Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (15 page)

“Hey, Deputy Raysor,” Callie said. “How’s it going? Need me for anything?”

“Now why would I need you?”

“Just being polite. You ought to try it.” She pivoted to leave.

“Mighty odd that none of this shit happens until you move here,” he said louder. “If you didn’t do any of this crap, you know someone who did. Or at least attracted him here. I smell you all over this, doll.”

A ripple rolled through her at his words. No telling what Raysor would think if he knew her past, her weaknesses, her history. He’d project to the entire community that she brought mayhem to Edisto, and that did nobody any good.

Seabrook had said last night that shit just happens. Right now, a thick pile of it strutted around with a badge next door, doing everything in his ability to draw out her bad side. Then she recalled how great her day had started and the strength she promised to maintain. She’d sworn to herself that
victim
would not seep into her vocabulary.

“Well, good thing we have a solid police force to take care of such mayhem so the residents of this beach can live in safety,” she said. There. Better.

“One day we need to talk,” he hollered after her.

She marched home, raising a hand in casual acknowledgement, but internally she was anything but casual. Fighting not to trot faster, she put distance between her and the rotund man and his stupid grudge. He creeped her out, which was so dumb after all the pervs and miscreants she’d tackled in her career, because to look at him could almost draw a smile. Raysor was such a bubba stereotype.

So different from
Mike
.

She hadn’t asked if Seabrook was inside, then realized she preferred to shower first before seeing him anyway. Change into better clothes, throw on lip gloss.

Was she primping
?

No, she decided, heading up the steps with purpose. Merely personal hygiene and sun block.

The shower slowed her heart rate, but she still felt off-balance. Not literally, of course. Her legs felt fantastic after three miles, her lungs strong. Figuratively, however, she seemed half a bubble off center. She’d become accustomed to keeping her thoughts isolated, emotions protected.

However, now she’d met Sophie, Zeus, Mason Howard, and Mike. And handyman Peters. Raysor. The new interactions challenged her stubborn reclusive tendencies. Once upon a time, she’d adeptly juggled so many personalities. She knew what to say and how to say it, but that was when her core had been solid and confident.

For the year in Middleton, Callie had hidden away, surfing the web, jogging, making weekly calls to Stan for doses of Boston news. A few school events for Jeb. A few appearances for Lawton’s fundraisers and ribbon cuttings. She greeted, smiled, and thanked her father’s friends and acquaintances for their compliments, condolences, and best wishes. Her wall of isolation remained with nary a crack in the mortar.

She didn’t used to need a wall, but these days she loved its protection.

She’d always been more of a weekend visitor on Edisto instead of a resident. Now that she was full-time, life tugged at her to get sucked into this community of assorted beings.

And this morning she’d been cheerful for the first time in many months. Was she outgrowing her time of mourning? Had these people drawn her out? Or had Mike Seabrook been the first person to give her permission to release all her pent up resentment for outliving John? And what did that make Seabrook to her?

She dried off and worked on her hair, her make-up, but nothing outrageous. Nose against the mirror, she waved a mascara wand across her lashes, reared back, and studied the results. Too much?

This was ridiculous. She set down the wand and ceased the effort. She put on beige linen slacks, a turquoise tank, and a loose white long-sleeve gauze shirt. Maybe she’d offer her law enforcement assistance again, but to do so she needed something more than gym shorts to be taken seriously.

While checking the lock on the back door, movement caught her eye. She pulled the drapes back and edged to the right to peer better across the street.

A dozen middle-schoolers canvassed the area between the dirt road and the marsh. She opened the back door and moved to the porch. Across from Sophie’s house, a herd of Boy Scouts studied the ground, the water, the brush. Several maneuvered metal detectors, swinging them to and fro. A three-foot A-frame sign posted on the edge of the thin grass read:
Edisto Boy Scout Troop 154 At Your Service
.
Please Drive Carefully
.

A blond child, gangly and awkward, staggered over weeds to his waist. Callie grinned, recalling Jeb’s sprawling legs at that age. Two other kids bumped shoulders. Snickers galore. Their gazes strayed too easily from their duties, the boys intensely interested in something at Sophie’s house.

