“I remember thinking it was horrible. That Ruby Bailey had a young son who’d just lost his mother. That Reverend Pickering’s wife and children must have been devastated.” She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive posture that made her look smaller. “I remember Matt’s father being upset because it reflected badly on the church, and Matt saying we should stay out of it, that it was none of our business.”
“Elder Crenshaw was very concerned about the scandal,” Dash observed. “About what it would do to the church’s reputation. To his son’s future.”
“Everyone was concerned. It was a mess.” Stephanie had started to pace now, small movements behind her desk like a caged animal testing the boundaries of its enclosure. “But being concerned about a scandal isn’t a crime.”
“No,” Dash agreed. “But murder is.”
She stopped pacing. “I didn’t murder anyone.”
“We didn’t say you did,” I pointed out gently. “We’re just trying to understand what happened that night. Two people died, Ms. Donaldson. Two people whose deaths were never properly investigated because the sheriff at the time was corrupt. Surely you can understand why we need to ask these questions.”
“I understand that you’re harassing me at my workplace based on some witness who maybe saw someone who maybe looked like me forty years ago.” Her voice had gained strength now, indignation replacing fear. “I understand that you’re implying things without evidence. And I understand that I don’t have to stand here and listen to it.”
“You’re right,” Dash said evenly. “You don’t. But we’re going to keep investigating. We’re going to keep asking questions. And eventually we’re going to figure out what really happened that night. So if there’s anything you want to tell us now—anything that might help us understand—this would be a good time. Because even if you didn’t kill them, but have information that could help us with this case and don’t share it, I won’t hesitate to charge you with obstruction. There’s no statute of limitations on a murder investigation.”
Stephanie moved to her desk, pulled open a drawer, and extracted a business card. “This is my attorney. If you have any further questions, you can direct them to her. I’m not saying another word without legal counsel present.”
She held out the card and Dash took it, reading the name with no visible reaction. Then he pulled out his own card and set it on her desk.
“When you’re ready to tell us the truth,” he said quietly, “Call me. Ruby Bailey deserves justice. Don’t you think so?”
“I think Ruby Bailey made her own choices and those choices had consequences,” Stephanie said, and there was something bitter in her voice now, something that had been fermenting for decades. “I think she knew exactly what she was doing when she started that affair. And I think trying to dig up the past forty years later doesn’t change anything except to hurt people who’ve moved on with their lives.”
“Have you moved on?” I asked, surprising myself. “Because you seem pretty upset for someone who’s moved on.”
Her eyes met mine then, and for just a moment I saw past the defensive nurse in teddy bear scrubs to something rawer underneath. Anger, maybe. Or grief. Or guilt that had been wearing the mask of righteousness for so long it had forgotten which was which.
“I think you should leave now,” she said quietly.
We left her standing behind her desk, arms still crossed, looking smaller and older than when we’d arrived. The cheerful animals in the corridor seemed to mock us as we walked back to the elevator—all those impossible smiles, all that aggressive joy painted over the reality of sick children and dying patients and secrets that wouldn’t stay buried no matter how deep you dug the grave.
The elevator doors closed behind us, and I found myself humming without quite meaning to—a few bars of “Gloomy Sunday.”
“Death is not dream, for in death I’m caressin’ you…”
The words seemed appropriate given how thoroughly Stephanie had tried to bury the past and how determined we were to dig it back up.
“She fits the description,” I said finally. “Blond nurse, white sedan, connected to the church through Crenshaw. But we can’t prove she was actually there.”
“Not yet,” Dash said. “But she’s hiding something.”
“We need to go through Pickering’s journal again,” I said, the idea taking shape as I spoke. “More carefully this time. Look for entries that might connect to Stephanie even if her name isn’t mentioned directly.”
Dash’s expression sharpened. “That’s a good idea. We need to look at it from the angle of who might not be mentioned. It’s rare that people sin alone.”
I watched the floor numbers descend. “Pickering documented everything people told him. If Stephanie was involved in something worth hiding—an affair, the embezzlement, anything—there might be an entry.”
Dash nodded, his brow narrowed in thought. “We were looking for Ruby and George and Elder Crenshaw in that journal. We weren’t looking for Stephanie because we didn’t know she was connected yet.”
The elevator deposited us back on the second floor, and before the doors had fully opened, Bea’s voice carried across the waiting area.
“Well? Did she crack like an egg or clam up like a—well, like a clam?”
She was perched on the edge of her chair, her silk caftan pooled around her like she was holding court, phone in one hand and what appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich in the other.
Walt sat across from her with his notebook open, pen poised, looking every inch the judge waiting for testimony. Deidre had commandeered an entire row of seats and spread what looked like several decades worth of church bulletins across them in some organizational system only she understood.
“Told us to talk to her lawyer,” Dash said, settling into a chair with weariness.
