Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (17 page)

She held out her fob and unlocked her Escape.

“I could take you into the marsh and dump your body in the water for the sharks,” said the voice off to her right.

Callie jumped even as she told herself not to, her instincts shouting to prepare for a defense.

“Bet you’re not even armed,” he added.

“Don’t bet your life on it,” she said, recognizing the gravelly tone.

Raysor strode out of the ten-foot tall Indian Hawthorn shrubs that served as a hedge to her drive, and he blocked her from the car with his bulk. She’d never realized how hidden she was in the parking area that ran under her pylon-supported house . . . nor how vulnerable.

Her gaze darted, seeking a witness, an exit, a weapon.

“I left Mrs. Hanson purring with a drink, believing some stupid Yankee teenager probably slipped in and took her necklace.”

Callie ignored the possible reference to Jeb. “What if I
had
been armed?”

“Not sure what kind of threat you’d be wedged against the car like that. Let’s get something straight here.”

She moved away, using Raysor’s own warning to better position herself. Measuring his mass and lack of physical fitness, she’d already judged how to use that lard and loose muscle against him. He reeked of pompous swagger, but a hint of threat still clung to the man. As pudgy as he was outside, he harbored a degree of malevolence under that spongy skin.

He reached up, seized the luggage rack atop her Escape, and rocked the car. “It was quiet around here before you got here.”

“And?”

He shook the car again. “You may have Mike mesmerized, but I see some burnt-out badge who might be missing the fun, and so now she’s orchestrating her own.”

Callie’s pulse kicked up a notch at the concern she’d had about Raysor’s possible involvement in these crimes. “Then you need glasses.”

He closed the gap between them, old coffee scent on him. “Could be you doing all this, you know. Might also be your son, or him and his friend Zeus. We only have that boy’s word about the coin in his mama’s kitchen, don’t we?”

She tried to reach past him for the door handle. “Don’t you dare talk about my son.”

He blocked her. She tried not to back up as he leaned in her face. “What are you up to? Or who did you piss off enough to follow you down here?”

She certainly wouldn’t tell him about the Russians. Petty burglary wasn’t their style anyway. Killing Papa Beach would have made sense a year ago, but the Russians already had their blood. Like Stan said. Like she needed to continually remind herself—and believe—or she’d go insane.

“Back away, Raysor.”

Fear zinged up her back as he leaned closer instead.

Tired of body odor and coffee, she pointed toward the paunch that hung beneath his vest. “Get out of my space,” she said, fighting the shake in her tone. “And don’t come on my property again without a legal reason.”

He stepped back. “I’m gonna figure you out.”

Then like earlier, her own suspicion flared. Did he think he would throw her off his scent? The best defense is a good offense sort of thing?

“Why waste your time with me when you’ve got a real criminal running loose? Someone who practically owns you and your department?” she said.

A sneer crept up one side of his cheek. “That’s so weak, Morgan.”

“Think so?” Nervous, with a loss of words, knowing full well how much it would irritate a cop to be touched, she poked him. He was out of line, which gave her the liberty to be the same.

He stared down at his broad middle, as if she did nothing more than brush crumbs off. “That’s assault in some circles.”

Go on the offensive, Callie
. “Bring it then, big man. But who’s to say you don’t have a couple people under your control, guys you’re holding something over, and you’re the one taking advantage of this beach?”

Wariness replaced his smugness. “People are right. You
are
crazy.”

She’d pushed Raysor’s button, and he’d taken his finger off hers. “You know who’s a resident and who’s a tenant,” she said. “You know the residents are the only ones with valuables, and coincidentally are the only ones getting burglarized. You have the know-how to execute Papa Beach. Maybe when one of your cronies got caught in the act of robbing the old man, you took care of business. Only I interrupted your plan.”

“Jeee-sus. You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.” Raysor leveled his gaze with hers. “Don’t think I’m not watching you. And if I hear of you spewing any more of that fantasy shit, there’ll be hell to pay. Are we clear?”

