Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (6 page)

In Boston, she’d fallen apart after a year of hunting John’s killer and pretending all was fine to Jeb. The obsession had eroded her ability to compartmentalize, organize, and dissect a crime. She couldn’t end the day without devising new strategy against the Zubovs. Vengeance muddled clarity.

She moved from room to room, her son on her heels as she dusted, washed clothes, and settled her belongings amongst those already in place. Occasionally she glanced out the window at the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze.

“The kids I met said Papa Beach got shot with his own gun,” he said.

She snapped towels, fresh from the dryer. “Jeb, how would they know? Quit with the amateur investigating. And get out from under my feet. I know what you’re doing, and I’m fine. I used to work in the middle of this kind of crap.”

“Yeah, but . . . you know.”

Lifting a stack of linens, she shoved them into his arms. “Are you spying for your grandparents? I’ll skin you for that. I don’t need a sitter.”

He hesitated enough for her to see the
yes
in his eyes. She filled the dryer again and switched it on. “Go to the beach before I put you in the corner.” She waved at him dismissively, internally not wanting him to leave the house. “Meet somebody,” she said. “Maybe even a hot girl in some knock-out bikini.”

He scowled. “My mom isn’t supposed to talk about hot girls. And since when do you want me out from under your own bodyguard protection?”

Her son was too sharp. Finding a dead body next door, minutes after overcoming an anxiety attack, was ample reason for her overreaction yesterday. Today, however, she liked to think she controlled herself better. “If you take your phone and call me periodically, and stay around friends, I won’t worry so much.” She sighed. “I’m trying to give you space. College is only two months away, and I’m struggling with it.” She put the fabric softener and soap up on the shelf over the washer. “Stick around, however, and I’ll educate you on my dating secrets.”

“You win.” His smile shone from a deeper place. “Don’t need a lesson on prehistoric social skills.” Bare feet slapping the oak floor, he disappeared into his bedroom to change. Shortly thereafter, he exited the house, locking the door as John had taught him.

Callie poured herself an ice water and fought not to mark time with constant peeks at the clock. Fought not to glance out the window at yellow crime scene tape.

She needed something to do. After lifting her .38 from the credenza drawer, she pulled out the gun cleaning kit. Then she dialed a familiar number and rested the phone on her shoulder as she took the weapon apart. “Stan Waltham, please. Tell him it’s Callie Morgan.”

Stan shot straight with her, respected her, and when she’d left the police department, she swore she saw moisture in his brown eyes. His gruff exterior enveloped a marshmallow core. Ten years older, he played the handsome father-figure one minute and a stand-up buddy the next. She still remembered the musk of his cologne when he hugged her goodbye that long moment outside the bar. She missed him more than anything else about Boston.

“Morgan! How’re you doing?”

“Making it, Stan.” Her shoulders relaxed hearing his thick Massachusetts accent and gravelly voice. Her last call had been two months ago, which meant he’d cut that curly black and gray hair at least three times. “Wanted to let you know where I am. And check on life back in Beantown.”

“Missing you around here, Chicklet.” He chuckled as he used her old nickname derived from her small size when compared to his six-foot five. Stan’s square jaws usually chomped on gum, cinnamon-flavored, a habit cultivated when he quit smoking. “What’ll it take to get you to come back? Boston’s overrun with crime now. They’re thinking about shutting us down, moving us to New York, and letting the clans and mobs have it.”

She smiled and envisioned his tilted, box-like head and mouth stuck in a tight grin as she put a drop of cleaning oil on a patch. “I had them all under my thumb. What did you expect?”

“You still in Summerton?” he asked.

“Middleton,” she corrected, “and the answer is no. I’m at Edisto Beach now. Expected to just visit, but I sort of got stuck here for a while.” She changed ears on the phone. “I need to ask you something.”

He grunted. “You sort of got stuck living on the shore? Sucks, Morgan. How do you stand all that sun and sand—the balmy breezes and shit?”

“You sound like my son, except for the shit part.”

“Always liked that kid.”

“Listen, Stan, we had a murder down here, and that just doesn’t happen,” she said. “My next door neighbor was killed. A lovely old man who wouldn’t harm a soul.”

“And you’re wondering about Zubov,” he said. “I’m sorry about your friend, Chicklet. You’ve suffered enough.”

“Thanks.” She inhaled deep, taking in the gun’s odor. “What’s the word from the family?”

“I’d have called if I heard anything.”

She knew that, but still. “What are the chances my friend takes a bullet to the head while I’m moving in next door?”

“They bag the perp?”

“No.”

