Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (33 page)

He stooped to her height. “It’s your pretty little neck, Sophie. This guy’s still out there. Don’t welcome him.”

Sophie shrugged and mumbled, “Peters wasn’t a break-in.”

He left. Sophie ran to the door, locked it to Callie’s surprise, and watched until Seabrook got in his car. Then running back, she drew Callie to the kitchen and seated herself where they first met. “Fix me a drink,” she said, her words rushed.

Callie retrieved two glasses and imagined Maker’s Mark on her tongue, in her system, soothing nerves that never seemed to stop misfiring. She put one back. She set a bourbon before Sophie.
Maybe once Sophie leaves I’ll pour a small one
. God knows she’d earned it.

“What’s your problem this time?” Callie asked as Sophie moaned with her first, deep sip.

The pixie woman bent over the table, her arms and shoulders knotted as she coveted the drink. “Someone did steal something.”

Callie jumped up. “Now? While Peters was here? I need to get Seabrook—”

“No, no, no,” Sophie said, snaring Callie’s sleeve. “I’m talking about the last time with the coin. I realized it later and was afraid to say anything. Then time got away from me, and I didn’t want Seabrook to get mad at me.”

What the heck? Callie scrunched her brow, anxious to hear what moronic piece of withheld information might still require her to call the cop back. “You sure it wasn’t Peters today?”

“Positive.”

“What was it then?” Callie asked.

“It was my ex’s NFL ring. Never told him I kept it,” Sophie whispered. “I couldn’t after he filed an insurance claim for it.”

Callie dropped her head to the counter. Then she lifted up to peer at Sophie. “Surely you’re smarter than this. It’s a clue, for goodness sake. Like the coin you threw in the marsh. So, tell me where you kept the ring.”

“Sunbeam’s litter box.”

“What?”

“I know, I know,” Sophie said rapidly. “It sounds stupid, but it’s my way of both hiding it and treating my ex in the manner in which he deserves.”

Grabbing a notepad from a drawer, Callie laid her gun on the counter and started taking notes. “Have you scoured that house from top to bottom?”

Sophie stared at the .38. “Yes. Nothing else is gone.”

“Okay. Describe that ring. Did you hide it in a baggie, a box?”

“Neither.” Sophie pouted with a flash of humor in her eyes. “I let Sunbeam poop all over it. Made me have to use gloves changing the litter, but it was so worth the satisfaction. Damn thing stayed green and nasty.”

Callie wrote that down, too, but what gnawed at her already worked-up stomach was how anyone would know to go in a litter box. Not a stranger anyway. She needed to take this to Seabrook . . . later. Now she had to hunt for more cams. And chill herself down a notch.

Sophie drank her bourbon as Callie made notes and relaxed to a slower, forced rhythm.

Little jolts of panic wouldn’t let her reach calm, though. Someone had wandered around her house after she’d changed her locks. Possibly hidden and watched as she entertained Stan.

Most likely recorded them in her bed.

A key tried her front lock, fumbling, missing its mark.

Callie retrieved her gun. Sophie squeaked and tucked her legs beneath her, wrapped in a ball, hands over her mouth.

Chapter 25

SOMEONE JIGGLED Chelsea Morning’s front door handle, and then per the scraping noise, attempted to work the lock. Callie lifted her .38 from the table. She’d drawn her weapon more in the last two weeks than the last five years.

Sophie sat twisted in a knot at the kitchen table. Callie, however, skulked toward the entryway edgy, hungry, and sleep deprived.

It had been a long damn day.

The person behind the distorted glass image jerked the handle once more then pressed a face against the glass. “Callie? Let me in. My key won’t work.”

Callie opened the door. “Mother?”

Beverly waltzed in chin up, as if she still owned the place. “Did you change the locks? I hope you made me a key.”

“Geez, Mother. Let me know when you’re coming, please. I could have shot you.”

Beverly’s eyes widened at the gun then moved to Callie’s bandage. “Oh, dear, have your episodes become that bad?” Her words fell out in a
Bless your heart
manner, a condescending cliché of pity.

A hug would have been nice. Any move of compassion welcomed, but no, her mother’s stinging criticism remained true to form.

“Pour your mother a drink, dear.” She drew back, squinting. “You’re complexion is horrible. Haven’t you been sleeping? We gave you this place so you could rest.”

Callie rubbed a tired eye. Her irritation festered just under the surface as her mother consumed the room. “We don’t have time for a social call, Mother. And I don’t have any booze,” she lied.

