Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (31 page)

“Yeah.”

She winked at him. He released a tight grin.

With a chuckle, she tried to lighten the mood. “I’d have screwed your eyes out, you know.”

“Hmph.” He grinned bigger. “You’re not making this easy, are you?”

She sat up straight. “I’m truly sorry, Stan.”

“Don’t worry about it, Chicklit. Nothing we hadn’t both thought about before.”

Minutes passed again, each letting that visual rest.

“So what words of advice will you leave me with?” she said. “If you were me, what would you do about whoever’s disrupted tranquility here in paradise?”

They rehashed each crime and each victim, each suspect and each investigator. Slowly at first, as if they couldn’t remember how to do their jobs anymore. She feared she wouldn’t have his advice for a long while once he returned north. Actually, she heard nothing she didn’t already know, but Stan needed this swan song to justify his trip. To help put things back to right between them, between him and Mindy.

Orange soon tinged the sky behind dark gray, shadowy palmetto trees, spreading into the navy of the night like watercolor seeping across a page.

“Get up, Boss,” she said. “The Seacow is open for breakfast by now. How long can you stay?”

He studied his cup. Her core hurt so much at what she read in that simple unspoken reply. “That quick?” She pulled him to his feet, taking the lead for his emotional sake.

They went to the kitchen and rinsed their mugs. “She said if I stayed any longer you would undermine us.”

Callie couldn’t think of a response to that. She couldn’t argue with Mindy’s logic.

Stan set down the towel. “I’m changing to an earlier flight.”

The pain of his sudden departure surprised her. Maybe her energies around Stan hadn’t always been so hidden. She briefly wondered if John had ever noticed. “Tomorrow?” she asked.

“Today,” he replied.

“Then let’s take two cars to breakfast since it’s on the way off the beach anyway.”

“Yeah,” he said.

AN HOUR LATER, Callie sat at the restaurant table as Stan kissed the top of her head, paid the tab, and left. She sipped on another cup of coffee, to adjust to the embarrassment. Then she left and slowly drove to the beach. She wasn’t ready to return and see her bed tossed.

It wasn’t his fault. She’d let him bruise her soul—a soul that needed bruising, because the pain had awakened her. Made her want again.

Just maybe not Stan.

But it hurt. Like a frostbit limb regaining circulation, nerve endings came alive with pins, needles, pain, and throbbing as they remembered how to function.

Rays glinted harsh on the water as she strolled from pier to pier, finally kicking off her sand-filled shoes. The tide curled its way out, gulls enjoying what each wave left behind on the land.

The shore
.

She’d released him for selfish reasons as much as empathetic ones. She needed him to still be on the other end of that phone during the hard times. She’d made a mistake taking him to her bed. If they had consummated their need, she would have regretted it. Stan even more. The salt air rushed into her face and she inhaled it.

How much damage had she done to their friendship?

Two miles down the beach, she turned and retraced her steps. Once she climbed onto a pier, tightroped it out a few yards, and let the splash sprinkle her. What did the world find healing about water that lashed so relentlessly, so loud, so vicious? If she jumped off the barricade, over her head, the waves would bash her against the wood. Over and over. What was calm about that? Yet here she balanced, seeking peace in the midst of turmoil. She didn’t see it happening anytime soon.

She had no idea what to do now. She’d even welcome one of Mason’s surprise jogs. Sun dawning brightly over the Atlantic, she searched the water’s edge as far as she could see but didn’t spot him.

So she walked back to her car and drove home.

On her way up the freshly painted steps, she realized she hadn’t seen Peters since before the funeral. Sometime today she’d call him, maybe invite him to another dinner. It was the part of his payment he probably appreciated most anyway.

The new lock, still graphite slick, quietly secured her door. Heavy silence blanketed the house. Come winter, with the tourists gone and Jeb entrenched in classes, this would be her every day. Maybe she needed a cat.

Out of habit, she glanced over at Papa Beach’s house. Still dark. Even if she believed in spirits, she didn’t sense Papa’s spirit hanging around the place anymore. Maybe he’d moved on. If Callie asked, Sophie would certainly address that issue.

