Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (16 page)

Chapter 13

CALLIE HUNG WITH Seabrook on Sophie’s back porch, observing the Boy Scouts huddled in a group studying the ground across the street. Hopefully they’d found the coin, but they could just as likely be watching a crab. Sophie consoled a pouty Sprite in her bedroom, the seventeen-year-old in a huff over her inability to tan in private with so many pimply adolescent boys on the loose.

“Ignore Don,” Seabrook said.

Callie leaned her elbows on the railing. “Not easy to do. He has a right to doubt the new person on the block. Especially someone familiar with the crime.”

“You’re not a suspect.”

“I know,” she said, not feeling so sure.

She would try to keep her distance, but someone seemed intent on entwining her in all this. Sophie said she could cover her for the Rosewoods, but the burglary occurred before Sophie had come over. Not by much, but still . . .

“It’s too easy to blame a simple guy like Peters.” Callie straightened. “We could have the burglaries with the coin, then an anomaly, the murder.”

“But the coins at the burglaries came from the murder. How do you explain that?”

She frowned. “I can’t.”

Seabrook scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. “This is four days in a row if you count Beechum’s place last night. Who does that?”

Her backside rested against the railing. “Someone confident he won’t get caught.”

“Burglaries are one thing, but murder’s another. Somebody else is going to get hurt, or worse.”

She nodded. “Can you call in more people?”

He snared his sunglasses from the top of his head and put them on. “And do what? Set up a sting? Put a guard on each resident? In this place?”

“You can inform the community to keep their doors locked.” She appreciated his frustration, but he needed to get out in front of this mess. “Signs, announcements, educate them. Deter the guy. Make Edisto vigilant.” It felt good having a partner to brainstorm with. Crime was never a good thing, but fortunately wrestling with it was what she used to do best.

“Did you ever see the movie
Jaws
?” he asked. “This is tourist season. I’m Brody on Amity Island.”

“And remember what happened when Amity Island didn’t take Chief Brody seriously?” she asked. “People died.”

Seabrook’s mouth flat-lined. “Don’t say that,” he said, unknowingly stealing a line from the movie.

“Put Raysor to work enlightening the public,” she said. “Let him be the one everyone yells at.” She grinned wryly. “Would serve him right.”

“Forget him. He’d be bitter if you fed him cotton candy and tickled him with a feather. I’d be more concerned if he were quiet. Anyway, we have a phone system on the beach. It’ll send a text or voice mail to most of the houses. At least all the residents. It was designed for hurricane warnings. We’ll send a reminder to lock up with a burglar on the loose.” He lifted his shades and peered into her eyes, and Callie sensed a shift.

“You know how you had a key to Beechum’s house?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I assume
he
had a key to yours since he maintained your place.”

Which could have been how someone got into her house. Seabrook had connected the dots, and she felt like a fool not having done so first.

He stared harder. “And did you retrieve your key from the real estate office that used to manage your rental of Chelsea Morning?”

Home run, Officer Seabrook. Good for you.
She bit the inside of her lip. “No.”

“Hmm,” he said. “How about you call someone—”

“Nope.” She stared past him at her home that might as well be as wide open as Sophie’s. “I’d already decided to drive to the hardware store and pick up three locks. I’ll change them myself, thank you. Not sure I trust a locksmith around here anymore.” She’d pick up a hammer for her toolbox, too.

Seabrook sniffed. “Good thought. At least nobody gets a chance to make a copy. I can do it for you.”

Callie
had
changed a lock before. They came with simple directions. Seabrook would fall over knowing she could pick one, too. “No, you’re exhausted. Go get some sleep. I’m good.”

“Fine, then I’m headed home. My brain needs shut-eye.” He thumbed back at himself. “But still call me if anything happens I need to know about.”

She nodded.

“Oh,” he added. “Don’t stop at the liquor store on the way to buy those locks. I’d rather you call me than hunt another bottle.”

Irritation flashed over her. “What?” She poured a whole bottle down the drain. She could stop whenever she liked.

