I turned away from the window and climbed into bed. Tomorrow, Elder Crenshaw would answer for what he knew.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The teakettle’s whistle cut through the pre-dawn silence of my kitchen with the insistence of an alarm clock that refused to be ignored. I’d been awake since 4:30, unable to sleep past the point where anxiety and anticipation tangled themselves into a knot behind my ribs that no amount of deep breathing could untangle.
Outside my kitchen window, Grimm Island was still draped in that peculiar darkness that comes just before sunrise—not quite black anymore, but not yet willing to commit to gray. The harbor was invisible beyond the seawall, though I could hear the water moving against the stones, patient and eternal and utterly indifferent to the questions we planned to ask today.
I poured boiling water over loose Earl Grey leaves in my Brown Betty teapot—the one with the chip on the spout that Patrick had always meant to replace but never did. The bergamot scent rose with the steam, sharp and citrusy, cutting through the fog in my brain that three hours of restless sleep had left behind.
Chowder materialized in the doorway, naked as the day he was born except for his collar, and gave me a look that clearly indicated he expected me to remedy this situation immediately.
I surveyed his wardrobe options with the seriousness the day demanded. After some deliberation, I selected a navy blazer with gold buttons—the kind that made him look like a tiny yacht club commodore who’d taken a wrong turn into journalism. I added a red-and-white striped bow tie that gave the whole ensemble a patriotic flair, as if he were ready to break the next Watergate scandal while also possibly running for office.
“Very Woodward and Bernstein,” I told him, fastening the bow tie and straightening his blazer. “Though I’m not sure which one you’re supposed to be.”
He snorted his opinion of the comparison and positioned himself expectantly by his food bowl, clearly prioritizing breakfast over investigative journalism.
I filled his bowl with the chicken and rice mixture, watching as he attacked it with the dedication of someone breaking a Pulitzer-worthy story.
I carried my tea upstairs to contemplate the morning’s sartorial challenge. What did one wear to interrogate an elderly church elder about embezzlement and possible murder? After standing before my wardrobe for longer than strictly necessary, I selected a 1950s day dress in dove gray with three-quarter sleeves and a full skirt that would photograph beautifully if we ended up on the front page of the Gazette. The white Peter Pan collar added just enough innocence to make me look trustworthy while still maintaining the gravitas the situation required.
I finished my tea and collected my things, the morning already pressing against the windows with insistent golden light. Chowder waited by the door in his blazer and bow tie, projecting an air of professional readiness that would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been eyeing the treat jar with naked longing.
“Work first, treats later,” I told him, clipping on his leash.
The drive to The Perfect Steep took me through a Grimm Island just beginning to wake—Clarence Beaumont’s truck already parked outside his bakery, the smell of fresh bread drifting through my open window. Harbor Street wore its early morning face, the one tourists never saw, when the island belonged to the people who actually lived here rather than those passing through in search of low-country charm and overpriced souvenirs.
I parked in my usual spot behind the shop and let myself in through the back door. The familiar ritual of opening soothed something anxious in my chest—alarm disabled, lights flooding the space with warmth, the scones I’d prepared last night waiting like small promises in the refrigerator. I slid them into the preheated oven and set the timer, then moved through the shop with the muscle memory of ten years, arranging, straightening, preparing for whatever the day would bring.
Genevieve arrived at 6:30, her backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair still wet from the shower. She was a good girl—reliable, quick to learn, never complained about early mornings or difficult customers. The kind of employee you thanked the universe for sending and tried very hard not to lose to better opportunities.
“Big day?” she asked, tying on her apron with practiced efficiency.
“Potentially,” I said, sliding the first tray of scones into the oven. “I’ll be gone most of the day. Deidre might stop by around lunchtime to check on things, but you should be fine.”
“Is this about the murders?” She asked it casually, the way someone might ask about the weather, as if murder investigation had become just another part of my business model. Which, given recent events, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
“Yes.”
“Cool. I mean—not cool that people got murdered. Obviously that’s terrible. But cool that you’re, like, solving it.” She pulled out her phone to check the day’s schedule. “The Silent Book Club has the back room reserved at two o’clock. I’ve got everything ready for them.”
The Silent Book Club was a group of locals that picked their own books each month and came to the shop to read in silence and sip tea. It was an unusual group, but I couldn’t say too much considering I’d been recruited as an honorary member of the Silver Sleuths. I still had several chapters to read of our latest true crime novel, and our next meeting was Thursday.
“Perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”
Dash arrived at 8:30, looking less like a small-town sheriff and more like someone who’d stepped out of a film noir—dark slacks, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his badge clipped to his belt rather than prominently displayed.
“Ready?” he asked, accepting the travel mug of coffee I handed him.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The drive to Sea Pines took forty minutes, cutting across the bridge that connected Grimm Island to the mainland and then following Highway 17 through a landscape that shifted from salt marsh to pine forest and back again. Dash drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding his coffee, his eyes scanning the road with automatic alertness.
I’d brought Pickering’s journal—or rather, copies of the relevant pages—along with our notes on Elder Crenshaw. The file sat in my lap like a sleeping cat that might wake up and scratch at any moment.
“What do we know about his health?” I asked, flipping through the pages again even though I’d memorized them by now.
