“Administrator said he’s mobile with a walker, mentally sharp most days. No dementia, no major cognitive decline. Just old.” Dash glanced at me. “You nervous?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Probably. But you hide it well.” He smiled slightly.
I found myself singing softly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “They asked me how I knew, my true love was true… I of course replied, something here inside, cannot be denied…” The old standard felt right somehow—about smoke getting in your eyes, about being blinded by love or trust or whatever made people overlook the obvious until it was too late.
Dash glanced at me but said nothing, letting the song finish before he spoke.
“Crenshaw’s not going to want to talk about any of this,” he said, his expression growing serious. “He’s had a long time to build his version of events, to justify whatever he did or didn’t do. We’re going to have to push him, and he’s not going to like it.”
“Then we push,” I said quietly. “Ruby Bailey deserves someone asking the hard questions.”
Sea Pines Retirement Community announced itself with a sign so aggressively cheerful it bordered on parody—carved wood with painted flowers and a motto that read Where Every Day is Golden. The grounds were immaculate in that way that required a full-time landscaping crew and significant financial investment. Azaleas lined the curved driveway, their blooms a riot of pink and white. The main building was low and sprawling, designed to look like a grand plantation house but achieving something closer to a very expensive hotel that catered exclusively to people waiting to die.
The reception area smelled like flowers trying to disguise antiseptic, with an underlying note of cafeteria food and despair that no amount of potpourri could fully mask. The receptionist—a woman in her fifties with hair the color of a new penny and a smile that suggested she’d perfected the art of professional sympathy—looked up from her computer as we entered.
“Good morning! How can I help you?”
Dash pulled out his badge. “Sheriff Beckett from Grimm Island. This is Mrs. McCoy. We’re here to speak with Matthias Crenshaw. I called yesterday.”
The smile faltered slightly. “Oh yes, of course. Mr. Crenshaw is expecting you. He’s in the solarium—he likes to take his morning tea there. Second floor, take the elevator to your right, then follow the signs.”
The elevator was the slow, gentle kind designed for people who couldn’t handle sudden movements, with handrails on three sides and a mirror positioned so residents could check their appearance before emerging. I caught my reflection and was satisfied to see that I looked calm, professional, entirely unthreatening. The kind of woman who might be visiting her own grandfather rather than interrogating a potential murder conspirator.
The solarium occupied the entire east end of the second floor, its walls made almost entirely of glass that let in the morning sun with generous enthusiasm. Plants crowded every available surface—ferns and orchids and something with leaves the size of dinner plates. White wicker furniture was arranged in conversational groupings, and scattered throughout were residents in various states of activity. Some read newspapers. Others stared into space with the patient expression of people who’d run out of things to anticipate. One woman worked on a jigsaw puzzle with the concentrated focus of someone defusing a bomb.
Elder Matthias Crenshaw sat in a wingback chair near the windows, a walker positioned within easy reach. He was smaller than I’d expected—diminished by age in that way that makes former authority figures look almost harmless. His white hair was neatly combed, his cardigan buttoned against the air-conditioning that hummed through the vents. But his eyes were sharp when they fixed on us, intelligent and wary, and I revised my assessment of harmless immediately.
“Sheriff Beckett,” he said, his voice carrying the cultured accent of old Charleston families. “And you must be Mrs. McCoy. I’ve heard about you. The tea shop woman who fancies herself a detective.” It wasn’t quite an insult, but it wasn’t quite friendly either.
“Mr. Crenshaw,” Dash said, settling into the chair across from him with careful courtesy. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.”
“Did I have a choice?” Crenshaw’s mouth twitched. “When the sheriff calls requesting an interview about a cold case, one doesn’t exactly feel comfortable declining. Though I can’t imagine what you think I can tell you that hasn’t already been said.”
I took the remaining chair, arranging my skirt with deliberate care, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable. It was a technique I’d learned from years of running a tea shop—sometimes you learned more from what people said to fill silence than from any direct question.
Crenshaw’s fingers drummed against the arm of his chair.
“Ruby Bailey,” Dash said. “You knew her.”
“Everyone knew Ruby Bailey.” Crenshaw’s expression gave away nothing. “She cleaned houses for half the island, including mine. Twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. Always on time, always thorough. My wife was very pleased with her work.”
“And her relationship with Reverend Pickering?”
Something flickered across Crenshaw’s face—too quick to read, gone before I could identify it. “I was aware of it. Hard not to be, the way they carried on. Ruby had no shame, and George—” He paused. “George forgot that being a man of God required actual godliness, not just the appearance of it.”
“You confronted her,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
Crenshaw’s gaze shifted to me, assessing. “And what makes you think that?”
“There was a witness.”
The silence that followed had weight to it, pressing down on the cheerful solarium with its bright plants and false optimism. Somewhere in the building, someone was playing piano—badly, with the halting uncertainty of someone relearning forgotten skills.
“I did speak with her,” Crenshaw said finally. “In my capacity as a church elder. It was my responsibility to address matters of moral impropriety within our congregation. Ruby was conducting an affair with our pastor—an affair that was becoming increasingly public and scandalous. It reflected poorly on the church, on George’s ministry, on all of us.”
“What did you say to her?”
