“Except they ended up dead,” Bea pointed out. “So someone was definitely paying attention to them.”
“We need to talk to Elsie Crawford,” Dash said. “According to Reverend Sutton, she was at Turtle Point that night walking her dog. Saw something. But Milton dismissed her as an unreliable witness and buried her statement.”
“Convenient,” Walt muttered. “Milton had a habit of burying inconvenient truths.”
“The staging bothers me,” Dottie said, tapping her fingers against the table. “Someone took the time to arrange them like that—in an embrace—after killing them. That’s not rage. That’s not panic. That’s deliberate.”
“A message,” Bea said. “About their affair. About sin and punishment.”
“Or mockery,” Hank suggested. “Making a spectacle of what they’d tried to keep hidden.”
“Either way,” Dash said, “It tells us something about the killer’s state of mind. They weren’t just eliminating a problem. They were making a statement.”
“Which brings us back to motive,” Walt said, consulting his notes. “Who benefits from their deaths? Who had the most to lose if Pickering or Ruby talked?”
“It would have taken some physical effort to move two bodies and position them,” Dottie said.
“So we’re looking for someone with strength,” Walt noted. “Or possibly more than one person involved.”
“That complicates things,” Hank said.
Bea had been unusually quiet. Her crimson nails tapped against the paper—a nervous gesture I’d rarely seen from her.
“What is it?” I asked.
She looked up, and there was something sharp in her eyes, the look she got when a story was coming together. “This entry from mid-July: ‘A reporter from the Gazette has been asking questions around the church. Wants to know about our finances, about donations and where the money goes. June told me the woman came to the house, very polite, very professional, asking about the new community center fund. I told June to say nothing, but she’s never been good at keeping secrets. The reporter’s name is Sutherland—blond, efficient, always dressed in white. She smells like trouble.’”
The room went quiet.
“Sutherland,” Dash repeated. “That name mean anything to anyone?”
“Jane Sutherland,” Bea said, and now her voice carried recognition. “I knew her. She worked at the Gazette from ’84 to ’86. I was still doing the society column then, but Jane—she was investigative from day one. Charleston girl, had worked at the Post and Courier before moving here.”
“What was she investigating?” Hank asked.
“Church finances,” Bea said slowly, piecing it together. “There’d been whispers about some of the churches on the island—money going missing, building funds that never quite added up. Jane thought she had a corruption story. Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian—she was looking at all of them.”
“And Pickering’s church specifically?” Dash pressed.
“First Methodist had the biggest budget,” Bea confirmed. “Wealthiest congregation on the island. If there was financial impropriety happening, that’s where the money would be.”
“So she wasn’t interested in Ruby at all,” I said. “She was after Pickering.”
“Or whoever was embezzling from the church,” Walt added. “Pickering might have just been collateral damage.”
“She wore white,” Dottie observed. “Always white, you said?”
Bea nodded. “It was her trademark. White suits, white blouses. Very Diane Sawyer. She thought it made her look more credible, more trustworthy. People would open up to her.”
“And she left town right after the murders,” Dash said.
“Disappeared,” Bea corrected. “I came in one Monday morning—this would have been the week after they found the bodies—and her desk was cleaned out. Editor said she’d resigned, effective immediately. No forwarding address, no explanation. We all thought it was strange, but…” She shrugged. “Journalists move around. It happens.”
“Except it’s awfully convenient timing,” Hank said.
“I can track her down,” Bea offered. “I still have contacts at papers throughout the region. If Jane Sutherland is still in journalism, someone will know where.”
“And if she’s not?” Dottie asked.
