Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) by C. Hope Clark Read Free Book Online Page A

herself an ice water and fought not to mark time with constant peeks at the clock. Fought not to glance out the window at yellow crime scene tape.
    She needed something to do. After lifting her .38 from the credenza drawer, she pulled out the gun cleaning kit. Then she dialed a familiar number and rested the phone on her shoulder as she took the weapon apart. “Stan Waltham, please. Tell him it’s Callie Morgan.”
    Stan shot straight with her, respected her, and when she’d left the police department, she swore she saw moisture in his brown eyes. His gruff exterior enveloped a marshmallow core. Ten years older, he played the handsome father-figure one minute and a stand-up buddy the next. She still remembered the musk of his cologne when he hugged her goodbye that long moment outside the bar. She missed him more than anything else about Boston.
    “Morgan! How’re you doing?”
    “Making it, Stan.” Her shoulders relaxed hearing his thick Massachusetts accent and gravelly voice. Her last call had been two months ago, which meant he’d cut that curly black and gray hair at least three times. “Wanted to let you know where I am. And check on life back in Beantown.”
    “Missing you around here, Chicklet.” He chuckled as he used her old nickname derived from her small size when compared to his six-foot five. Stan’s square jaws usually chomped on gum, cinnamon-flavored, a habit cultivated when he quit smoking. “What’ll it take to get you to come back? Boston’s overrun with crime now. They’re thinking about shutting us down, moving us to New York, and letting the clans and mobs have it.”
    She smiled and envisioned his tilted, box-like head and mouth stuck in a tight grin as she put a drop of cleaning oil on a patch. “I had them all under my thumb. What did you expect?”
    “You still in Summerton?” he asked.
    “Middleton,” she corrected, “and the answer is no. I’m at Edisto Beach now. Expected to just visit, but I sort of got stuck here for a while.” She changed ears on the phone. “I need to ask you something.”
    He grunted. “You sort of got stuck living on the shore? Sucks, Morgan. How do you stand all that sun and sand—the balmy breezes and shit?”
    “You sound like my son, except for the shit part.”
    “Always liked that kid.”
    “Listen, Stan, we had a murder down here, and that just doesn’t happen,” she said. “My next door neighbor was killed. A lovely old man who wouldn’t harm a soul.”
    “And you’re wondering about Zubov,” he said. “I’m sorry about your friend, Chicklet. You’ve suffered enough.”
    “Thanks.” She inhaled deep, taking in the gun’s odor. “What’s the word from the family?”
    “I’d have called if I heard anything.”
    She knew that, but still. “What are the chances my friend takes a bullet to the head while I’m moving in next door?”
    “They bag the perp?”
    “No.”
    “Anybody see the guy?”
    “No. I started to chase him, but he vanished. Plus I wasn’t armed.”
    “Damn, Morgan.” Stan smacked his gum a few times. “Anything stolen?”
    “A coin collection, maybe more. I’m not allowed in. You know small town cops. They’ve even got a deputy on loan who thinks he’s mayor.” She tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears, but it swung back as soon as she pulled away. She continued on, enjoying the unbiased ear of someone who recognized her abilities.
    The line fell silent for a few moments. Then Stan’s office chair creaked. “You’re doing it again.”
    Callie lined up the weapon’s pieces on a cloth, each parallel and neat. “What’s to say they didn’t come down—”
    “Stop it.”
    Scrunching an oily rag, Callie kneaded it as Stan went down a familiar path. “The Russians have a long reach.”
    “It’s been two years,” he said, concern underpinning his wisdom.
    She wrung the cloth. “They left hints on the street.”
    “They were bragging, and you were still here. You left, so let them