“Never said the word drunk,” he said. “But drinking alone is foolish. At least do it with me.”

Two Boy Scouts ran over with smiles bigger than a circus clown, one holding up something muddy. “Officer Seabrook!” the taller boy yelled. “We found it! It wasn’t as far in the marsh as we thought.”

“Good job,” Callie said, descending the stairs behind the cop.

Mike held the coin on its edges, between his forefinger and thumb. “1921,” he said. “Just like you said, Callie. Thanks, boys. That’s it. What do I need to do for you in return?”

“We need a letter to saying we helped solve a crime. This’ll count toward a community badge big time,” the boy said. “Maybe even an award.” The smaller youngster nodded with exaggeration, excitement all over his face.

Seabrook played his role well, as if contemplating the seriousness of the request. “Fair enough. Give me a couple of days, and you’ll have the best letter of commendation you’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, sir!” they said in unison, then bolted like fueled lightning to the huddled group eagerly waiting for an update.

A woman’s yell stifled the chuckles and chatter. Callie donned her shades and scanned across the yards of several houses. The voice shouted again.

A heavyset middle-aged woman in khaki Bermudas fast-walked between trots along Jungle Road toward the police cars at Papa B’s place. “Help! Help!” she cried, her arms out to the side, sagging underarms swaying. “Help! Police!”

Seabrook scrambled toward the road, Callie on his heels. Boy Scouts rushed around the pylons holding up the residence, as if entitled to participate in any action now.

“Over here, Mrs. Hanson,” Seabrook shouted.

“Mike,” the woman cried, watching for cars before she bounded in a cumbersome gallop across the road. “Oh, Mike!”

He reached her and drew her away from the edge of potential traffic. She gulped, trying to catch her wind. “How could this happen?”

“What happened?” he asked.

Callie touched the woman’s shoulder. “Shhh, calm down and collect yourself. Is anyone hurt? Do we need an ambulance?”

The woman shook her head. “No, no.” She swallowed down tears. “Somebody’s been in my house.
My
house!”

Callie stared at Seabrook. Had the guy performed another trick right under their noses?

“Is anyone there now?” he asked.

She shook her head fast, flustered. “I don’t know. I set the alarm while I went to the grocery store. When I came home I put the groceries away, then went on the screened porch to call to my sister.” She patted her chest, gathering her wits. “When I came in to get another glass of tea, I found it.”

“Found what?” Seabrook asked.

“A glass of wine,” she said. “And a big coin. Isn’t that what happened at the Rosewoods? They’re right across the street from me.”

Callie had hoped they could keep the coins a secret, but obviously not. The Rosewoods could have told Hanson after they’d already told Sophie and Heaven-knows-who-else.

Three coins in as many days. Six break-ins total if she counted the two at Papa B’s and the one at hers.

They crossed the street with Mrs. Hanson. Sophie reappeared at the commotion, Sprite by her side, still wearing less than Pocahontas.

Leaving Mrs. Hanson outside with Sophie, Callie searched the house with Seabrook, and as expected, found nobody there. They brought Mrs. Hanson inside her kitchen, asking her to replay her actions. A wine glass sat at the kitchen bar beside a 1928 Peace vintage silver dollar.

“I came home, turned off the alarm, and put away the groceries,” she said, moving from her kitchen door into the room, opening cabinets in her reenactment. She pretended to pour her tea. Then she exited to the porch with her phone.

“Where were you seated?” Callie asked.

Mrs. Hanson moved to a chaise lounge at the right side of the deck, out of view of the exterior doors and the kitchen.

Callie shadowed her. “How long did you talk to your sister?”

“Oh, not long,” she said. “Margaret can talk for hours, but this was one of her shorter conversations. Maybe thirty minutes.”

“May I?” Callie asked, taking the woman’s phone. She scrolled through the old calls. There it was. “One hour and thirty-five minutes.”

Mrs. Hanson nervously covered her mouth and chin. “Gosh, I didn’t think we talked that long.”