Beverly raised fingers to her neck. “Since when do you keep an empty bar?”

Callie held back a retort. She was spent, with only a fine, thin filter between her manners and a red-hot temper.

The older woman fanned her face. “Tea will have to suffice, I guess. This heat’s oppressive.” She rounded the corner toward the living room and came up short when she saw Sophie. “Oh, who do we have here?”

But Sophie didn’t miss a beat. “Sophie Bianchi, Ms. Cantrell. We’ve practiced yoga together.” She jumped up, inserted herself in the woman’s space, and took her hand. “I’m so, so sorry about your husband. My deepest condolences. He is watching down on us, you know. He so wishes to be here with you and Callie.”

Leery, Beverly tried to discretely add distance between their bodies, but Sophie only moved closer. “I’ll burn a candle for him,” she said. “But don’t hold onto his spirit too long. He needs to pass over.”

Before Callie could moderate these two worlds colliding, Beverly yanked away. “How dare you speak of my deceased husband, you . . . you Bohemian thing.”

Callie shoved a glass at her mother. “Here’s your tea.”

But Beverly continued to glare, and Sophie stood her ground. “If I can help you, let me know,” Sophie said, like a nurse to a patient.

Callie intervened and directed Beverly to the side door to the porch, still feeling mildly paranoid about hidden cams. “Let’s go sit outside.”

“Why?” Beverly said, settling into her cushion. “It’s June, for God’s sake.”

Fine. Coddling the woman might work quicker. “Have your friends been over?”

Beverly seemed glued to studying Sophie, then forced herself to turn and reply. “Why, I’ve been swamped with my friends. They’re helping me weather this difficult time. Since I’m all alone in that house.”

“You sent me away, and Jeb stayed behind so you wouldn’t
be
alone,” Callie said. “But I’m glad to hear you had company.” She glanced at the doorway. “Where is Jeb, by the way?”

“At home,” she sighed, staring up the ceiling, as if forced to venture out solo.

Callie wished Sophie would read the vibes and leave. Instead, the neighbor propped up on a barstool, leg under her, observing, her fear of the morning’s events gone. “What brought you out here, Mother?”

“Can you stay?” Sophie asked. “I’d love to have you in yoga in the morning. You’d feel so much better.”

Beverly shifted an arrogant glance at Sophie and returned her attention to her daughter. “I came to pick up something.”

“Sure, what is it?” Callie asked.

“My Neil Diamond albums,” she said.

“Wh . . . why?”

“They’re special to me. That’s all.”

Surprisingly unnerved, Callie went to the kitchen and rinsed a glass. This could not be happening. Those albums were her musical diary. She knew which covers were bent on their corners, which still had their sleeves, and how the water ring accidentally found its way to the
Love Songs
cover. In Boston, this music had celebrated Callie’s promotion to detective, even Jeb’s spelling bee ribbon. She’d relied on those songs when John left for a week shortly after Bonnie died, to collect himself. Then after the fire had consumed her collection, she’d paced the confines of an extended stay motel, pulling up a custom radio station on her laptop to play Diamond for twelve hours straight. These songs were her childhood, her freedom to mourn, forget her past, or avoid her future. They’d helped her accept Chelsea Morning as home, welcoming her as part of the house’s being.

Callie’s mind raced as she returned to the living room, searching for some damn excuse to keep them. She’d never replace the antique sound of that LP player, the texture of its linen speaker cover, or the slight squeak of the top’s hinge. Until now she didn’t realize how much those details meant to her. But every argument for Callie was equally as justified for her mother.

Fact was, the records had never belonged to Callie. She rubbed her forehead. This was stupid, so stupid. She ought to just give the woman the damn albums. So why was it so challenging not to?

“They’re just old music,” Beverly said. “I’ve had those forever, and they make me feel better.”

Callie scratched her scarred arm. “Let me buy you a set of CDs to replace them. Or an mp3 player. If you need the albums, I’m sure I can find them on Amazon or eBay.”

“Good, then find them for yourself. If you need my credit card, let me know.”

Callie shut her eyes again, to hide building tears she could not define the root of. She sniffled and rubbed the corner of her eye. Another hole in her world, that’s what this was. First her father and then Stan. She wasn’t sure she could stomach another loss, even if it was just music.

Confused at the dizzying onrush of weakness, all she knew was that this package, this player and its twenty LPs, connected her to sanity.

