When the discovery of a body on a vacant lot puts an end to Police Chief Callie Morgan’s surprise birthday party, Christmas week loses some of its charm. Not only does she know the dead man, he’s a relation . . . of sorts.
Soon she’s juggling a murder investigation and a rash of burglaries that may have been committed by the mythical Edisto Santa—a holiday secret Santa, who may have taken a page from Robin Hood’s book and begun robbing from the tourist rich and giving to the local poor.
Since the suspects for both crimes are Edisto residents, no matter how delicately Callie treads, this holiday season will pit Callie against her beloved Edisto and leave her feeling like the Grinch, Scrooge, and Old Man Potter rolled into one. But she has no choice. Murder trumps Santa.
This year Callie is making a list and checking it twice.
"Murder, corruption, and page-turning intrigue . . . characters that bring a vivid literary element . . . and create a strong emotional response to their tangled lives.”
"Page-turning...
[and] edge-of-your-seat action...crisp writing and compellingstorytelling. This is one you don't want to miss!”
Chapter 1
POLICE CHIEF MORGAN’S radio crackled.
"Chief, you there?”
About to exit
her patrol car, Callie stopped and freed her mic. "What is it, Marie?”
"A disturbance
at the new Mexican restaurant. Thomas called it in.”
This was
Edisto Beach in December, three days before Christmas, and Callie’d just rolled
up at an old friend’s house on Pompano Drive to pick him up for a long lunch,
because nothing happened this time of year. At least not until the small cadre
of habitual visitors arrived for a brief Christmas.
Stan Waltham
opened the passenger door and sat, silently waiting to see if his lunch date
had to bow out of their meal plans. He knew the drill. He’d once walked in her
shoes.
"Thomas can’t manage it?” Callie pretended a grimace at Stan, rolling
her eyes.
"Said
to call you,” Marie said.
"So
why didn’t he call me?”
"I’m
just dispatch, Chief.”
Marie
was golden and way more than Edisto PD’s admin. She wouldn’t have called Callie
unless necessary.
"On
it, Marie. Out.” She hung up and sighed. "Sorry, Stan.”
He
reached for the seatbelt. "Mexican’s as good as anything else for lunch. I’ll
ride along.”
Callie peeled out to make a short trip of the one-mile
ride to PalmettoPlaza. A resident fresh to the community had leased the west end of the
thirty-year-old store strip and outfitted an eatery called El Marko’s. Last
week’s grand opening went moderately well, but the timing had most of the
natives scratching their heads as to why Mexican cuisine, and why open in the
off-season when most businesses shuttered windows or cut to minimal hours.
"Hopefully
this is no more than customers skirting a tab,” Stan said.
"Yeah.
If the owner’s so naïve to open during the off-season, someone might’ve pegged
him for an easy mark.”
"Maybe,”
he said. "I rather like the guy, though, and you would, too, if you gave him a
chance.”
"Quit
matchmaking.”
As
her old captain when they both worked on the Boston police force, Stan had
molded her professionally and nurtured her emotionally, even after she resigned
from the force and relocated to Edisto following her hot mess of a meltdown.
She’d been entitled. Her husband had been murdered.
But
her old captain’s advice to give the new guy in town a chance would have to be
ignored right now. No one took crime as seriously as they should in Edisto,
meaning she had to. Residents made excuses, and tourists looked the other way
calling incidents spirits and accidents. Her job was to keep them safe and theirs
to pretend nothing happened.
"You
might wind up walking home if there’s an issue,” she said.
"It’s
a mile, tops. I can stand it.”
They
took Jungle Road with lights rolling. Stan rode laid-back, comfortable, like a
training officer watching his rookie.
They approached the end of the mini-shopping center, with
an unusualcollection of cars for the middle of the
day. Especially in December.
Thomas
Gage’s cruiser parked near the front, no lights. Thomas was her youngest yet
favorite officer. Of an age to be eye candy, he volunteered for traffic stops,
because it kept him perusing Palmetto Boulevard parallel to the sand, the road
everyone had to cross to reach the water, especially tourists in bikinis.
He
could handle most things on Edisto, so it surprised her that he’d called this
one in. "On the scene, Marie,” Callie radioed to dispatch, putting the car into
park.
They
approached, and though sensing no signs of threat, she did so cautiously, Stan
a few feet behind her. Nobody outside. "Thomas?” she said into her mic. Only
crackle.
"Thomas?”
"Inside,
Chief,” he replied, voice low.