Seabrook stared critically at the woman repeatedly smoothing her clothes. “So, assuming the invader didn’t have the alarm code,” he said, “he used that ninety-minute window. So what’s missing? What did he take?”

“Mike,” Callie chided softly.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Mrs. Hanson said. “The coin made me come find you.”

“Well, hunt around while we’re here. We’ll wait,” he said and left the screened porch to go into the house.

Mrs. Hanson, however, remained still, shell-shocked.

Callie took her arm. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll go with you room to room. Let’s start with your jewelry, cash, and the master bedroom.”

The woman immediately discovered a sterling silver necklace missing from the top of her dresser. All else appeared in order.

Sophie soothed Mrs. Hanson as Callie pulled Seabrook aside. “He’s not taking anything of value. The antique coins are worth more than what’s being stolen. A druggie would be sporadic, careless, do more damage. They’d toss the place for loose change and dollars. They damn sure wouldn’t sit down and have a drink. Somebody’s mooning you here.”

Seabrook leaned forward. “Tell me something I don’t know, Detective.”

She hesitated at this new frustrated, sarcastic side of the man. “I would if I could, Mike.”

“I’m so damn tired of this.”

Once he took a report from Mrs. Hanson, he asked her to come by the station later to sign the statement. Leaving Sophie to coo over the woman and enjoy the firsthand accounting of an event sure to blanket the beach by dinner, Seabrook departed with a brusqueness Callie felt worth addressing.

“I know you’re tired, but what’s with you?” she asked as they walked toward his vehicle parked at Papa’s. The only cars left in the drive were his and Raysor’s cruisers. Her stomach growled, the lower sun indicating it was mid-afternoon, lunch missed a while ago.

“You could have been Deputy Raysor’s brother back there the way you spoke to Mrs. Hanson,” she said.

Seabrook’s jaw worked under the surface. “I know, and I’ll apologize this afternoon. We might as well move the police station over here and tell forensics to rent a damn beach house. This creep thinks he owns the street. When a guy walks into an occupied house, he does so knowing he might be discovered. You know how easy a victim she was?”

“Like Papa Beach,” Callie said, as they reached the drive. “I know.”

He glowered from beside his car. “And he doesn’t care.”

“May I ask something maybe you hadn’t thought about?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, but he watched her, waiting.

“The coins may be a new MO for an old crime. How many theft reports did you have before Papa’s murder?”

“Not many, most of them sloppy, mostly kids.”

“How do we know that one of those burglars didn’t cut his teeth on those slipshod jobs, came into possession of the coins, and suddenly decided to get creative in his profession?”

Seabrook scowled.

She didn’t give him a chance to say it. “When you’re not so agitated, take a moment and revisit your old cases. Just a suggestion, Officer. This person seems familiar with the area.”

The local force was trained like any law enforcement; Seabrook should dig in and feel more determined now. Moments like this drove her harder when she’d carried a badge, but Mike seemed befuddled. The Hanson crime seemed to countermine his ability to think.

He got into his car. He lifted a benign hand as he left, much like the first time she saw him drive by her house, and she returned the gesture, somewhat ill at ease with the skill of this police force to catch this guy. But Seabrook also had had no sleep last night, and the case might weigh heavier on the shoulders of an acting chief who didn’t want the job. She could see Raysor needling a man in such a state.

Raysor. The redneck deputy seemed awful eager to shift suspicion in her direction. She already wondered if a local had pulled these jobs. Why not a disgruntled deputy with a bully attitude and the ability to come and go as he pleased without anyone doubting his motive?

CALLIE WENT INSIDE Chelsea Morning,
dialed the hardware store, and asked them to hold three heavy-duty exterior locks. She didn’t even want them keyed alike. She wanted those locks in the original package, untainted, untouched by anyone but her.

She grabbed her purse and left, leaving a note for Jeb.

Raysor’s car remained in Papa B’s drive. She’d seen his type in many a Boston bar, a few on the force. People perpetually trying to prove themselves in a bombastic manner.