Tears sneaked down her face at the realization that they might be Beverly’s sanity, too.

She gripped the counter’s edge. What was wrong with her?

No, she was more mature than this. She straightened. Maybe if she relinquished the albums, she’d take her first step toward healing. If she couldn’t function without them, she’d go on a mission to replace the vinyls. Hell, Mason would adore the opportunity to find them, even fly them in for her, anything to make her beholden to him.

“Don’t make me remind you that they’re mine,” Beverly said.

Callie’s back went rigid as her sympathy dissipated like smoke in a March wind, replaced with the familiar, raw-edged rancor that defined her relationship with Beverly. Callie turned and faced the arrogance seated on her sofa, rabid at the callousness in this woman’s soul. Now that Lawton was gone, she could picture her mother deteriorating from annoying to two shades away from malicious.

Beverly pondered her daughter. “Antidepressants might help you. I can put you in touch with a good doctor. Amos Canady has done wonders for your father, and Harriet from my Sunday school class says—”

“I don’t need your help,” Callie replied, still raw from Seabrook’s similar reference to her
demons
.

“Honey, you’re a mess. Sure you need help. You’re like your father in so many ways.”

“Thank God for that!”

Beverly never flinched. “Get those pills. It’ll temper you from being so pernicious.”

Callie rolled her eyes and sighed deep. “I’ve had it. Leave, Mother, before I get so damn
pernicious
I throw something.”

Unruffled, Beverly crossed her legs. “I’ll need that new key first.”

Callie bent closer to speak plainer, colder. “
Chelsea Morning
is my house now, not yours. At first I thought it presumptuous of you to tell me where to live, but we’ve decided to make it work.”

Beverly grinned, and Callie about came undone. “Exactly what I told your father would happen. See? We may be older, but we knew what was best for you. I’ll need the key so I can check in on you periodically, to make sure you’re on the right course.”

A tremble racked Callie’s body, then continued in little aftershocks down her arms.

Jeb walked in the back door. He halted and took note. “I don’t see blood on the walls—yet.”

“Hon-ney,” Beverly cooed, arms outstretched as if reunited after months of separation.

Jeb shook his head. “I just saw you two hours ago, Grandma. I told you I’d be coming back to Edisto today.”

She beamed. “But I never tire of you walking in.” She turned to Callie. “Now, get my key, pull out my albums, and—”

“How about we split them. Ten and ten,” Callie said, alarmed at the desperation in her own voice.

“They’re mine, dear,” Beverly said. “And they aren’t safe with all these burglaries.”

Callie wiped her face on her sleeve, ready to give in. Her mother raised a brow, as if waiting for Callie to admit she’d stolen cookies from a plate destined for one of Beverly’s afternoon teas. And in that moment, Beverly’s plan became so clear.

“You’d planned to sneak in and take them.” Callie’s fuzzy mind mapped out what her mother had schemed, and it sickened Callie. “You would then head home, as if nothing happened,” she said with a crack in her voice.

The tiny reaction on Beverly’s mouth told it all. “So what? They’re nothing to you.”

“I would have gone crazy thinking I was robbed.” Callie let that comment sink in a second. “How do you even know what those records mean to me? You never just talk
to me
to understand anything
about me
.”

Beverly scowled, her lips pursed, the red lipstick making wrinkles more prominent. “Oh my word, Callie. You’re not sixteen. Temper the drama.”

Betrayal filled Callie, like she was about to accuse a spouse of cheating when the evidence wasn’t clear. But the danger overrode any embarrassment in the words she was about to say. Alarm seized her as to what had been seen or heard on hidden cameras. A hidden cam would have revealed Callie inviting Lawton to come over, when he could be intercepted. When Callie was home, when Jeb was asleep and vulnerable. Surely Beverly wouldn’t . . . “Did you ever slip into this house before I changed the locks?”

“What?” Beverly said.

Jeb echoed, “Mom!”

“May I offer everyone some chamomile tea?” Sophie hopped off the barstool. “I can crush some lemon balm in it,
Melissa officinalis
. Soothes tempers, plus it tastes great. Won’t take me a sec—”

“No,” Beverly said. “It’s probably got marijuana in it.”

“Grandma!” Jeb exclaimed.

Her heart aching at the thick tension, Callie almost heard her father storming into the room to holler, “Enough!”

Beverly strutted across the den, jerked the desk away from the wall, and yanked the turntable’s plug loose. “Enough of this,” she said.