“Back at you, Deputy Raysor,” she said, muscles twitching in her legs. “Right back at you.”

He left. She dropped onto the driver’s seat and leaned against the headrest.

The redneck nuisance had grown from an arrogant moron to a suspect. Seabrook said to watch the man more carefully when he was quiet. The way Raysor had sneaked up on her seemed to fill the bill.

Chapter 14

TWO HOURS AFTER Raysor all but accosted her, Callie tested the front door lock, then gave the mechanism one last spritz of graphite. There. Slick as black ice. All the extra keys floating around to Chelsea Morning were useless now.

She’d been remiss not rekeying the house sooner. “Jeb? Come get your new keys.”

He loped into the hall from his room. “There’s more than one?”

She dangled them in front of him. “Front, back, and side.”

“What a nuisance,” he said, studying the differences.

“Well, I don’t want to make it easy for anyone.” She wiped smudges off the door with a rag. “Everything lined up for school? Any last minute expenses? Remember what I said.”

“If it gets tough financially, I might have to work part-time. No problem.” His eyes shifted as if deciding what to add.

Callie straightened. “Something on your mind?”

Jeb peered at the keys again. “Nothing serious.” He leaned his backside and palms against the oak credenza.

“Don’t put your weight on that, son,” she said. “You forget how big you are.”

He stood, appearing lost as to where to position himself.

Jeb appeared open to talk, so she seized the opportunity. “I’m sorry about keeping secrets about your dad. At the time, I hadn’t the strength to tell you what really happened. Time just seemed to crawl away from me. You adapted, we moved. I just . . .” She tried to tease loose the words.

“That wasn’t on my mind, Mom.” He nudged her. “But while we’re on the subject, I think you did the right thing. Caught me by surprise, is all.”

Callie went speechless at this boy’s flash of adulthood.

Then he gave her that half-grin of his father’s. “I thought about it, even discussed it with some friends. I’d have gone crazy wanting to get even with somebody if you’d told me back then. Didn’t you?”

“Oh, son, you have no idea,” she said, not caring to share the details of those days.

He hugged her. “I miss him so much sometimes. This just makes him more of a hero.”

She squeezed him back. “I know.”

After a long moment, she held him back and wiped the corner of her eye. “So, what’d you want to say?”

“You own this house, right?”

“So says the deed.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay here? I mean, like, for a year or something?”

A question she’d asked herself every day since they’d arrived. Several times a day lately. “Haven’t decided. We still have your father’s insurance, but I’m not sure how far that will take us. There’s not much career potential here. Waiting tables, selling real estate, or helping the lady at the consignment store.” She had the offer from Seabrook to step back into uniform, but Jeb didn’t need to know that. “It’s not your worry,” she said. “If I move, there’s always your grandparents’ place for weekends and holidays. You’ll still have a place to go.” She reached up and flicked him under the chin. “But you know I won’t be far.”

“It’s just, I mean . . .”

“What, Jeb?” she asked tenderly. “Do you like it here?”

There it was, that half-grin. “A lot, Mom. But I like it more with you here.”

Her paranoia dragged them both down at times, but she already saw that living at Edisto Beach had lifted her son’s spirits. As much as she hated admitting it, maybe her parents knew the beach house gift would help them readjust.

She wrapped her arms around his skinny body already on its way to a rich tan from his few days on the water with Zeus. “I want what you want,” she said. “But if you keep trying to please me, you’ll never get on with your life.”

“Sounds like what I ought to be telling you, Mom.”

She reached high and tousled his blond tresses. She wanted to commit to a year or two for his sake, but so far this beach wasn’t loving her much. She could leave and draw this criminal away, assuming she was a target. Jeb could then stay at Chelsea Morning
.
After all, it was paid for.

