“That,” Deidre said with the satisfaction of a librarian who’d found the missing book, “Is the two-hundred-thousand-dollar question. The financial records after 1985 show the money being reallocated to various church expenses. But it’s vague. No specific line items, no clear accounting.”
“Elder Crenshaw was on the finance committee,” Walt said, checking his notes. “He would have had access to all the accounts, all the records.”
“And George Pickering as head pastor would have been the one signing checks,” Dottie added.
“So maybe that’s what Ruby Bailey figured out,” I said slowly, the pieces arranging themselves in my mind like a jigsaw puzzle. “That Pickering was involved in embezzling church funds. Maybe with Elder Crenshaw. She was cleaning houses for all these wealthy families, probably heard things, saw things. Maybe that’s what she meant on the phone when she told Pickering she knew where he was getting the money.”
“And if she knew,” Dash continued, “She was a liability. Someone who could expose the whole scheme.”
“Same with Pickering,” Hank said. “If he was planning to run away with Ruby like Michael suggested, that meant leaving the church. Leaving behind the money. Or maybe he was planning to take it with him. Either way, someone couldn’t allow that.”
Bea had been uncharacteristically quiet, but now she set down her highball glass with a soft click. “I found Jane Sutherland,” she said. “Took some digging, but I have contacts everywhere in this business. She left journalism completely after she left the island. Married a lawyer, moved to Atlanta, became a stay-at-home mother. Very suburban, very conventional. Nothing like the ambitious reporter I remember.”
“Did you talk to her?” I asked.
“Briefly. She didn’t want to discuss Grimm Island or anything about her time here. But she wasn’t hostile exactly. More like…scared. She said some stories aren’t worth telling if the cost is too high. When I pressed her about the Pickering–Bailey case, she hung up.”
“So whatever she uncovered scared her enough to leave her entire career,” Walt said grimly.
“Or someone paid her to disappear,” Dash suggested. “Gave her enough money to start over somewhere else, on the condition that she never published what she’d found.”
Dottie cleared her throat, commanding attention with authority. “I have the file on our blond nurse.” She pulled out a folder thick with documents, the kind of satisfying weight that suggested hours of meticulous research, and spread photographs across the table with the reverence of someone laying out tarot cards that might divine our future.
A young woman with blond hair and a professional smile looked out at us from 1985, frozen in her hospital ID. She was pretty in that wholesome way—the kind of woman you’d trust with your children, with your secrets, with your life. The kind of pretty that opened doors and disarmed suspicions.
“Stephanie Chester in 1985,” Dottie said, her crimson nail tapping the photograph with decisive precision. “Now Stephanie Donaldson. And as I told Mabel earlier, she was married to Matthias Crenshaw Jr. for a short time. Two years after the murders—just long enough for the scandal to fade but not long enough for the connection to be coincidence.”
“Elder Crenshaw’s son,” Dash said, leaning forward to study the photograph.
“The very same,” Dottie confirmed. “Worked in the OR at Charleston Medical back then, had access to uniforms from every department. Could walk into any wing of that hospital and nobody would question her presence.”
“I called Sea Pines Retirement Community,” Walt said, pulling out his notes with military precision. “Elder Matthias Crenshaw is a resident there. Eighty-six years old, lives in the assisted-living wing. The woman I spoke with said he’s mentally sharp most days, though he has some mobility issues. She also said he doesn’t get many visitors.”
“We need to talk to him,” Dash said. “Tomorrow if possible.”
“And Stephanie Donaldson,” I added. “We need to know where she was the night of the murders.”
“Don’t forget Elsie Crawford,” Deidre said. “Did anyone follow up on getting her address at Magnolia Gardens?”
“I did,” I said. “Reverend Sutton gave it to me. She’s in the memory-care unit, but he said she has good days and bad days. On her good days, she remembers that night clearly.”
The table had transformed into a war room—documents and photographs spread across every surface. Walt’s timeline stretched across one wall, each entry color-coded by importance and reliability. Red for confirmed facts. Yellow for likely but unverified. Green for speculation.
In the center of it all—two photographs. Ruby Bailey, laughter in her eyes. And George Pickering in his clerical collar, looking stern and righteous and utterly unaware that someone would put a bullet in his head on a September night in 1985.
“So here’s what we have,” Dash said, standing to survey the organized chaos. “Elder Crenshaw confronted Ruby Bailey about the affair. His son’s girlfriend—Stephanie Chester—was a blond nurse who later became his wife. Jane Sutherland was investigating the church’s finances and tracking Ruby’s and Pickering’s movements. Michael Bailey heard his mother say she knew where Pickering was getting money. Two hundred thousand dollars disappeared from the church building fund around the time of the murders. And Roy Milton buried every piece of evidence that might have led somewhere uncomfortable.”
“Don’t forget Frank Holloway,” I said. “The deputy who quit six months after the murders because he couldn’t stomach what Milton was doing.”
“He’s in Beaufort,” Walt said. “Owns a hardware store on Bay Street. I found the address this afternoon. Holloway’s Hardware—been there since 1986.”
“So our priorities,” Dash said, moving into command mode, “Are Elder Crenshaw, Stephanie Donaldson, Elsie Crawford, and Frank Holloway. Four interviews that could break this case open or send us in entirely new directions.”
“I’ll go with you to talk to Elder Crenshaw,” I said to Dash. “And Stephanie—we should approach her carefully. She’s a respected member of the community now. Married to a surgeon, works in pediatrics. We can’t just accuse her of murder without proof.”
“Proof,” Bea said darkly. “That’s what Jane Sutherland was looking for. And look what happened to her. She ran away and never looked back.”
“Maybe Jane Sutherland was smarter than we’re giving her credit for,” Dottie said. “Maybe she realized that some secrets on Grimm Island have teeth and claws, and the smart money was on getting out while she could.”
