“1983 Buick, found about a half a mile from where his body was found.” Walt produced pictures of the vehicle and where it had been located. “Wallet was in glove compartment, ninety-three dollars cash.”
“That was a lot of money back then,” Dottie said. “Especially for a preacher.”
I studied the photographs after Deidre scanned them and started printing the pictures. “He didn’t want anyone to see his car,” I said. “Parked behind some trees.”
“Yes, ahh, well,” Walt said, and then cleared his throat before shoving the report across the table to me. “You can see there…”
I arched a brow, wondering if Walt was actually blushing.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Walt,” Dottie said, shaking her head. “You’re eighty years old. You know what people do in the back seats of cars. You probably did it yourself.”
Bea snickered. “Not straightlaced Walt. Margaret probably had to schedule sex with his secretary to make sure it got on the calendar.”
Walt bristled, his posture straightening more than it already was. “I’ll have you know that I’ve always been a very creative partner in the bedroom. And sometimes out of the bedroom.”
“Oooh,” Bea, Dottie and Deidre said in unison.
“Do give details, Walt,” Bea added.
His lips pinched together and he said, “A gentleman never tells.”
“There was no DNA back then,” Dottie said, “But I remember they took samples from the back of the car. Who knows what happened to them. If I remember right there was a blanket laid out. You know how big those back seats are in a Buick. Might as well have been a bed. And there were obvious signs of dallying.”
“So Pickering picks up Ruby at her apartment,” Hank said. “They drive out to Turtle Point, get down to business, and then someone shows up. They were found without clothes on, so it makes sense they were interrupted. Or at least occupied to the point they didn’t see another car or person approach.”
“Not much you can do when you’re naked and someone pulls a gun on you,” Bea added.
“Why does that sound like a personal story?” Deidre asked.
“I’m going to write about it in my memoirs,” Bea said. “I don’t want to spoil it now.”
“You’ve been writing those memoirs for twenty years,” Dottie said. “We’ll all be dead by the time you finish them.”
Bea just smiled and said, “We’re talking about the reverend. Let’s focus on their affair.” She settled into what was clearly her favorite subject—other people’s scandals. “Everyone knew about Ruby and the reverend. It was the worst-kept secret on the island.” She paused for dramatic effect, her earrings tinkling like tiny silver bells. “Betty Mae at the Flamingo Motel told me years later that they had a standing reservation. Room twelve, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. Always paid cash.”
“The Flamingo Motel,” Deidre said with the kind of delicate shudder that suggested she’d rather not think about what went on there. The Flamingo had been Grimm Island’s worst-kept secret—everyone knew what it was for, but everyone pretended they didn’t, like a shameful relative at a family reunion that nobody acknowledged but couldn’t quite ban from attending.
“But here’s what’s interesting,” Bea continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Ruby wasn’t stupid. She knew Pickering would never leave his wife—June Pickering’s family had some money, and George liked being comfortable. Ruby was practical about it. She was saving money, planned to move to Charleston with Michael once she had enough. The affair with Pickering? He was helping her financially, slipping her extra cash.”
“Transactional,” Dottie said without judgment.
“Survival,” Bea corrected. “Ruby had a ten-year-old son and an ex-husband who drank away every penny he ever earned. She was doing what she had to do.”
“Speaking of the ex-husband,” Walt said, pulling out another report. “Jimmy Thorne. Mean drunk who used to beat Ruby when he was in his cups. But he was in the county lockup that night—picked up for drunk and disorderly at 8 p.m., held until Monday morning.”
“Convenient alibi,” Hank noted.
“Or deliberately arranged,” Walt suggested. “Get yourself locked up the night your ex-wife is murdered?”
“Let’s look at the confessions,” Hank said, arranging three separate documents. “This is what really makes this case unusual. Three different people confessed within a week of the murders.” Then he looked at me and asked, “Mabel, do you have anything besides coffee? You know I can’t drink it after ten o’clock or it messes with my digestive system.”
“I have iced tea,” I said. “Or lemonade.”
“Iced tea is fine.”
I nodded and hurried into the kitchen, not wanting to miss the information about the confessions. But my southern hospitality wouldn’t let me just get the tea pitcher and slap it on the table. I got out my big wooden tray, set out the pitcher, goblets, and a plate of tea cookies, along with napkins, and I hurried back into the dining room and set the tray in the center of the table.
“Lovely, dear,” Deidre said. “What tea is that?”