“Anybody see the guy?”

“No. I started to chase him, but he vanished. Plus I wasn’t armed.”

“Damn, Morgan.” Stan smacked his gum a few times. “Anything stolen?”

“A coin collection, maybe more. I’m not allowed in. You know small town cops. They’ve even got a deputy on loan who thinks he’s mayor.” She tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears, but it swung back as soon as she pulled away. She continued on, enjoying the unbiased ear of someone who recognized her abilities.

The line fell silent for a few moments. Then Stan’s office chair creaked. “You’re doing it again.”

Callie lined up the weapon’s pieces on a cloth, each parallel and neat. “What’s to say they didn’t come down—”

“Stop it.”

Scrunching an oily rag, Callie kneaded it as Stan went down a familiar path. “The Russians have a long reach.”

“It’s been two years,” he said, concern underpinning his wisdom.

She wrung the cloth. “They left hints on the street.”

“They were bragging, and you were still here. You left, so let them feel they won this one. I’m telling you, there hasn’t been as much as a whiff of your name in twelve months.” He sucked on the gum. “You still seeing someone about the episodes, or are you over them?”

“I’m better now,” she lied, suddenly feeling the need to don her sneakers, hit the flat sand, and let eight-minute miles push the paranoia out of her system. She’d left her doctors in Boston. Why pay them two hundred dollars an hour when she could call someone for free who actually understood?

“What can I do?” he finally asked.

She outlined her scar with a finger, knowing the raised eight-inch length and half-inch width from memory. Her constant reminder of when her life fell off its axis. What
could
he do? Heaven help her, but she almost wished he’d come down and be that rock-steady assurance that a phone call couldn’t offer. “Can you run a check on Henry Beechum? And do another on his son, Pauley. He’s maybe five years older than me, lives in Kissimmee, Florida. I vaguely recall him having a history of trouble. He used Papa for little more than a bank.”

“Sure. What else can I do?”

“You’re doing it,” Callie said low. “Just being there and not brushing me off as a dimwit.”

“Just a friend doing friend-stuff,” he said.

She heard a knock and a man speak in the background. “You probably need to take that.”

“No, I don’t.” With a half-muted voice, he told somebody he’d be with them in a moment. “Call me any time you like. How’d you end things with the local cops?”

“Like I said, the county mounty’s all bluster. But Officer Seabrook’s nice.”

“Really?”

“Not like that, you oaf.”

“Okay, okay, but it might be time you were wined and dined, sweetheart.”

Callie blushed, and she was glad he couldn’t see her. “You’ll call me if you hear anything on the street, right?”

“Of course.” He coughed. “Let me know when you’re up for company down there. Never been to a Southern shore.”

“It’s called a beach, Stan, and I will.”

“Take care, Chicklet.”

She didn’t know what she’d do without these calls. He didn’t call her crazy. He didn’t talk as if she were afflicted. He’d known John and felt her pain.

She hung up, missing the attentiveness of a man so damn much, even if he was married.

Then she reassembled her weapon.

Chapter 5

CALLIE JUMPED AT the rapid-fire knock on her front door, as if the visitor had read her crossing-the-line thoughts about Stan.

“Hey, neighbor!” A female voice shouted as the handle was tested. “Anybody in there? Why’s the door locked?”

Who the hell . . .
Callie walked over and peered past the clear decorative rolling wave etched in the door’s beveled window.

The antsy visitor on the porch stood no taller than Callie’s diminutive five-foot two. She appeared to be in her late forties but animated enough to pass for less. She continued to tap with a fingernail in staccato fashion on the glass. “Yoo-hoo!”

Callie tucked the cleaned .38 in her back jean pocket. “May I help you?”

“Hey,” the woman said in a mild drawl, pointing next door to the yellow home with sky blue shutters. “I’m Sophie Bianchi, your neighbor.”

Callie recalled the curious onlooker with the gauzy green top and leotards from yesterday. The basket in her arm contained an assortment of jars and candles. Before Callie could offer a welcome, the visitor tried to push the door open. It stopped at Callie’s well-placed foot.

Sophie feigned a hurt expression. “You’re not gonna let me in?” She flipped her hand once as if casting a spell. “Look at me. I’m not a rapist. Nor a burglaring murderer.” She flattened her fingertips on her collarbone. “I’m just your neighbor, honey. Probably the best friend you’ll ever make on this island.”

Callie moved her foot. The welcome gesture seemed nice. “Um, come on—”

With a dip to one side, wrist bangles jingling, Sophie entered, sweeping her skirt around the door.

