Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (18 page)

Silence hung on the other end. “Then I’ll accuse you of breaking in if stuff goes missing. You had a key. You’re a single parent now. You probably need the money.”

What a freak. “Don’t call me again, and don’t you dare come to my house.”

She hung up and rang Stan. “What have you found out on Pauley Beechum?” she asked, without the normal jokes between them.

“Love you, too, Chicklet. Why, yes, I’m just fine. Nice of you to ask,” he said in a buoyant delivery that served to slow her down.

“Sorry.”

“That’s better. Now,” he said. “I take it something happened.”

She relayed the light next door, the coin at Sophie’s, the Hanson break-in, and then the incredulous conversation with Pauley. Her eagerness to go after someone escalated as she explained each event.

“I see. Well, I did manage to check your Pauley out. Assault about twenty years ago, but nothing along those lines since. However, he’s added insurance fraud to his resume twice. Actually did a little time and paid restitution for it. Something about tornados and false claims.”

“He does live in Florida. That it?”

“What else you want?”

“He’s demanding, tried to be threatening,” she said with a grumble. “I want him arrested for something.”

“For a change, I’m glad you’re not ranting over a Russian.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she wished she could stare the big man down. “Are you not taking me seriously?”

“I am, Morgan. It’s just refreshing to see you fired up on the offensive. Long overdue, I say. Long overdue.”

And with that she smiled, some tension draining out of her at his backhanded compliment. She let the conversation shift to chatter about the staff in Boston and hung up a half hour later.

With the silence, however, came the memories. She ached at what would become of Papa’s accumulated life collected in that house. What a selfish, hedonistic son. No closure, no way for her and others to say goodbye.

Even at eighty, Papa had left too soon. She’d have been tickled to share a cup of cocoa with him right now, in spite of the summer heat. Cocoa had been Papa’s way of saying everything would be all right. But now the cocoa reminded her of the two cups a murderer had set up to harass her.

On the offensive,
she reminded herself. She liked that. Stan’s observations had always been pure gold. She dialed her neighbor as planned before Pauley’s interruption. “Hey, Sophie. Got a minute?”

“Why?” Sophie whispered. “What’s wrong? Every time I see you there’s a crime.”

“Thanks a lot. I wanted to ask you some questions and not do it under your roof,” Callie said, drawing upon her coaxing skills. “Thought we could meet over tea. A ladylike thing, you know.”

Sophie’s guffaw echoed over the phone. “
A ladylike thing
? Just call it what it is. A drink. I’ll be right there.”

The knock sounded minutes later, no doubt curiosity driving the prompt arrival. Callie had two iced teas poured, and she set them at the bar before answering. Sophie came inside, glanced uncertainly at the glasses, and perched on her barstool.

“This is tea,” she said after sampling to be sure.

“Yes,” Callie said. “I’m off alcohol. Dieting.”

Sophie studied her then caught herself. “Okay, I can go with that. So, what are your questions?”

“What was stolen from your house when that guy left you the coin?”

“No—thing,” she sang back. “Just like I told Mike. And you’re going to mess up your house talking about this.”

Callie settled on the next stool and ignored the sage referral. “Something has to be missing. It’s the way this guy operates. If he left a coin, he took something. Like the tooth fairy.”

“Not in my house,” she said.

“I think you’re being naive.”

Sophie’s earrings jingled at the back-and-forth of her head. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Callie stood. “Come on. We’re going back to your place to search it.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Sophie jumped. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

“Well, it’s not a burglar,” Callie said, moving toward the entryway. As she rounded the corner, Mason Howard waved through the window. Well, this was just great. If this man thought he could now gravitate from the occasional run on the beach to regular visits to her home, he had best think twice.

Today she’d become Ground Zero for the daffy, the disturbed, and the philandering.

“Not sure I recognize you without running shorts,” Callie said, inviting the man in.

She wanted to dig more out of Sophie about what had happened at her place, then what she knew about the Rosewoods, Mrs. Hanson, maybe Pauley. Some of that might not be appropriate in front of Mason. But then maybe her two guests could feed off each other.

Mason followed her to the kitchen.

“Care for a glass of tea?” Callie asked, keeping the refreshments virgin.

“No booze,” Sophie said, holding up her glass. “
Somebody’s
on a diet.”

Mason snickered. “Tea’s fine. How are you, Sophie?”

“Wonderful, Mason. Ready for Friday night?”

Ample charm shined in that smile. “It’s just another gathering.”

Sophie leaned in Callie’s direction, as if sharing a secret. “A
gathering
, he says. It’s quite the event. I’ve been three times and wouldn’t miss it now. Shrimp, fish, all sorts of appetizers. And anything you’d like to drink, handled by real bartenders. One time he flew in fresh halibut, for Pete’s sake.”

Callie poured his drink and placed it on a cardboard coaster from the stack on the bar. “Maybe Seabrook wasn’t so far off base when he called you
playboy,
Mr. Howard.”

“She won’t call him
Mike
,” Sophie cooed. “I think she’s afraid to.”

Letting loose a sigh of disgust, Callie stared at her neighbor for the remark.

“Mike’s all right, I guess,” Mason said, hiding behind his glass as he drank.

“Hmm,” Sophie said. “Mike will be single the rest of his days. Wouldn’t you say so, Mason?”

“I’ve only heard rumor, my dear.” He set down his glass. “Keep in mind, I’m a mere tenant. I get all my gossip at the party, but that seems to be the consensus.”

Callie scoffed. “So one goes to this party to either hear gossip or avoid being gossiped about. That the way it works?” Then maybe she
should
go, to study all the players and glean for suspects. Discover the secret feuds that always existed in a small community. Endless possibilities.

