Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (35 page)

“Yes, ma’am. And I assume you’ll sleep in.”

“Yes, sir. Good night.”

His bedroom door shut, and she was left alone with the lingering belief that she’d failed a little as a mother.

The night breezes were warm and getting warmer with June almost gone. Feathered island creatures went to bed at dusk, but she could hear the snickers and clicks of squirrel and foxes. Deer would eventually nose curiously at trash cans finagled open by raccoons, emboldened because their refuge awaited only across the street in the safety of the tall marsh grass.

A slow car made its way up Jungle Road, bar lights dormant on top, and she wondered if it was Seabrook, then doubted the interim chief had to pull night duty.

A rougher wind than usual blew across the porch, and she heard a larger roar from the beach. A front moving in. Sixty percent chance of rain tomorrow per her phone app. She closed her eyes and smelled for it, but no ozone hung in the air. However, that water seemed awful playful, rolling, rolling, then a demolishing whoosh as waves collapsed in on themselves and smacked the sand before falling back. Small one, small one, then there, another crasher.

She hummed in her dozing half-sleep.
Play Me
. John hadn’t known Diamond songs, but he loved it when she hummed. Behind closed eyes, she remembered him nuzzling her neck as she did dishes or some other mindless task, to whisper in her ear how her hum stirred him.

She shifted to
Red Red Wine,
well into the second verse before she realized the change. Such a tender song, so conducive to drinking away sad times, to ease the pain of lost good ones. She tried to hum another song, but this one stuck. It made her want to drink. She’d promised Jeb—

Her eyes flew open.

She stopped humming.

But the song continued to play . . . from Papa’s house.

Chapter 27

STUNNED, CALLIE listened to Neil Diamond’s words floating on the night air from Papa’s house next door. Usually one of her favorites, the song made her skin crawl, as if someone delivered a message.
I know you so well
.

Who knew her penchant for this music?

Who was she kidding?
She played the songs daily, loud enough to hear two doors down. Plus, Pauley still must be irritated at her from the embarrassment she caused him in front of Raysor and Seabrook. She peered to her right. The green Mazda sat parked in his drive. Had to be Pauley playing one of his pranks. And if he proved to be the one who set up the light, played the radio, stole her cup, and posted signs in his window, she’d do her damnedest to be there and throw the cuffs on him herself.

Quickly she doused her outside light, then the one in the den, and returned to the porch with her cell phone. She set it on video, the lit side held to her chest. Then she changed her seating, hid against the wall, and clicked record.

She almost started humming as the chorus repeated. How dare Pauley get in her head?

A light came on. The music stopped. She coiled wadded up in the chair next to a cabinet that stocked cushions in the winter.

Pauley’s face peered out the same window that had flashed the handwritten sign earlier. Nose against the glass, he leaned left, then right. He drew back and disappeared.

She glanced left as a window went up. “Callie Morgan!” he yelled.

She jumped, then reminded herself she was not visible.

“I’m not falling for your tactics!”

She remained silent. Finally the light went out. The evening quieted. She continued to wait, just in case Pauley watched in the dark. Her arms wrapped around her legs, Callie stared into the black night for movement. After five minutes, she turned the video off and folded herself back up.

Palmetto fronds rattled as a gust surged, and a raccoon chattered somewhere across the road. The surf roared in the distance, rowdy. At any other time, she would have appreciated the night noises and their contrast to the tourist white noise of the day.

The inability to move cranked her mind into high gear and increased her frustration. She dug her toes into the cushion, her thigh muscles tensed more from irritation than their statue-still pose. Whoever was screwing with her had done a sufficient enough job such that everybody questioned her mental health. Not totally Callie’s fault, yet she couldn’t give full credit to the culprit, either. Her life with all its craziness, inserted onto Edisto Beach, had culminated into a perfect storm of drama, crime, and death.

How could she not feel somewhat responsible?

How could Edisto not blame her?

She never believed in being reactionary, always preferring the proactive route, ever ready with a plan. But when she’d turned in her badge, somehow that trait had disappeared, as if the forfeited shield stole her power. Callie Morgan had forged her own trail before the badge and surely could continue after it. What had made her forget that?

The Russians.

As her fingers rubbed the scar, her gut told her there wasn’t a Russian connection here. They were ancient history. Besides, they’d have just shot her, knifed her, or put a bag over her head.

She could call Seabrook and hope he would take her seriously about Pauley’s harassment of her, but Pauley would blame her and she’d blame him. Tit for tat. Plus, wasn’t that all it was? Irritation? What harm did a song do? She sniffed. Hell, her phone video could be interpreted as a souvenir recording of her own harassment of Pauley and her enjoyment of Pauley’s reaction.

This is what she got for being too passive, too trusting. Too civilian.

After an hour of contemplation, she came to a conclusion. It was time to deal with this charade on her own damn terms. And she didn’t need a badge to do it.

She’d give this deviant idiot no reaction whatsoever. Her inane response to each incident had probably satisfied this creep. He got off on it. Calls to 9-1-1 and the police department, her weapon drawn in public. Each time made her appear crazier. The trained, experienced detective inept without her shield. With her fingernails, she dug long grooves into the chair arms, ending with white-knuckled fists.

Time to fuck him back.

Time to act like nothing mattered.

Time to watch him get sloppy as he fought for her attention and stepped a little more into the light, making himself known.

We’ll see how you like that, you bastard.

AT TWO IN THE morning, Callie finally dropped into bed. She woke shortly after dawn, however, her mind not allowing her body to sleep. An hour later, cereal bowl to her left at the kitchen table, she’d found a turntable online. She needed to make this situation with her mother right. Afterwards, Callie intended to focus on her mission, a mission that woke her in more ways than one and wouldn’t let her rest regardless of how tired she was.