The
tinted storefront window obscured her vision with flurries and bursts of
primary colors from the restaurant’s Mexican theme and Christmas decorations.
Less leery with Thomas sounding relaxed, she eased in and immediately stopped.
Why were the lights off?
"Surprise!!!!!”
Lights
flipped on and people popped out from everywhere.
Callie
backed up a step into Stan, his barrel-chested form too heavy to budge. He
belly-laughed and righted her.
"Happy
birthday, Chief!” came at her from a dozen mouths, the laughter and cheers a
cacophony of celebratory racket. Someone cranked up the music. Feliz Navidad.
Callie
punched Stan. "You conned me, old man.” Then she hugged him, his big long arms lifting
her to her toes in a smother.
One
by one people congratulated her.
"Which
birthday is it?” Only Janet Wainwright, retired Marine real estate broker who
reigned supreme on the beach, would ask that question. Her white, close-cropped
hair took on an uncharacteristic pink tone in the lighting.
"None
of your business,” Callie said. "Your nephew arrive yet for Christmas?” A lot
of residents took on relatives during the holidays.
Janet
tipped her head toward a group of laughers. The college senior tailed Callie’s neighbor
Sophie like a dog in heat, ogling her for all to see. Both headed Callie’s way.
Sophie
thrust a margarita in her hand. Virgin from the smell of it. "Get this kid off
me, Janet, before I hex him to kingdom come. Here, Callie. Drink up. Happy
birthday.”
One
of her closest compatriots on the beach, Sophie Bianchi served as yoga mistress
to the island... and the closest thing to an Alcoholics
Anonymous sponsor one could have. She didn’t come over without nosing through
cabinets and closets when she thought Callie wasn’t aware, hunting for the
hidden bottles Callie used to strategically hide.
Callie
finally registered the full view of her friend. "Good gracious, look at you.”
Sophie
twirled, her green, multi-striped skirt flaring, toes painted to match in
golden sandals. Lemon yellow peasant blouse off those olive-tanned shoulders. A
large rose over her left ear. "You like?”
"Come here. Open those eyes wide. What color contacts are
you wearing?”
Sophie
stopped, bent at the waist, and widened her eyes. "Green. What do you think?”
Callie
laughed, then laughed again, feeling good. It had been a while. Even the crowd
felt good. Before Callie knew it, she was engulfed by Stan again. "So damn glad
to see you happy, Chicklet. Now go thank your host.”
"Absolutely,
where is he?” she asked, but a tender embrace caught her by surprise first. A
woman in her mid-sixties beamed when Callie pulled back. "Sarah? Oh my gosh,
you’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until Christmas Eve.”
Sarah
Rosewood. Her biological mother. The mother hidden from her knowledge for
almost forty years by the political duo of parents Callie grew up with.
Learning about her father’s affair the same week of Mike Seabrook’s murder,
however, had been an unexpected blessing in a tragic time. It took the
overwhelming love of both mothers to help Callie get past Seabrook’s death.
Eyes
moist, Sarah touched her daughter’s cheek. "The first birthday I’ve been able
to openly share with you. How could I not be here?”
Callie
fought the threat of tears. "God, it’s good to see you. Come over tonight.
Please.” She raised a brow.” Is Ben... ”
"I
haven’t even been home yet. Just got here.” She patted Callie’s arm. "He
doesn’t know I’m coming, but I’ll explain about him later. You go have fun with
your friends.”
Someone
raised the volume on the music as the crowd increased. Hors d’oeuvre platters
began appearing on each table. The aromas of queso fundido, cilantro, mini
tacos, and salsas tempted everyone to find a seat, or at least hover close by.
Word
got around, because more bodies poured in. Callie pushed her way past back
slaps and hugs over to Thomas.
She
almost had to holler. "Who’s working if everybody’s here?”
"Ike,”
he said, bending to her ear. "He said he’ll call if anything comes up. Marie, too.”
He held out a hand for a shake, the other hand occupied with a chicken flauta.
"Happy birthday, Chief. Had my doubts about this place, but this new guy seems
to be doing all right.”
"So
far,” she said.
He
shrugged. "Sophie ought to help. She’s officially hostess for this joint.”
With
a smirk, Callie shook her head. "She campaigned hard enough for it.”
Before
the ink was dry on the lease, Sophie had schemed to land the job, a perfect
match for a woman who craved people in her circle from sunup to sundown—making
people spill their deepest secrets was her hobby, and she was masterful at it.