Callie secured the house and followed her guest.
Interesting
. “Make yourself at home.”

Strolling into the kitchen, Sophie set the basket on the table and moved items around inside it. She extracted a bundle of dried plant and waved the bouquet triumphantly.

“This first, hon.” She flicked her lighter and lit the end of the muted green bunch until smoke rolled into the air, then Sophie danced on the balls of her sandaled feet around the kitchen table.

Callie wet a dish towel. “What’re you doing?” With her luck, stray sparks would put holes in her furniture or light the curtains.

Sophie giggled and wafted the smoke into the corners of the room. “Saging your home, silly.”

Gliding into the living room as if detached from the ground, she hummed, repeating her motions, light catching some of her skirt’s gold lamé ribbons. The woman’s arms were toned and tanned, her figure a tiny hourglass. Short curls kicked up in pixie-esque style, jet-black with streaked red highlights. And those aqua eyes. Had to be contacts.

“What’s saging?” Callie asked, uncertain about the flamboyance.

“Smudging. Clearing your new home.” She dipped and dove smoothly, as if controlled by music playing in her head. “One more room and I’m done.”

Back in the kitchen, Sophie pushed smoke up and over Callie’s head as she held her ground. Then Sophie rested the spent sage sticks in the sink. “There. Cleansed of all negative energy. Both you and the house.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Callie accepted. “Didn’t know I needed cleansing.”

Snickering, Sophie fell into a chair as if she’d lived in the house for years. “When you move in, you sage to dispel the ugly influence of cosmic junk left behind by the previous owners. You were around that murder yesterday,” she said with a finger pointed, “so saging
you
couldn’t hurt.”

“The previous owners were my parents.” The thought that Beverly’s presence needed a purge from these walls amused Callie. “Appreciate it, though, because I’m sure there was a
serious
accumulation of negative cosmic junk left behind.”

“See?” Sophie beamed, then threw a glance toward the hallway, to the front door. “No more need to keep your doors locked, either.” Her gaze darted to Callie’s backside as the gun hit the chair. “Oh, my goodness. No need for that gun, either.”

Callie removed the weapon, placing it atop the fridge. Her mother had no right to tell her what to do anymore, so a neighbor most assuredly didn’t. “Sorry,” Callie said, “but doors stay locked around here.”

“No, no, no.” Sophie shook her shag. “When you think about negative events, you attract them to you. Don’t ponder such incidents, and they won’t occur. Therefore, no need for locks or guns.”

Now all they needed was a crystal ball.
“I can’t live in an unlocked house. We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one. I’m Callie Jean Morgan, by the way.”

Sophie jumped up and ran around the table. Her tiny arms reached around and hugged the life out of a stunned and stiffened Callie. “Everyone says you’re here to stay. We need more natives.” She brushed Callie’s arm with fingers bedecked with three rings, and seemed to not notice the scar. “You’re the right age; we could have fun together.” She sat back down. “So who’s the striking blond young man who left here a while ago?”

“My son Jeb.” Callie tugged her shirtsleeve back over the scar. “He heads to college in the fall.”

Sophie squealed like an eighth grader abuzz with her BFF about the prom. “I have a son at the College of Charleston and a daughter who’s a high school senior. Zeus and Sprite.”

Callie sucked her lip to avoid breaking out in laughter.

Sophie wriggled. “Please tell me your son’s going to the same school. I have a sixth sense about such things.”

Then she ought to know, shouldn’t she?
“Yes, he is. How old is your son . . . er, Zeus?” Entertained at the names, Callie tried to envision these kids.

“Twenty. Let’s take them out for seafood. When are you free?” She scrunched her nose. “You don’t actually work or anything, do you?”

“I’m taking a sabbatical . . . of sorts. You?”

Sophie blew out a smug, fat gust of air. “Alimony and child support.” Her thin lips shifted to the side. “I’m not rich, but I can’t complain. My ex played pro football for a few years. When he hooked up with a groupie, I found a new home at the beach. Best move I ever made.” She waved her bejeweled fingers. “Trust me, he can afford it. Plus, I teach yoga in the bar at the Pavilion.”

“Yoga at a bar,” Callie repeated, remembering Beverly’s warning about the yoga neighbor, unable to envision her mother contorted on a mat in a bar.

“Come to my next lesson,” Sophie said. “My schedule’s on a magnet in your basket. First visit’s free.” She leaned back as she analyzed Callie’s body. “You’re a runner.”

Callie crossed her legs, not surprised that her mother found Sophie too ethnic. “I do run. I’d intended to map out a five-mile route before you showed up.”