By nine, on her third cup of coffee, Callie called Beverly. Her mother moaned, some of it legit, but Callie could tell she was walking with her phone. Ice clinked into a glass. A cabinet door opened, then shut. Birds suddenly sang, then abruptly cut off as her mother went outside then came in.

“You in bed or on the sofa?” Callie asked.

“Oh, on the sofa, in my good gown and robe.” Beverly sighed.

Callie smiled. Dressed for visitors. “I had a thought, Mother.”“Always good, dear.”

Her mother’s remarks couldn’t faze Callie today. This morning she woke with purpose. “Listen, I found a turntable online that’s not much different than yours. I could have it there tomorrow for your albums.”

Ice shifted in a glass. “No need. I already spoke to Agnes at Town Hall, and she knows of one. I’m hoping she’ll be by this afternoon. I’m so in need of mood music.”

Of course Beverly lied, and she never failed to put on a good show. Callie heard all the confirmation she needed and turned around to her computer. She hit send, shipping the turntable to Middleton. “You sound good. But you know that Jeb or I can be there in forty-five minutes if you need us.” Callie thought she heard a slurp, and for a second, yearned for a taste of what she knew sloshed in her mother’s glass. “Are you drinking this early?”

“Good gracious, no. Not before noon. And I’m dandy. Stiff, sore, banged up, and bruised, but this widow will make it.”

Callie hung up, shaking her head at her mother, the phenomenon. First chore done.

She then texted Jeb that she had errands to run. Then she started to leave for Charleston when someone knocked. She listened for Sophie’s bangles. Hearing none, she ventured slowly toward the door, her .38 slid out of her purse and in her back pocket, purse set softly on the floor.

Would Chelsea Morning ever be a real beach house? The type someone actually relaxed in?

She gave a start at the man on her porch. In wrinkled khaki shorts, too long and baggy for his short, lanky size, and a faded navy logo T-shirt probably from Papa’s wardrobe, Pauley peeked in the glass. When she opened the door, he frowned, hair unkempt and cowlick wild. “This yours?” he demanded.

The LP in his hand waved slowly, like a fan.

She told herself not to react, but her gut flipped at the title. Neil Diamond’s
Just for You
, the oldest album in Beverly’s collection. Released in 1967 before Callie was even born, when her mother was still a teen. If Beverly inventoried the records and missed this one, she’d skin Callie alive. And from the antique sales sticker on the corner of the cover, this album indeed was Beverly’s.

When had it been stolen from her house?

Callie quickly collected herself. “I don’t believe it’s mine, Pauley. How would it get in your house? Wait, was that you I heard so late last night? I started to get up, but then it cut off. I was so tired.”

He squinted.

“What’s the problem?” she asked.

He jerked toward her, like a gang member testing another. “I don’t
believe
you. Somehow you got in my house and put this on my dad’s record player.”

Callie jerked back. “Well, get
over
it. I didn’t. Why would I waste my time doing such a thing? Especially with my own album.” She shook her head as if unable to grasp what Pauley was saying.

He studied the album cover like she’d seen people do CDs in stores as they decided if the playlist was worth the purchase.

“Anything else, Pauley?”
Keep cool. See what he intends to do with it
.

He waved the album high then swung down, in essence shrugging with it. Callie’s eyes followed in fear as she waited for the LP to fly free. Records shattered so easily.

“Wasn’t me,” he said. “Never saw this before in my life. I was in bed.”

“How the heck could that be?” Then she widened her eyes and gave a dramatic inhale. “Did someone break in? You should’ve called me. No. You should’ve called 9-1-1.”

He held out the album. “For this?”

“You had a trespasser in your house, Pauley! He might’ve been the one who shot your father, for God’s sake.”

He blew out once, with sarcasm. “You’re more messed up than I heard.”

“But the music . . .” Callie noticed nervousness in his eyes.

“I’ll just change the locks,” he said.

“Good idea.” But she was nervous, too. If Pauley wasn’t taunting, who had the balls to break in to his place for the satisfaction of alarming her? After taking the album from her living room? The audacity and daring of this guy unnerved her.

The guy could’ve easily killed Pauley . . . and tried to pin it on her.

How was she supposed to report something like that to the police? It was Pauley’s house broken into with nothing done by the culprit but play music. Too far-fetched to believe, that’s for sure. Which told her Pauley might still be the likely suspect, and he posed here for show, probably itching to make a buck. Lying through his teeth.

Hell, now she had to change her locks again.

Pauley held out Neil to her. “Here, do you want this?”

Don’t get excited, Callie
.
He’s nutty as a Snickers bar
. “Um, I might.”

He withdrew it. “How much you willing to pay for it?”

“Seriously?”

“Want it or not?”

“Five bucks? It’s old.”

“Twenty, it’s antique.”

She huffed. “Hold on one second.” She shut the door with its slick lock, grateful for the graphite. She went to her bedroom for her wallet and returned. “If my mother didn’t like his music so much, I wouldn’t care. Here.” She held out the bill and took the record. “It better not be scratched.”

Pauley crammed the bill in his pocket. “Ain’t your mother I hear playing this music.” He turned without a goodbye.

Callie shut the door, flung herself back against it, and hugged the album to her chest. This baby would stay on Edisto.

After she hid the album in her closet, in a zippered suit bag protecting a haute couture outfit worn once to meet a senator, she finally left for Charleston. She needed those nanny cams more than ever now. She had to keep check on the devil she knew next door and the devil who continued to work the island homes. Wouldn’t it be grand if he were one and the same?