A distinguishing quality Callie’d taken advantage of when the need arose at the
station.
In
the off-season the eatery didn’t open until eleven, long after Sophie’s yoga
classes adjourned, and closed early. Summer, however, would be another story.
Sophie flitted like a bee from one flower to another, and Callie expected her
friend’s interest to have moved on by then.
"Callie!”
came Stan’s voice from across the room. He was easy to locate. Her mentor had
become an island fixture in his array of Hawaiian shirts that everyone on
Edisto labeled Stan shirts and didn’t dare wear. Even in December, he
donned a long-sleeve tee with a floral shirt over it to preserve his image.
"Gotta
go, Thomas,” Callie said, swooping a chip through mango salsa en route back to
Stan and the owner standing behind the bar.
She
set down her empty glass and swallowed the chip before extending a hand. "How
can I thank you for this splendid gala, Mark?”
"Already
have,” he said, returning the grip. "Not sure if it’s the lure of free food or
your influence on Edisto Beach, but either way, I’ll take the attention.” He
rested on the bar. "Been meaning to come see you at the station, but this”—he
motioned with a sweeping arm to the room—"has kept me sort of occupied.”
"Good
problem to have,” she said.
He stood straight and took her glass. "Let me fill that
margarita backup for you.”
"Um...
” Stan started.
Mark
stopped, waiting for Stan to finish his sentence.
Callie
smiled. "He’s trying to discreetly tell you I’m on the wagon. Make it plain,
please.”
He
winked. "You got it.”
Mark
had arrived on Edisto in late August, bought a small cottage two blocks from
the strip mall, and optioned the restaurant’s property in September the minute
that sandwich shop vacated. Callie hadn’t had a chance to say more than, "I’m
the police chief. Call on me if we can help.” And to give a nod in passing.
Everyone
exceeded her five foot two, but she guessed Mark about an inch shy of six feet.
He wasn’t Hispanic, but his dark hair helped the image. If she picked any
ethnicity, it’d be Cajun with a name like Dupree, but he came across as more
All-American to her. He was well-muscled and fit.
Rumor
had it he’d retired early from public service, but she didn’t care to pry. Out here everyone had a past. When
people moved to Edisto from across the Big Bridge, that past remained
behind.
Besides,
Edisto had Sophie Bianchi to dig up any details. Surprisingly, she hadn’t come
to Callie with the scoop on Mr. Dupree. Either there wasn’t any intriguing
intel or Sophie respected him enough not to pry. To Callie that sort of placed
the man on a higher scale.
He
placed the fresh drink on the bar with a dry napkin. "Can’t say I’ve seen you
smile like this before, Callie.”
She liked how he didn’t
automatically call her Chief. "I’m not a crowd person, but these are good
people,” she said. "Took me a while to get to this place in my life.”
"Sounds like a story,” he
said.
"A long and windy one,” she
said.
He smiled. "Wouldn’t mind
hearing it downstream.”
Stan kicked her foot.
She
forgot Stan was there. Then a twinge of a memory made her suddenlymiss Seabrook.
Sophie
showed. "Am I allowed to have a drink? I mean, I’m working,right?”
"I’ll fix you one of
Callie’s,” Mark said.
Scrunching her nose, she
declined, stepped on the bar’s foot rail, and leaned across the bar top, not
caring who eyed that yoga backside. "Open your refrigerator down there. I
stashed some carrot juice.”
Chuckling, Mark did as told.
"He’s learning,” Callie said.
"Doesn’t take long,” Stan
replied, laughing.
Sophie came back down and took
her glass of thick orange drink, Mark having stuck a celery stick in it for
fun. "I like this guy,” she growled in Callie’s ear.
"You like
most guys who aren’t in a nursing home or middle school.”
Sophie batted her eyes in
sultry acceptance, sipping on her drink.
"Wait, someone’s missing,”
Callie said. "Where’s Brice?”
"Oh darn, I must’ve forgotten
his invitation,” Sophie said, all innocent and coy.
Snickering, Callie took a sip
of her fresh drink. "Better hope he doesn’t find out you made the guest list.”
"And I hope he doesn’t think
it was me,” Mark added, spiritedly. "I can’t afford to piss off a town
councilman. I sank everything I own into this place.”
Sophie stroked his arm. "We’ll
take care of you, Mr. Dupree.”
"Yeah,” he said, grinning. "No
telling how that would go. Let me get back to work. And Sophie—”
"Get back to work, too,” she
said, and sashayed off, obviously loving the swish of that skirt on her hips.