Nine o’clock. Sophie’s yoga class ended about now. She would have spotted Callie jogging if she’d bothered looking. The Pavilion held a long, clear view of the water’s edge, both north toward Kiawah and south toward Beaufort. Callie thought maybe she should give the class a go one day.

A yawn broke free, then a bigger one, making her eyes water. She returned to her bedroom, the coolness of her sheets calling for her to recover the sleep she’d missed last night. But as she entered, she gasped and reached for the door frame.

Papa Beach’s box of memorabilia sat amidst the rumpled covers, no longer hidden in her closet. The cup had been used to smash the chicken salt and pepper shakers. Its broken handle sat two feet away from the rest of the pieces.

Who knew about the box? How the hell did anyone get in here?

She ran to the phone, half dialing the number for Stan before she hung up.

He’d return if she asked, but Mindy would never accept her husband choosing Callie over coming home to mend their marriage. Especially someone who’d been a detective trained to manage danger on her own.

Her shades were drawn. No one could see her room from outside.

Frantically she started with her nightstand, snatching drawers open, hunting for wires, anything that pointed to a camera. She tore apart her lamp, turning over the clock. Then the curtains. Clean. She ran fingers along the dresser mirror, searching.

She ripped apart the busy clusters of blue silk hydrangeas, slinging the leaves and stalks . . . and hit a hard object. She parted the leaves and petals. Floral wire anchored a cam into the arrangement, aimed at her bed.

Without thinking, she snatched it savagely out of the flowers and hurled it against the wall. It cracked, two pieces skittering across her floor, a nick left in the wallboard.

Who the hell had done this?

She screamed at her moment of stupidity. Falling to her knees, she retrieved the main guts of the cam. It was destroyed, but still, she held the lens inches from her face. “You stinking son of a bitch. Come get me, you hear? Do whatever it is you think you need to do, because I’m so ready for you.” She slammed it into the floor and stomped the remnants.

Then she rushed to the side porch to check Papa’s house. The paper taped in the window displayed a message for her eyes only.

Whore
.

“You bastard!” she screamed.

Exhausted, she dropped onto a porch chair. Fighting the scary fear in her head, the mind that once reacted in split-seconds to life-threatening situations, she pondered who to call.

She was sick of this crap. Phone raised, she clicked a picture of the paper. Then another. She scurried into her bedroom and took another, again and again.
Yes.
This was more like it. The camera on the floor. The vase of torn flowers. The damaged wall.
Hell yes.
This was how she wanted to feel. Proactive. Refusing to be victimized. Pulse pounded as she scrolled the pictures. Evidence.
Yes.
The son-of-a-bitch had entered her home and violated her privacy. And she would use it to nail the bastard, or at least instruct Edisto PD how to do this right.

Her hand shook with the phone. In hers and Stan’s moment of weakness, a stranger watched
. Christ! Who should she call?

Raysor’s threats removed all sense of trust about him. Seabrook operated oddly these days, as he slipped in and out of empty rentals, his too-calm behavior telling her he wasn’t totally trusting her either.

Her finger hovered over 9-1-1. There were other officers. Dickens, maybe?

Think, Callie.
For the first time in many months, she regretted relinquishing her badge.

Shit!
She hadn’t cleared the house. He could still be here.

Like a bottle rocket, she darted back into the house to her bedside table. The Glock 32 she kept under her pillow, the gun she had moved to the nightstand with Stan in her bed, was gone.

Enough.
She dialed 9-1-1 as she bolted to the credenza in the entry hall. Yanking open a drawer, she tossed aside a folded tablecloth. Her backup .38 waited untouched. Of course. The cam couldn’t see in here.

What about more cams?

First things first. She ran back to peer out the kitchen window.

An intense bang rattled her front door. She jerked around. Then a rapid succession of hits on the glass. A short shadow of a person paced on the other side of the etched window.

“Callie! Callie! Please be home. Unlock the fucking door!”

Callie threw down the phone and drew the gun. She peered outside to see Sophie still clad in her yoga tights, frantic with her fists. When Callie undid the lock, Sophie shoved the door open and slammed it behind her.

“What do I do?” Sophie said, eyes darting. “I don’t know what to do!” She ran to a window to peer out toward her house.

Adrenaline exploding, Callie jerked Sophie’s wrist. “What is it, Sophie? Slow down and tell me what’s wrong.”