But the skuzzball might stick around, and she wouldn’t be around to protect her son.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll reconsider matters on New Year’s Eve. How’s that?”

“I can do that. I like the idea of coming home here. Assuming I don’t have a big party in Charleston.”

She gently poked him in the belly. “Good.”

His slow nod seemed to tuck the date away. “On New Year’s we hold a family meeting. And no drinking for either of us. Deal?”

Some of her smile faded. “Deal.” She got the message.

The shiny new keys went in his pocket. “Would it bother you too much if I ate dinner with friends tonight?”

“No, not at all.” She raised a brow. “Friends?”

“Yeah,” he said, his bare feet smacking the floor on his way back to his room. “Zeus, Sprite, and some friend of hers. Zeus is paying for me since I helped him so much with his fishing business the last two days.”

He was growing up and drifting away so fast.

After he left, she went to the kitchen to check the clock, her thoughts mixed about her son on his own and hanging around Sprite with her effect on males. Almost three p.m. Cops and robbers had eaten up the best part of her day.

She filled a glass with ice and poured a tonic with a twist of lime. A crisp summer cooler, she told herself. After a sip, it fell far short of a splash of gin. She even reached for the freezer door to locate the nonexistent bottle.

Deal with it, Callie.

When they’d first relocated to Middleton, her runs took an abrupt shift from fanatical to sporadic when Beverly’s afternoon
teas
became her replacement habit. When her mother imbibed, Callie followed suit. Two with her mother and two more in her room once her parents retired around nine. The only way she could sleep, Callie had told herself. The only way to cope with the mother daughter quarrels, widowhood, and concerns about the future.

But she wasn’t in Middleton now.

She walked toward the bar glasses behind which Lawton kept his favorite single barrel. Nobody else drank it. It wasn’t hers to take, but then her father might appreciate a fresher bottle. He’d never know the difference anyway.

Seabrook said call him before she poured a drink. He’d be dead asleep after last night’s vigil, though, so she went to the next best distraction she knew. But her phone rang first, the number vaguely familiar. “Hello?”

“I thought I asked you to watch my house.”

“Pauley? What’s wrong?”

“The police department called me. Said there was another break-in. You’re a cop. Why aren’t you guarding my place?”

Whoa, time to set this man straight. “First, I’m not a cop. Second, I’m not in your employ. If you want a guard, hire someone, but don’t order me to serve your needs. You don’t order me, period.”

He ignored her retort. “You went in?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Did the cops take anything? Did they toss the closets? I don’t want them thinking they have a free rein to pocket stuff. Those coins they’re finding are mine, you know.”

Callie’s radar got warm. “Where are you, Pauley?”

“Home. I’d be there, but I’m trying to put together the money to make the trip.”

The man was so broke he couldn’t afford to put gas in the car and pack up some sandwiches? How far was Kissimmee? Four hundred miles?

“Dad’s being cremated tomorrow. I’ll pick him up whenever I get there.”

Huh?
“What about a service?”

“I don’t want to bother.”

Her heart lurched. “I’ll organize it. Who do I contact?”

“It’ll cost money, Callie. No can do.”

What kind of stone-cold crackhead was this guy? “Please, let me do something for him.”

“Up to you, but Dad won’t be there. Me either. I consider that sort of ceremonial mumbo-jumbo rather stupid, myself, but if you get off on it, knock yourself out.”

She dropped her forehead, resting it on a cabinet. Papa deserved a service. He deserved a celebration of his life. Old pictures snapped through her mind like a slide show: Papa on a vintage ship, in New York on Broadway with his wife, holding up a giant redfish with the help of a friend, boating with his son, a lunatic oblivious to the need for closure.

“Well, I’m not keeping surveillance on the place,” she said, though she incessantly peered out her kitchen window for movement in the old place.

“Listen here,” he said, his order neutered by the nasal in his voice. “I’m holding you responsible.”

“I’m not your rent-a-cop. Quit calling me.”