“Good morning,” I replied, collecting my purse and Bible. “Fair warning—we’re going Methodist today.”
His eyebrow rose fractionally. “Changing denominations? Should I alert the press?”
“Reverend Sutton was George Pickering’s associate pastor back in 1985,” I explained, locking my door with the brass key that had worn smooth from years of use. “He worked under him for three years before Pickering was killed. I thought he might have some insight.”
“So we’re combining worship with witness interrogation?”
“We’re multitasking,” I corrected. “It’s very modern of us.”
First Methodist Church of Grimm Island stood at the corner of Church and Broad like a dignified matron who’d seen everything but was too well-bred to gossip about it. Where St. James Baptist proclaimed its faith with enthusiasm and white clapboard that needed painting every other year, the Methodist church whispered its devotion through red brick and stained glass that had survived three hurricanes and countless scandals.
The parking lot was already filling with sensible sedans and the occasional Cadillac that suggested someone’s grandmother had died and left them something substantial. I recognized Dr. Morrison’s ancient Mercedes, held together by rust and stubbornness, and Georgia Bellington’s new Tesla, which she drove with the aggressive confusion of someone who wasn’t ready to give up the control of the wheel to a computer.
“Ready for the Methodist experience?” I asked Dash as we approached the arched doorway.
“How different can it be?”
“Oh, honey,” I said, affecting my best Southern belle drawl. “You’re about to find out.”
The sanctuary smelled of furniture polish and old hymnals, a combination of reverence and resignation. The pews were actual wood—none of those padded numbers the Baptists had installed after the great back pain uprising of 2003. These were pews that demanded good posture and better behavior.
We found seats halfway back on the left side—close enough to seem engaged but not so close as to suggest we were gunning for a committee position. Margaret Calhoun sat three rows ahead, her hat a conservative black number with just enough veil to suggest mourning without actually committing to grief. The Silver Sleuths had claimed their territory: Walt positioned for optimal exit surveillance, Dottie near enough to the front to catch every word, Bea in a turquoise ensemble that somehow managed to be both inappropriate and magnificent.
Reverend Douglas Sutton took the pulpit with the measured grace of someone who’d been doing this for decades and had learned that rushing only led to perspiration and misquoted scripture. He was thin in that way that suggested worry had been his primary food group for decades, with silver hair that caught the light through the stained glass, creating a halo effect that was either divine providence or excellent positioning.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm but not overly familiar, welcoming but maintaining appropriate boundaries.
The congregation responded with their measured “Good morning,” nothing like the enthusiastic call-and-response of the Baptists. This was worship as choreographed dance, everyone knowing their steps and keeping to them.
“Today’s scripture comes from the book of James,” Reverend Sutton announced, and I felt Dash shift beside me. “Chapter five, verse sixteen. Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.”
The coincidence was too pointed to be anything but providence or perversity—I wasn’t sure which.
“Confession,” Reverend Sutton continued, his pale eyes scanning the congregation, “is not simply admitting wrongdoing. It’s the act of bringing darkness into light, of refusing to let secrets fester in shadow.”
I thought of George Pickering, standing at this very pulpit, carrying the weight of his affair with Ruby Bailey while preaching righteousness to his flock. Had he felt the hypocrisy burning in his throat like acid? Or had he compartmentalized so thoroughly that Sunday George and Tuesday-at-the-Flamingo George were entirely different people?
The sermon continued with Methodist precision—three points, each with subpoints, a poem by Charles Wesley, and exactly two personal anecdotes that illustrated the theme without revealing anything actually personal. Reverend Sutton was a master of the form.
“Some of you,” he said, his voice dropping to that register that made everyone lean forward slightly, “are carrying secrets that are eating you alive. You think you’re protecting others, but you’re only protecting the darkness.”
I felt Dash go rigid beside me, his whole body tensing like someone had pressed a blade to his spine. His breathing changed—subtle, controlled, but I’d spent enough time with him to recognize when something hit too close to home. His jaw tightened, that muscle jumping the way it did when he was processing something he didn’t want to think about.
His hand rested on the pew between us, and I watched his fingers curl slightly, knuckles going white with the pressure of whatever memory Sutton’s words had summoned. Without thinking, I shifted my hand until my pinky finger just barely touched his. The contact was minimal, deniable, but I felt it like electricity, making me acutely aware of every breath, every small movement.
He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed to lean into that tiny point of connection, like it was anchoring him to the present instead of whatever darkness Sutton’s words had dragged up. His finger relaxed slightly, pressing back against mine with deliberate intention.
I wanted to look at him, to read what was written on his face, but I kept my eyes forward. Whatever ghosts were haunting Dash Beckett, they weren’t mine to exorcise in the middle of service. But I could offer this—this small, secret touch that said I’m here without demanding explanations he wasn’t ready to give.
After the service—which ended at exactly noon because Methodists believed that God himself observed proper mealtimes—we lingered as the congregation filed out with dignified efficiency. Reverend Sutton stood at the door, shaking hands with friendly familiarity.
“Reverend Sutton,” I said when we reached him. “I’m Mabel McCoy, and this is Sheriff Beckett. We were hoping we might speak with you for a moment?”
His pale eyes sharpened with interest. “Mrs. McCoy. I know who you are—the tea shop on Harbor Street. And Sheriff, of course. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about George Pickering,” I said quietly.
Something flickered across his face—not surprise exactly, but a kind of weary recognition, as if he’d been waiting a long time for someone to ask.
