“There,” I said, pointing. “That’s her. And I think that’s Elder Matthias Crenshaw beside her, and his son on the other side.”
“So she was at church events with them,” Michael said quietly. “Along with everyone else in the congregation.”
We carefully packed everything into the box—the letters still tied in their bundles, the bankbook, the church picnic photograph, the journal. Everything that might hold answers to what had happened that September night. Michael walked us to the door, watching as Dash carried the box to the car.
“I don’t know what to hope for anymore,” Michael said quietly. “That my mother was innocent and died for nothing? Or that she was guilty and got what thieves deserve?” He looked out at his vegetable garden, the tomatoes he’d staked so carefully. “Either way, she’s still dead.”
“Either way, she deserves the truth,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “Call me when you know something. Good or bad, I want to know.”
The drive back to my house took only ten minutes through streets that had gone quiet for the night. Porch lights glowed from the houses we passed, and somewhere in the distance I could hear the foghorn from the harbor. Ruby Bailey hadn’t been the simple victim of a jealous crime of passion. She’d been tangled up in something—embezzlement or the appearance of it, money that looked stolen whether it was or wasn’t, involved in complications that had gotten her killed.
“I’m coming in,” Dash said. “Just for a few minutes. Need to make sure everything’s secure.”
I didn’t argue. The day had been long enough, violent enough, complicated enough that having him check the windows and doors and alarm system felt less like overprotection and more like sensible precaution.
Inside, Chowder greeted us with the offended dignity of a dog who’d been left home during what was clearly an eventful day. Genevieve had dropped him off hours ago when she closed the shop, and she’d changed him into very dapper striped pajamas, but they were rumpled in a way that suggested he’d been napping.
“I know,” I told him, scooping him up. “It was a long day for everyone.”
He woofed softly and then padded to his doggy door and let himself into the backyard. Dash moved through the house with professional thoroughness—checking window locks, testing the alarm system, making sure nothing looked disturbed. Finally satisfied, he returned to the kitchen where I was making tea I didn’t really want but needed something to do with my hands.
“Someone attacked Hank this afternoon,” he said quietly. “In broad daylight in a public parking lot. It could have been plain bad luck. A random attacker. But it could also be because we’re asking questions that are making someone very nervous.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to drive to Beaufort first thing in the morning and talk to the investigating officers. Maybe we can get some camera footage from a gas station or one of the businesses. It’s a long shot, but I’ve had greater miracles happen in cases like this.”
“This has been a long week,” I said. “We’ve got a lot of information to go through. We’ve asked a lot of questions, and we don’t have a lot of answers.”
“And tomorrow we’re going to keep asking them. Going to go through Tommy Wheeler’s evidence, read through Ruby’s letters, push harder on people who’ve kept secrets for decades.” He leaned against the counter. “That makes you a target.”
“Then I’m a target.” I poured water over tea leaves, watched them unfurl in the heat. “Ruby Bailey was thirty-two years old when someone killed her. Beat her badly enough to break bones, then shot her three times. She deserves better than me backing down because I’m scared.”
“I’m not asking you to back down.” He crossed the kitchen, and his hands found my shoulders. “I’m asking you to be careful. To not take unnecessary risks. To remember that whoever did this is still out there, still has everything to lose if the truth comes out.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said, turning to face him.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
We stood there in my kitchen, close enough that I could see the worry in his eyes, the way the day had worn on him too. Hank in the hospital. Stephanie’s evasions. Michael Bailey’s grief turning to anger as he learned his mother might have been a thief.
“I should go,” Dash said finally, though his hands were still on my shoulders.
“Yes,” I said, though I was reluctant to move out of his grasp.
He sighed and kissed me on the forehead. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I agreed.
Then he was gone, and I watched as his taillights disappeared down Harbor Street.
Inside, I locked the door, set the alarm, and carried my untouched tea upstairs with Chowder waddling behind me.
“It’s just the thought of you…the very thought of you, my love.”