After locking up, she hopped down her front steps and strolled over to Sophie’s. Callie knocked, then tried the doorknob. Locked. Hallelujah for newfound common sense.

Sophie yelled from the other side. “Door’s open.”

Callie jiggled the knob. “No, it’s not.”

Cursing, Sophie unlocked it. “Who the hell did that?” She scowled, then waved Callie in, dancing back barefooted in black yoga pants, a black tank, and a yellow and white shirt that draped baggy off one shoulder. “Come in, come in. I don’t know how
that
happened.”

Seabrook’s voice sounded from the kitchen. “I told you, Sophie. You’ve got to keep this place more secure. I did that when I came in. Get used to keeping it that way.”

Forceful, irritated. He’d delivered a pretty harsh lecture from the tone in his voice. “Hey,” Callie said, rounding the corner.

A grin smothered his face. “Hey yourself. You seem good today.”

Sophie tilted her head. “So, what’s this? I get my fanny chewed out by Mr. Grump, and all you have to do is walk in and he beams.” With one fist on her waist, the other reached out, bangles jingling as she wriggled fingers. “Okay. Spill it.”

“Nothing,” Callie said, heat rising up her neck.

“Nothing, my ass,” Sophie said.

“I told you someone broke into Beechum’s place again last night,” Seabrook said. “Callie and I were up half the night dealing with the crime scene.”

Her impish grin was ripe with imagination. “Oh, really?”

Seabrook frowned. “You aren’t taking any of this serious enough, Sophie. A coin was left here. Chances are something was stolen. What’s missing?”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing. And I already asked you not to talk about such things in here. If someone came in my house, he made a mistake.”

Seabrook shared a sarcastic snap of a laugh. “He paid you a coin by mistake?” He dropped his head back, staring at the ceiling, and blew out. “I’ll buy a bale of the damn sage for you. Just keep your doors
locked
and search for anything stolen. Don’t be so simpleminded.”

“You’re not flipping my switch, big boy,” she said, sashaying to the kitchen. “Anybody want some tea? Carrot juice? The serious stuff?”

Callie moved to the back window. “I came over to see what Troop 154 is doing out back. They’re stumbling around like Keystone Kops.” She eased the sheers away to see. “They can’t seem to—oh.”

A teenage beauty languished on a chaise in a beige lace bikini smaller than one of Lawton Cantrell’s Christmas hankies. Thick black curls piled atop her head, her skin tanned golden.

“I take it this is Sprite?” Callie asked, glancing at her neighbor.

Sophie sparkled. “That’s my baby.”

“And the Scouts are supposedly
scouting
for the silver dollar you threw away yesterday,” Seabrook said as he joined them at the window. “Hadn’t planned it quite this way, but I imagine they’ll search as long as she’s out there in all her tempting glory.”

“Hmph,” Callie said. “They’ve probably tripped over that coin fifty times.”

Boots stomped across the front porch, followed by a heavy knock on the door. Raysor let himself in before Sophie could get there. “Easy pickins’, this place. What if I’d been an intruder?”

“You are,” Sophie said.

Callie gave her a silent
Amen.

“You could at least wait for me to greet you,” Sophie said, the sparkle gone. “Just because it’s open doesn’t mean you waltz in without invitation.”

“But the door was open. Tacit approval.”

“That’s not how it works.” Sophie strode up to the man who had a hundred fifty pounds plus on her. “You still show manners. What if I’d been naked?”

Raysor’s mouth fell open as his face reddened.

Sophie smiled wickedly.

“What is it, Don?” Seabrook asked. “Have they finished at the Beechum place?”

“Yeah.” Raysor straightened and readjusted his belt. “They can’t find anything new. They think the dude used gloves this time.”

“He’s getting smarter,” Seabrook said.

Callie added, “He’s never been all that dumb.”

Another knock. “Is Miss Morgan in here?” Jackson Peters peered inside from the other side of the threshold.

Sophie flipped her wrist, making circles in the air at Raysor. “See? He knows how to do it.”

Callie joined the clustered gathering in the foyer. “Hey, Mr. Peters. You need me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I can get to your steps tomorrow. And just Peters is fine.”