Callie scanned the room for
people she hadn’t thanked yet. Real estate agents, business owners, retirees.
Stan leaned over. "Told you he
was a good guy.”
"What are you, my mother?
Already have two of those. Don’t need another.”
An
old-fashioned clapper bell overhead announced another arrival. Glancing up at
the entrance, Stan’s expression fell sour making Callie turn.
The
man who entered shouted, "What, y’all started without me?” in a laughing
pretense that he belonged. He waded into the room, toward Callie.
"Damn,”
she whispered under her breath. Brice LeGrand.
He
reached the bar. "Beer,” he barked at Mark, who only nodded to oblige.
Callie
cringed at Brice’s behavior, feeling the urge to apologize for this blight of a
man.
"What
the hell is all this?” Brice asked.
Stan
answered first. "It’s Callie’s birthday, you idiot. And you better not ruin
it.”
Brice pivoted, giving his back to the bigger man, still
intent on confronting his favorite adversary on Edisto Beach. "Mid-day, Chief? During
duty hours? You realize how irresponsible this looks to visitors? Whose insane
idea was this?”
"Mine,”
Sophie interrupted, and shoved a baby quesadilla at him. "She had nothing to do
with this surprise party except unexpectedly become the guest of honor. Why
didn’t you RSVP if you wanted to come?”
Eying
Sophie from the tips of her frosted pixie to her sparkle- painted toenails,
Brice scoffed at her. "Never got an invitation.”
She
aimed at him with a napkin, then tucked it in his shirt pocket. "Talk to your
wife, then, but don’t come spoiling things here.” She flippantly motioned him
to scoot away. "Go on and eat. Mr. Dupree went through a lot of trouble for
this shindig. And quit monopolizing Callie. She has guests.”
Brice
followed orders, scouting the tables for food options.
"You’re
welcome,” Sophie said to the collective three and flitted off again.
Mark
shook his head. "That woman can work people, can’t she?”
"You
have no idea,” Callie said.
A
buzzing sounded in her pocket. Halfway expecting her son or other mother to
call and wish her happy birthday, she withdrew the phone. Caller ID showed Ike,
one of her three most recent hires, though he’d worked the beach over a year
now. A transfer from another city with a decade of policing under his belt. Easing
to a back corner as best she could, Callie answered. "Why aren’t you radioing
me?”
"Sorry
to interrupt, Chief, but the phone seemed best for this incident,” he said.
She
gave her back to the party, covering her other ear. "Talk to me.”
"Tractor
driver waved me down,” he said. "Was clearing a vacant lot. I’m putting up
yellow tape and securing the scene. Sent you pics.”
Callie
opened her messages. Three from Ike, three pics in each.
The
driver stood next to his tractor in one, studying the ground. Other pictures
moved in closer.
Face
down lay a body mashed into the moist ground, half covered with poison ivy and
greenbrier vines. No blood. "Jesus, Ike. Can you tell who it is?”
"Not
really,” he said. "Thought someone more native might be able to.”
"Location?”
"Dolphin
Road,” he said. "First vacant lot down from the corner of Portia Street, behind
a large two-story house with dark green shutters. Being this place is a lot,
I’m not sure the number.”
But
Callie knew. Scanning the crowd, she located the lot’s owner. "Be right there,
Ike.”
Both
Thomas and Stan spotted her concern when she moved through the people with
purpose. She waved to Thomas and motioned outside. By instinct, Stan would do
his best to keep others from being nosy enough to tail them.
"Brice?
Can we speak outside?” she asked, freeing two men shackled to one of the town
councilman’s political pontifications.
"Excuse
me, gentlemen.” Brice grabbed another taco and obliged the chief, following her
out. Seeing Thomas already waiting gave the councilman pause. "What’s the
deal?”
"You
own 617 Dolphin, right?” Callie asked.
"It
and a few other lots,” he said. "Why?”
"Come
with me to that one, if you don’t mind.”
Brice’s
expression clouded, with Thomas taking a stiffer stance in defense of his chief.
"What if I don’t want to? And I won’t until you tell me what this is about.”
She
tried to read him. "Something was discovered in clearing your lot a few minutes
ago.”
"What?
I gave no approval to clear that lot.” Up came a pointed finger, the one he’d
shoved at Callie on more than enough occasions. "Who’s been on my property?”
"This
man, for one,” Callie said, showing him a picture. "And whoever dumped him
there.”