Slow yourself down, Callie
.

Recalling old training, she attempted to settle herself first and deal properly with the crisis. Compartmentalize. Like a crime with multiple casualties.

Sophie rubbed her wrists, wincing, then pointed toward her place. “He’s there. He’s in there.”

“Who?”

“The guy who steals. He’s in my house! He came back to get me.”

Callie’s eyes went wide. He’d moved from Papa’s place to hers to Sophie’s in one day?

He’d quit being careful.

Or Sophie was part of the plan.

God, she just didn’t know anymore.

Chapter 24

THE 9-1-1 OPERATOR scolded Callie vehemently on the other end for being told to wait. She ran into Jeb’s bedroom to see out his windows and finally relayed information to the operator, but the crime she called about had to shift from broken trinkets and a hidden cam to a real culprit rummaging around Sophie’s home.

“We’re in my house next door. Yes, we’re safe. I’m armed. The man hasn’t left the Bianchi house that I can tell.”

“Yes, ma’am. Stay inside your home. I’m sending a unit right now.”

Hanging back to the side of the window, Callie watched through a crack between the slatted blinds, still unable to see anyone next door. With the opportunity to catch this guy eminent, her pulse echoed in her ears, louder than her breaths.

Her gaze darted toward Sophie who slipped in to peek out the next window. If she was part of the breaking and entering deals on Jungle Road, she was faking her fear pretty well.

“Back away.” Callie moved toward the door. “I’m going over there. Do not stand at the window, hear me? Here.” She pushed the phone to Sophie. “Stay with the operator.” No way was this guy disappearing while she waited for 9-1-1 to dispatch someone. She had to know who the hell it was.

Her neighbor followed her to the exit. “I’ll lock up behind you.”

Callie left. No time to marvel at Sophie’s new need to lock a door.

Knowing that the kitchen was positioned in the front part of the house, where the burglar, if this was the same guy, would wind up for his drink, Callie slinked outside to the back. Up the stairs. She flattened herself against the white siding, for once grateful Sophie left her windows uncovered so Callie could sneak a glance inside. From the back porch, she could peer through the living room into the kitchen. A straight line view.

She eased to the edge of the window. Paint-stained pants appeared below the open refrigerator door. Throttling her .38 through a backdoor unlocked as always, Callie burst in like a Marine. “Freeze!”

The handyman went stock-still, but the refrigerator door hid his body.

“Peters. What the hell are you doing in here?”

Eyes wide, his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “Um, getting a drink.”

She poised in the living room, her stance instinctively sideways to lessen her exposure. “Back away. I want to see your hands.”

Peters backed up one step, palms in the air. The fridge slowly eased shut with a whump.

Relieved to see no weapon, Callie poised on guard, no longer in tune with the handyman’s laid-back personality. “Do you work for Sophie?” she asked.

“No.”

“So what gives you the right to come in here?” she demanded.

His eyes spread round as saucers. “Your house wasn’t open. Hers was.”

Good grief, this was too stupid to be happening. She waved her gun arm. “Sit down, Peters. Somebody will want to talk to you.”

He sat. “Honest, I would’ve just gotten water, but I thought about a Coke and checked out what she had. I didn’t think she’d mind.”

“Just sit.”

“Yes’m.”

Callie perched on the arm of the sofa, weapon in her lap, still dumbfounded. A siren sounded only a minute later. Seabrook rushed in, Dickens behind him. Peters started to stand, and Callie pointed at him. He sat back down.

But Seabrook glanced at her first. “Really? A weapon?”

“Mike, he entered a private residence without permission. Sophie’s in my house terrified.” Her respect for him wavered again. Inexperience? The Edisto environment? He needed to take all this more seriously, because someone had shot Papa Beach and hit Maxwell. This was a break-in. What did someone have to do to raise a threat level to anything higher than green around here?

Hell, she had a busted cam on the floor in her own house. And her Papa Beach souvenirs destroyed.
One crime at a time, Callie
.

Seabrook turned to the handyman. “Peters, what do you have to say?”

He shrugged and raised palms in supplication. “I wanted a drink of water, man. Don’t know why Ms. Bianchi didn’t say hello or something.”