She reached past Raysor. “Appreciate it, Peters. And I’m just Callie.”

He shook her hand, nodding sheepishly before backing up. “Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you people to whatever it is you’re doing.” He started to leave and stopped. “Oh, Callie, where do you keep your key in case you’re not home?”

Raysor stepped in, blocking the contractor’s view of Callie. “On her damn key ring, you idiot.” He pointed up the road. “We’re still processing a crime scene, another breaking and entering, and you ask where an owner’s gonna park a spare key for you and everybody else on this beach? Just think about the damage that could happen from some damn key hid under a stupid gnome in a flower bed.”

“But she ain’t got no gnomes,” Peters said straight-faced.

Raysor’s ruddy cheeks flashed redder.

Callie moved around the deputy. “I’ll be home, Peters. You can start anytime you like. Just don’t knock on the door before eight.”

Peters tipped his head and scurried down the stairs in the same loping fashion he’d done the day before. He returned to his truck in her drive.

Once Peters was out of earshot, Callie lashed out at Raysor. “Where’d you learn your manners?”

He ignored her to stare after the handyman. “We interviewed that old hippie yet?”

“No.” Seabrook flipped pages in his notes. “Plan to, though. He was the first on the scene after the Rosewoods got broken into.”

“I’ll do it,” Raysor said, moving to the porch to watch the truck’s retreat.

“Deal with the tourists, Don. I’ll handle the questioning on this case, just to be consistent.”

The deputy leaned on the porch railing, watching Peters inch onto the road after waiting for a golf cart loaded with five teens to go around. “He could’ve done every bit of this. He just told us how he gets access to these houses.”

Seabrook returned his small memo book into the back pocket of his jeans, still out of uniform from the night before. “The same way every rental agent accesses these homes? We’re talking murder, Don. Don’t see Peters as the type. Too familiar a face.”

“I agree,” Callie said.

“Glad y’all took these dark topics outside,” Sophie said, settling on the porch landing.

Raysor took a moment to appreciate her lotus position, then forced his attention back to Callie. “Not sure where you went to police academy, Ms. Detective, but we were taught the obvious was usually the right answer. We need his whereabouts.”

Callie hated the deputy’s incessant antagonism. “Listen, Raysor . . .”

He sneered, like the master belittling his protégé, and turned away.

“Pay attention to me, Einstein,” she said louder.

“Why should I?” Raysor reared back and studied her down his nose. “You’re as much a suspect as he is. You had access, and your alibis are weak.”

“Where’s my motive?” she replied, jaw tight.

Raysor flipped a quick shrug. “What’s anybody’s motive? Money, attention, vengeance.” He pointed at her. “There’s something amiss with you, doll. You’re connected to all this somehow.”

“Stop it, Don,” Seabrook said.

“Let me interview
her
,” Raysor said. “You’re too distracted.”

Callie moved up. “Bring it. Interview me. Give me the best you’ve got.”

“Enough,” Seabrook said.

“Then I ain’t got time for you, doll,” Raysor said and headed down the steps. “City people, city cops. Not a lot of sense between their ears, if you ask me. In the meantime, I gotta go solve a crime.”

Squinting at the deputy’s back, Callie resisted spouting some useless slur.

“Didn’t think he’d ever leave,” Sophie said. “His disgusting aura just clings to you. At least I can vouch for you when the Rosewoods were broken into, Callie. I got your back, girl.”

Callie gave her neighbor a meager smile.

“Good grief, Mother, I can’t lay outside like this. It’s like a hotel here. Little perverts and no privacy.” Sprite brushed past like a breeze, a sarong wrapped around her slim frame, and disappeared down the hall.

Callie tried to chuckle about the pouty child, but Raysor had stolen her humor. At least with Sprite off the porch, chances had increased the Scouts would find the coin. But Raysor’s rancor had struck a chord with her. How many people on Edisto thought like he did?

Wait, was this mentality what the burglar had planned?

Suddenly the light on at Papa’s house made more sense. Somebody was sucking her into this crime spree, setting up situations that she couldn’t predict or ignore. Making everyone suspect her as part of it . . . somehow.