering. He reached for her at the sudden understanding.

But she bolted and ran for the parking lot.

The boardwalk strung out forever, her footfalls pounding wood, then sand. As she dashed around two older women, she tripped. Touching ground for balance, she righted herself and took off again. She finally made it to Stan’s car and yanked. Locked! She spun and searched for a haven. Stan hustled up the walk awkwardly, shoes in hand.

Callie ran to him. “Give me your keys!”

He rummaged his pocket and tossed them to her.

She unlocked the vehicle, crawled into the driver’s seat, and cranked up the engine.

“Nope.” He opened the door. “You’re not driving. Not with all that booze in you, and not in that frame of mind. Move over, Morgan.”

She obeyed as he dropped into his seat, put the car in reverse, and headed back. He asked directions once, but otherwise they exchanged no words as Callie stared at the floorboard. Fifteen minutes later, they ran up her fresh painted steps, entered Chelsea Morning, and secured the door.

She headed straight for the hall bath. Leaning over the sink, she wet a cloth and buried her face in it to take in the moisture. Her mouth so dry. Stan should have eased her nerves, set her to right. She thought with him there, she wouldn’t—

“You okay?” Stan asked from the other side of the door.

“Yeah,” she answered from behind the cloth. “Just a second.”

“You gotta get over that shit, Morgan.”

Morgan, not Chicklet. His tough love tone. She wrung out the cloth and hung it on a rack. Her ears still hummed, her vision not quite clear, but it was time to face the boss. Her top straightened, she exited the bathroom shaky, pretending she wasn’t.

“No doubt I’m staying here tonight.” Stan headed into the kitchen. “Go get on the sofa. Where’s your coffeepot?”

“The corner of the counter.” The overhead fan ran on high. With her shoes kicked off on the floor and a stack of Diamond albums on the turntable, Callie shed the long-sleeve blouse, leaving her in a tank and capris. She pulled the sand dollar blanket off the back of the sofa and drew it around her. Stan soon handed her a mug.

She sniffled and blew across the top. “You remembered how I like it.”

He set his on a coaster on the coffee table, sat next to her, and leaned his head back. “Haven’t heard that song in ages.” He let the Diamond tune play out and another take its place. “Yes. I remember one sugar in your coffee. I also remember what a setting sun used to do to your nerves after the fire. You said you’d moved past that crap, and the doctors.”

Of course she’d lied to him, but her words didn’t feel like lies, not when she’d said them. Stan always made her step up, expecting her to perform at peak. Trouble was she had no more performances in her.

“You’re worse,” he said, his voice monotone.

“I just buried my father,” she said. “My childhood friend and neighbor was murdered two weeks ago. Doesn’t that give me some room to backslide?”

“Maybe.” Even his fingers held still. He moved nary a muscle when he doled out discipline, making the person across the desk feel the need to fidget for him. “What does Jeb think?”

She recalled when her father sat where Stan sat now, telling her how worried both he and Jeb were about her. How concerned Jeb had been that first day when they’d arrived. Her son was bitter at her of late and reclusive. To avoid another lie, she shrugged.

“Your mother?” he asked.

“She ordered me to leave Middleton and come here. We’ve never been on the same wavelength, so what she thinks doesn’t matter.”

“Nightmares?”

“Sometimes.”
All the time
.

He shook his head, reached over, and lifted his cup. “I don’t think I’d want you back on the force if you asked, Morgan.”

She snapped around. “Why the hell do you think my ass is stuck on this beach? I can’t return to that world. No way would I jeopardize Jeb again. That job ripped my heart out.”

Yet not that long ago, she told Beverly the opposite. That the job had defined her. As a civilian, she possessed little power to deal with any threat efficiently. That was becoming obvious.

Who was she kidding? She doubted herself more than Raysor, than Jeb, than her own mother. Her flawed judgment of the criminal element had probably caused John’s assassination.

If she’d failed so miserably then, what the hell use was she now?