Sophie reached her arms out wide. “
Everybody’s
gossip around here, honey. It’s part of the culture.”

“Then what do
they say about Seabrook . . . um, Mike?” The question just spilled out.

A wicked grin of recognition crept into Sophie’s expression, and she jumped on the opportunity. “He can’t date anyone more than three times.”

“Twice,” Mason said. “And he avoids anyone involved with medicine.”

Sophie wrapped an arm around Mason’s shoulder and lowered her voice as she peered at Callie. “They say he killed his wife when he was a doctor.”

Callie’s brow wrinkled. “Wasn’t that a movie titled
The Fugitive
? Your gossip isn’t even original.”

“That’s the real word,” Mason said.

“He’s not kidding,” Sophie added.

Surely not. Callie got up to rinse her glass in the sink, watching the water circle the drain. The depth of Seabrook’s sincerity last night held new meaning for her if any of this was true. He’d walked in her shoes losing his spouse. She shut off the water. “How would
you
two like being talked about?”

“Hey, I’m the playboy,” Mason said.

“I’m the Gypsy,” Sophie echoed. “Or the hippie, but I don’t find that as exciting.” She faced Mason. “Don’t you like Gypsy better?”

He nodded innocently. “Bohemian.”

Callie turned toward them. “So, what am I called?”

The two guests studied each other, no doubt wondering who could come up with a suitable tag. Sophie shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything, really.”

“You erred at the word
really
.” Callie laughed. “I’m sure the gun on the beach gave me some sort of story.”

“You killed some guy in Boston after you arrested him,” Mason said in a monotone manner, as if avoiding judgment, watching Callie for a response.

She inhaled, waiting for Sophie’s reaction to an accusation she’d never heard spoken aloud from anyone other than enraged Russians. But Sophie sat still, as if she already knew the tale. Mason’s body language, however, was one of anticipation. Both seemed intent on Callie’s validation of the gossip, one way or another.

Zubov’s arrest
could
have brought on his stroke, but she’d never let her mind get wrapped around his demise being her fault. Some days she wished she’d slit his throat, up close and personal. On the weaker days, she selfishly wished him alive, well, and never arrested, because then, John might be, too.

“I can see where people would think I killed him,” she finally said, ending the silence.

“And you did something that got your husband killed, too,” Sophie said with a meek sounding voice.

Callie went dumbstruck as all the air left the room.

“Goodness,” Sophie mumbled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

After a moment, Callie realized she held her breath, and released it. She had to recognize this for what it was, addressing the elephant in the room. She’d moved here to start a new life, and those around Edisto might be nervous about her past. Funny. She’d invited both of these people in to interview them, and they’d dissected her instead.

Callie gave a mild grin at her neighbor’s daredevil comment, then pointed. “You’re devious, Miss Sophie Bianchi. You said that on purpose. You just had to break that ice.”

Sophie still didn’t move.

“So I kill people, huh?”

Mason watched intently. Sophie nodded.

“Half-truths sure make for a good rumor mill,” she said, smiling. “The more you fight the gossip, the more you stir it up. Hell, tell the good residents of Edisto I shot a hundred criminals while you’re at it.” She bent over the counter toward them. “Which means the gossip about Seabrook is half-truth, too.”

“True. True.” Sophie bobbed her head rapidly, obviously happy to reach the end of the conversation.

“Hey,” Mason said. “This means I’m only half a playboy.” He gave her his glass, declining a refill, and Callie placed it in the sink. “That also means I’m not nearly the risk old Seabrook tried to paint me to be. So, Ms. Callie Morgan. How about going to dinner?”

Eyes wide, Callie repeated the question in her head. The dinner invitation startled her more than the murder accusations.

Sophie clapped. “Oh, yes. Take her out. Where?”

“We’ll start small the first time,” he said. “Whaley’s.” He walked around the bar and took Callie’s hand. “It’s casual. You don’t even have to change.”

She snapped her hand back and glanced at the clock. “It’s four thirty.”

Mason peered down at his Rolex, a Cellini platinum. She’d noticed the leather band, because John had hated metal twist bands, too. “Yes, it’s four thirty,” he said. “Great. We’ll beat the dinner crowd.”

Of course he had no idea what she meant. She preferred to be home when the world turned orange, as day turned to night. When a dying sun reminded her of a dying husband in a house burning to the ground.

But what had she thought on the way back from the police station? Interview everybody with even the most tenuous connection to Papa Beach, only not let them know it. Mason had jogged by minutes after Papa died, oblivious. Maybe he saw something she could tease from his memory, or thanks to his gossip party-line, draw out snippets that could help.

“I don’t want to stay too long,” Callie said.

Sophie leaped off the stool and ran to the door. “Y’all have fun!”

“Wait!” Callie yelled. “Aren’t you coming?” She glanced back at Mason, who shrugged his eyebrows. “Sophie. Come with us.”

“Toodles,” Sophie cried, shutting the door.

The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long interlude.

Callie collected her courage. The playboy was an ocean of information about Edisto, and she meant to drain him dry. “Let’s do this.”

He retrieved her purse and the keys beside it on the credenza. She took them and inserted an arm in the offered crook of his.
Gracious alive, I’m going on a date
.

She glanced up to analyze the sky. Plenty of light left. Sunset wouldn’t be for another four hours. Then she saw the car.

A gleaming, British, racing-green Jag. She’d seen them, even impounded a silver one, watched drug dealers and mobsters glide by thumbing their noses at her in them. But ride in one?

Mason held the door, and she eased in, melting against the seat. It had been a long time since she’d enjoyed such an indulgence. She stroked the leather, accepting she was on a mission. And as long as the man didn’t allow his million dollar hands to wander, the night actually could prove fruitful.