Heat crept up my neck. “We’re working on a case together.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Eleanor’s smile suggested she wasn’t buying what I was selling. “That’s what they’re calling it these days, is it? Working on a case?” She leaned against her porch railing, settling in for what she clearly hoped would be a lengthy gossip session. “You know, Audrey Morrison saw you two at church together yesterday. Said the way he looked at you during the sermon was positively smoldering.”
“Audrey Morrison needs stronger glasses,” I said, though my traitorous heart did a little flip at the thought of Dash looking at me during church.
“And my bridge club met yesterday afternoon—you know we play at Vivian’s house every other Sunday—and Vivian mentioned she’d seen his car parked outside your place past midnight on Friday. Of course, we all agreed it was perfectly innocent. Police business and all that. Though Constance did point out that police business at midnight usually involves criminals, not widows in their nightgowns.”
“I was not in my nightgown,” I said, which was technically true—I’d been in my vintage silk robe, which was entirely different and somehow worse.
“Oh, honey.” Eleanor’s expression softened with something that might have been genuine affection. “I’m just giving you grief because you’re easy. Patrick’s been gone a long time. If the sheriff makes you smile—and don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been smiling more lately—then good. You deserve some happiness. Lord knows this island could use some romance that doesn’t end in somebody’s prenup being violated.”
Chowder, having finished his inspection of a palm tree, tugged on his leash with the insistence of a dog who had more important things to investigate. I took the excuse gratefully.
“I really should get back,” I said. “I have guests coming.”
“More police business?” Eleanor called after me, her tone suggesting she knew exactly what kind of business it was.
“Something like that,” I replied, already heading back toward the house.
Inside, I unclipped Chowder’s leash and went straight to the kitchen. The Silver Sleuths would expect refreshments—not a full meal, but something substantial enough to keep them fueled through what would likely be hours of discussion and debate.
I pulled out my serving platters—vintage Haviland china that had been Patrick’s grandmother’s, delicate pink roses on cream porcelain. From the refrigerator I retrieved the cheese board I’d prepared that morning—aged cheddar, creamy brie, gouda with herbs, arranged with water crackers and grapes. I added a selection of tea sandwiches I’d brought home from the shop—cucumber and cream cheese, chicken salad, tomato and basil.
For drinks, I set out my beverage station on the sideboard in the dining room. Sweet tea in a crystal pitcher, ice water with lemon slices, and—because I knew Bea would want it—all the fixings for sidecars. I arranged glasses in neat rows, added small plates and linen napkins, and stepped back to survey my work.
The dining room looked ready for company, though the murder board on the wall and the evidence spread across the table gave it a decidedly unconventional atmosphere. It wasn’t every day you hosted a gathering where the centerpiece was a double homicide.
By six o’clock, the Silver Sleuths had taken over my house with their usual efficiency. Walt had claimed the head of the table, his laptop open and timeline materials spread in precise rows. Dottie’s bourbon oatmeal cookies sat in the center—still warm, their scent competing with the smell of cognac as Bea mixed sidecars at my sideboard, her turquoise caftan catching the evening light. Hank and Dottie had arrived together (again), and Hank was already flipping through his leather notebook with the satisfaction of someone who had information to share.
“I have news about the Flamingo Motel,” Hank announced, settling deeper into his chair. “Tracked down Betty Mae Hutchins—she worked the front desk for more than thirty years. Still lives in Charleston, works at a hotel near the Battery. I called her this afternoon.”
“You didn’t,” Dottie breathed.
“I absolutely did. Told her I was writing a book about the history of Grimm Island and wanted to interview people who remembered significant events. She was very chatty once I got her talking.”
“And?” Walt demanded.
“She remembers Ruby Bailey and Reverend Pickering. Said they had a standing reservation every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, 2 to 5 p.m., paid cash, never caused problems. But here’s the interesting part—about a month before the murders, someone else started asking questions about them.”
The room went silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
“Who?” I asked.
“Betty Mae didn’t know her name, but the description matches Jane Sutherland. Blond, dressed in a white suit, professional manner. Claimed she was with the insurance company, asked to see the registration records for room twelve.”
“Insurance company,” Walt repeated flatly. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Betty Mae thought so too,” Hank continued. “Said she wouldn’t have given her the information, but the woman offered her two hundred dollars cash. Which in 1985 was serious money.”
“So Jane Sutherland was tracking Ruby and Pickering’s affair,” Dash said. He’d arrived during Hank’s story, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, every inch the cop processing information. “She knew about the Flamingo Motel, knew their schedule. She was building a case.”
“But for what story?” I asked. “A small-town affair isn’t exactly Pulitzer material.”
“Unless the affair was connected to something bigger,” Deidre suggested. She’d spread out her research materials on the table—photocopies of newspaper articles, property records, society page clippings from the Grimm Island Gazette. “I found something interesting in the church financial records. They weren’t easy to get—churches don’t have to file with the IRS like regular nonprofits—but many churches publish annual reports for their congregations. I managed to track down copies from the church archives and the historical society.”
She pulled out a spreadsheet that looked like it had been copied from microfiche. “First Methodist’s building fund in 1985 showed donations of nearly two hundred thousand dollars—significant money for a church of that size. But here’s what’s strange. The new community center they were supposedly building? Never got built. The project was canceled in late 1985, right after the murders, citing unforeseen complications.”
“Where did the money go?” Dash asked, moving closer to examine the documents.
