Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Read Online Free Page B

learned alcohol provided a decent substitute. Running held off the escalating urge to drink herself into oblivion, so she’d bought two hundred dollar sneakers to guilt herself into keeping the habit. Pouring herself into sport instead of a glass, she had dropped a scary fifteen pounds off her petite frame, but earned it back in muscle within two months. Twice she’d run so long she almost collapsed . . . back in Boston. Middleton had been another story. Anyway, time to sweat out this day and burn off the melancholy.
    A local patrol car in white and navy crawled by, the sandy-haired officer’s elbow draped out the open window, his tanned hand holding the roof. He raised a couple fingers off the steering wheel as their eyes met.
    The uniform; the love of seeing a man wear it. A deep sense of longing stirred. She waved a reply in kind, a benign hello she still used when she saw another badge. She missed the work and being married to a man who also loved it.
    The warm gust of brine-laden breeze whipped a lock into her eyes. She tucked overgrown bangs behind her ears and filled her lungs again with the salt air. Jeb would come in near dark, his hair sticky, cheeks sun-kissed, and she’d have to remind him to leave his gritty shoes at the door. He’d earned the right to enjoy his life, and she was determined to ensure that happened.
    She straightened to go inside for her sneakers when a rebellious gust of wind raised the clackety echoes of a bamboo chime from the gray-sided house next door.
    Where was Papa Beach today? Her favorite neighbor had yet to make an appearance. Surely her father had called to let him know they were coming.
    She’d make him her first house guest to celebrate their arrival, even ask him to bring his Korean War photos that Jeb enjoyed. She went inside to get her new keys, unable to leave a door unlatched like the natives. Shoes on and house locked, she clomped down the stairs.
    Making her way across the twenty yards between them, she headed up the neat, well-tended steps to Papa Beach’s residence next door. Her mood lifted as she forecasted the hug, the joke about how big she’d grown—though she’d seen him only three weeks ago—and a piece of grape saltwater taffy.
    Which hand holds the surprise, Callie?
    Um, that one, Papa B , she’d say, only for it to always be the other.
    She reached the top landing of his tiny home, half the size of most on this end of the island. Her smile vanished.
    The doorknob hung by its guts, the doorframe splintered. She tensed and instinctively reached for her Glock only to grab an empty waistband.
    Chapter 3
    CALLIE NUDGED PAPA Beach’s door open with her toe. The familiar smell of old leather and cough medicine struck her nose.
    “Papa, you there?” She stilled, listening. “It’s Callie.” Only the mantle clock ticked in response from the fake fireplace in the far corner.
    A floor lamp had fallen, busted on the rug beside the bottomed-out corduroy recliner. She eased past them. Pictures of Papa’s wife and adult son hung askew on the paneled wall, and a photograph of an old naval ship lay on the floor, the glass shattered. Blood pounded in Callie’s ears at the thought of what she might find.
    Papa’s framed silver dollar collection display was missing from over the sofa. She used to read aloud the years on the coins in order. Twenty-five of them.
    His cozy, dated living room had served as her playhouse, reading room, and occasional naptime in her youth—a place to escape from parents who didn’t understand, and to fall into Papa’s sparkling blue eyes with their rascally tease. His place endured time in her mind as a bastion against change, a haven for comfort, and a getaway from a life that wasn’t fair.
    She approached the kitchen. The back door gaped open, and the warm breeze wafted in, pushing a faint wisp of cordite through the room.
    No, no, please don’t let it be.
    She rounded the entryway and stiffened. Papa Beach sprawled across the