Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) by C. Hope Clark Page A

So, ol’ Mason ask you out yet?”
    “He invited me to one of his Friday parties. Sounds like they’re open invitation though.”
    The officer reared back and raised a brow. “He’s got better radar than most boats in the marina for the new single ladies. His Friday night parties are practically on the town council’s calendar.” He ran his hand flat and level through the air. “Slick. Nothing rowdy, though, in case you decide to go. Had to remind him to keep his beachfront lights off once, but that’s it.”
    “For the nesting loggerheads.” She understood how lights disoriented hatchlings seeking the ocean.
    “Yeah,” he said. “People are protective about those turtles.”
    “Well, I have no plans to attend one of Howard’s parties, but thanks for the concern.”
    “No problem.” He relaxed his shoulders. “Serve and protect.”
    Seabrook’s assurance felt rather endearing. His normal behavior . . . or her presence?
    “I also met Jackson Peters,” she said. “He worked on the house across the street during the Rosewood break-in, but he only heard a scream. Saw nothing.”
    Seabrook pulled a notepad over and lifted a pen from his red cup.
    She gave him a mild frown. “Is Peters okay? I mean, he seems unusually knowledgeable about everyone’s house, when they’re home, what they do.”
    “Callie, you just described half the residents on Edisto. But I don’t have a problem with Peters. I’d have more of an issue with Howard.”
    “You told me he was harmless.”
    The phone rang for the first time since she’d arrived.
    “I distrust his type,” Seabrook said, watching the clerk take the call. “The temporary resident who stays long enough to infiltrate the community, entertain himself with the locals, then leave when he’s had his fill of our quaintness.”
    “Anyway,” she said, impatient at straying from her mission. “Peters seems to be in the know around here. Wouldn’t hurt to connect with him.”
    “Talk to Jack Peters. Check. Anything else?”
    “Yes,” she said. “I came across another coin.”
    His head came up, a no-nonsense glare. “Not at your place, I hope.”
    “Um . . . not exactly. Sophie Bianchi’s son had one when he came over to see Jeb. I talked him into giving it to me.”
    “Zeus,” he said with a mild chuckle as he jotted on his pad. “I’ll talk to him, too. You wouldn’t know how many coins were in Henry’s collection, would you? The son I called in Florida knew zilch about his daddy.”
    “Twenty-five,” she said. “Six Morgans, nine Peace dollars, four Eisenhowers, and one beautiful Double Eagle. I used to count them as a kid. Papa’s wife framed them in 1975. The collection’s worth a few thousand, I imagine. Some of them were in pristine shape. Want me to write up a list?”
    He scrubbed fingers across his scalp.
    Crap. He thinks I’m dictating how to do his job. “Sorry. I simply meant—”
    “I almost wish they wouldn’t turn up.”
    “Why?”
    “More coins—more break-ins.” He sighed. “But go on.”
    She didn’t want to overplay her city detective role, but he seemed amiable to the help. “The dollars could easily appear at the Pavilion, the grocery store, any of the gift shops,” she said. “Let business owners know so they’ll turn them in to you. They don’t have to show up at crime scenes.”
    Seabrook nodded. “So, what year is your coin? Did you bring it?”
    “A 1921, and, no. I don’t have it.”
    “Keeping it safe at home?”
    She huffed. “I wish. Sophie threw it in the marsh this morning.”
    His brow arched. “Why the hell—pardon my French—would she do such a dumbass stunt, not that I should be surprised?” He wrote on his pad again. “That ditzy woman fishes without bait on her hook half the time.”
    “She called it bad vibes.”
    He shook his head in what Callie saw as complete understanding of who Sophie was.
    However, Callie still wanted to share another burden.
    Heavy footfalls sounded