“Hum. Sing. Whatever that was. I’ve noticed you have a whole catalog of songs for different emotions. Happy Mabel sings Frank Sinatra. Nervous Mabel goes for blues standards and Ella. Contemplative Mabel brings out Billie Holiday and Jo Stafford.
“I wasn’t aware I was such an open book,” I said, though I wasn’t actually annoyed. There was something intimate about being noticed that way, about someone paying attention to the small details of your existence.
“Occupational hazard,” he said, but his tone was gentle. “Cops notice patterns. And you, Mabel McCoy, are a walking anthology of the American songbook.”
We passed Beaumont’s Bakery again, where the afternoon crowd was thinning and Clarence was already starting his end-of-day cleanup. Through the windows, I could see him wiping down the display cases with methodical precision. There was comfort in that kind of repetition, in knowing exactly what came next.
“My grandmother taught me to sing,” I said, surprising myself with the confession. “She said music was how you made sense of things that didn’t make sense any other way. When words weren’t enough, you could always find a song that said it better.”
“Sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was. She died when I was sixteen, right after we moved to the island. Heart attack while she was hanging laundry.” I could still see it—the white sheets billowing in the breeze, her body crumpled beneath them like she’d just decided to take a nap in the grass. “She’d been singing—I heard her from my bedroom window. The wind had carried her voice—It is well, it is well with my soul—then silence. Just…silence. Like someone had turned off the music of the world.”
Dash’s hand found mine, his fingers tangling with my own in a gesture that felt both natural and revolutionary. We’d held hands before—brief touches, those maddening almost-kisses—but this felt different. More deliberate. More like a decision than an accident.
“After Patrick died,” I continued, not quite sure why I was telling him this except that Michael Bailey’s grief had cracked something open in me, some sealed compartment where I’d been storing my own losses, “I couldn’t sing for almost a year. Not even humming. It was like the music had died with him, like whatever part of me that could make sound had just…stopped working.”
“What brought it back?”
“Chowder, actually.” I looked down at my French bulldog, who had paused to investigate a promising scent near the curb. “I got him about eight months after Patrick died. Deidre insisted I needed company, said I was spending too much time alone in that big house talking to the ghost of my dead husband. Which was true, but I didn’t appreciate her saying it out loud.”
Dash laughed, that real laugh that transformed his whole face.
“Anyway, Chowder was this ridiculous puppy—all wrinkles and snorts and stubborn determination. And one morning I woke up and he was staring at me with those eyes, waiting for breakfast, and I just started singing without thinking about it. Some silly thing about how much is that doggie in the window. And suddenly I could breathe again.”
We’d reached The Perfect Steep, the pale blue paint glowing in the afternoon light. Through the windows, I could see Genevieve handling the last of the afternoon customers with her usual efficient grace.
“The Silver Sleuths are reconvening at 6 at my place to share what they’ve found. Should be interesting, if nothing else. Want to join us?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dash said. “Besides, someone needs to make sure Walt doesn’t try to organize a military assault on a retirement home.”
“That’s a very real possibility,” I agreed.
Inside, The Perfect Steep smelled like home—lemon and lavender and the ghost of this morning’s scones. Genevieve looked up from where she was wiping down tables, her expression relieved.
“Thank goodness you’re back,” she said. “Mrs. Pembroke has called three times asking if you’re planning to attend the garden club meeting on Wednesday. I told her I didn’t have access to your social calendar, but she seems to think I’m lying to protect you from her.”
“That’s because you are lying to protect me from her,” I said. “And I appreciate it more than you know. Garden club meetings are four hours of passive-aggressive arguments about hydrangeas disguised as civic duty.”
“Should I tell her you’ll be there?”
“Tell her I have a prior commitment. Investigating a murder is a prior commitment, right?”
“I feel like that should definitely count,” Genevieve agreed. “Also, Dottie called. Said to tell you she has news and you’re going to want to hear it before tonight’s meeting.”
I glanced at the clock—4:47. I had just over an hour before the Silver Sleuths descended on my house en masse. Time enough to change out of my funeral-visiting dress and into something more appropriate for detective work. Maybe brew a fresh batch of tea. Definitely feed Chowder before he staged a hunger strike.
“I’m going to head home and change,” I told Dash. “Get some snacks and drinks ready. Detective work makes you hungry.”
“I need to check in at the station,” he said. “Make sure nothing’s burned down in my absence. Though on Grimm Island, that’s a legitimate concern. I’ll see you at six.”
At the door, Dash caught my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm—a gesture that had become familiar over the past weeks.
“Michael’s story got to you,” he observed quietly.
“Ten-year-old boy watching his mother prepare for a date that would end with her murder,” I said. “Of course it got to me.”
He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The tenderness of the gesture made my throat tight.
