“My grandmother used to sing it. She said it was her mother’s favorite—something about innocence and naïvety and the way we dress ourselves up to face the world.” I looked out the window at the passing scenery. “Ruby Bailey put on her best dress to meet George Pickering that night. Made herself beautiful for what she thought would be an evening with her lover, planning their future together. She had no idea she was dressing for her own funeral.”
“We’re going to find out who killed her,” Dash said. It wasn’t a promise—it was a statement of fact.
Magnolia Gardens Assisted Living was smaller than Sea Pines, more intimate, with the feeling of a well-maintained home rather than an institution. The main building was actual antebellum architecture—not a replica but the real thing, carefully preserved and adapted for modern use. Magnolia trees lined the circular drive, their white blooms perfuming the air with sweetness.
The receptionist here was younger, friendlier, less practiced at professional sympathy. “You’re here to see Miss Elsie? Oh, she’ll be so pleased. She doesn’t get many visitors anymore. Most of her contemporaries have passed, you understand. She’s in the memory-care wing—take the path through the garden, it’s the cottage at the back. The blue door.”
The garden was spectacular—roses and jasmine and something purple I couldn’t identify, all of it tended with obvious care. A stone path wound through the plantings, past a fountain where water trickled over moss-covered rocks. Birds sang in the trees, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear wind chimes.
The memory-care cottage was painted pale blue with white trim, cheerful and bright despite its purpose. Through the windows, I could see a common room where residents sat in chairs arranged in a circle, some engaged in conversation, others staring at nothing with the patient confusion of people whose minds had left them behind.
A nurse met us at the door—a woman in her thirties with kind eyes and competence. “You must be Sheriff Beckett and Mrs. McCoy. I’m Nurse Anna. Miss Elsie’s having one of her good days today—very lucid, very chatty. Just keep in mind that she can tire quickly, and if she starts to get agitated, we’ll need to end the visit.”
“Understood,” Dash said.
“She’s in her room. Third door on the left. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
Elsie Crawford’s room was small but bright, with large windows overlooking the garden and walls covered in photographs—black-and-white images from decades past, color prints from more recent years, all documenting a life fully lived. She sat in a rocking chair by the window, a knitted blanket across her lap despite the warmth, her white hair caught back in a bun that had probably been tidy this morning but had since begun to escape in wisps around her face.
She looked up as we entered, and her eyes—pale blue and surprisingly sharp—fixed on us with immediate interest.
“Well,” she said, her voice thin but clear. “The sheriff and his lady detective. Anna told me you’d be coming. Said you wanted to ask about that night. After all these years, someone finally wants to hear what I saw.”
I pulled a chair close while Dash positioned himself where he could see both Elsie and the door—cop instincts never fully turning off. “Miss Crawford, I’m Mabel McCoy, and this is Sheriff Beckett. We’re investigating the murders of Ruby Bailey and George Pickering.”
“Forty years ago this September,” Elsie said, nodding. “I remember it like it happened yesterday. Some things you can’t forget, no matter how much time passes or how much your mind tries to let go of other things. I’ve forgotten what I had for breakfast this morning—I had breakfast, didn’t I, Anna said I did—but I remember that night like it’s painted on the inside of my eyelids.”
“You were walking your dog,” Dash prompted gently.
“Chester. Golden retriever, lived to be fifteen years old. He needed his evening constitutional—that’s what my mother used to call it, a constitutional—and I couldn’t sleep anyway. Never could sleep well, even when I was young. The doctor gave me pills, but they made me feel fuzzy, like my head was full of cotton. So I walked instead. Chester and I, we’d go out after dark when it was cool and quiet, walk for an hour or more sometimes.”
She rocked slowly, her gnarled hands gripping the arms of the chair. “That night we walked out to Turtle Point. It was September, still warm but with that edge that tells you summer’s ending. The moon was nearly full—not quite, but close enough that you could see everything clear as day almost. Chester loved the beach, liked to chase the waves and dig in the sand.”
“What time was this?” I asked.
“Nine o’clock, maybe a bit after. I remember because the church bells had just finished ringing and I thought it was later than I’d intended. Chester was sniffing around near the tree line—you know how dogs are, have to investigate every smell—when I saw them.”
“Them?” Dash leaned forward slightly.
“The reverend and a woman. They were standing near his car—that Buick he drove, parked back in the trees like he didn’t want anyone to see it. They were arguing. Not yelling, you understand. The kind of arguing where people are trying to stay quiet but the emotion comes through anyway. Sharp voices, lots of gestures.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
Elsie shook her head. “I was too far away, and Chester was making noise. But I could see them clearly in the moonlight. The reverend was upset—I could tell by his posture, the way he kept running his hands through his hair. And the woman, she was angry. Pointing at him, stepping close then backing away.”
“The woman,” I said carefully. “Can you describe her?”
“Blond hair, worn down around her shoulders. Tall—taller than me, and I was five foot five back then. She wore white—looked like a nurse’s uniform, the kind they wore back then with the white dress and white stockings.”
“Did you see her face?”
“Not well enough to identify her. She had her back to me mostly, and like I said, I was keeping my distance. Chester wanted to go investigate—he was a friendly dog, wanted to say hello to everyone—but I held him back. Something about the whole scene felt wrong. Private. Like I was seeing something I shouldn’t be seeing.”
“How long did you watch them?” Dash asked.
“Maybe five minutes. Then the woman turned and walked off toward the road—I assume she had a car parked somewhere nearby, didn’t want it seen next to his. The reverend stayed by his car, just standing there looking upset. Chester and I continued our walk down the beach in the other direction. I figured whatever they’d been arguing about was their business, none of mine.”
“Did you see Ruby Bailey arrive?”
