Bea grunted and said, “Don’t forget the missing money from the church. Money that disappeared between 1984 and early 1985, though the actual timeline of when it was taken is unclear.”
“The church board closed the investigation after the murders,” Deidre said, flipping through her notes. “Blamed the victims, moved on within weeks.”
And here’s where it gets interesting,” Bea added, pulling out a folder with her characteristic flair. “I’ve been digging into what happened to the finance committee members after 1985. Elder Crenshaw bought waterfront property in 1986—cash purchase. He sold it a few years ago and made an easy million in profit. I found old permits Roger Hammond took out to renovate and restore his historic family home. He turned it into a bed-and-breakfast twenty years ago. And Gene Forsythe opened a sporting goods store on the mainland. All significant expenditures, all within two years of the murders.”
“People come into money,” Walt said, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe his own words.
“Not in those amounts, not all at once, not all from the same church finance committee,” Bea countered. “When multiple people from the same small group suddenly have cash to spend? That’s not coincidence. That’s embezzlement.”
Walt nodded. “They all seemed to invest it wisely. They made profit from those investments.”
“Easy to do when you’re spending someone else’s money,” Dash said.
“Which brings us to motive.” I studied the list of persons of interest, feeling that familiar itch between my shoulder blades that meant I was missing something obvious. “We’ve been operating under the assumption that this was a crime of passion—jealous spouse, outraged congregation member, someone who couldn’t handle the scandal of the affair.”
“But?” Walt prompted.
“But what if the affair was just convenient?” The idea had been forming slowly, pieces clicking together like a puzzle I’d been solving in my peripheral vision. “What if someone stole that money, and when suspicion started to fall on them, the affair provided perfect cover? Kill the lovers, frame them for the theft, let everyone believe it was about sin and shame when it was really about the money.”
The bell chimed again, followed by a voice I recognized as Mr. Blackwood asking about the daily special. Carly’s response involved the word “delightful” used three times in one sentence. The domestic normalcy of the tea shop felt surreal against the backdrop of what we were discussing—murder, theft, decades of lies.
“Let’s talk about Tommy Wheeler,” Dash said, pulling out a file folder thick with photocopied documents. “Retired cop, served under Milton, but according to everything I’ve found, he was one of the good ones. Kept trying to investigate things Milton buried.”
“Including this case,” I said. “His notes show he kept investigating even after Milton closed it, even when everyone else had moved on.”
“He was building something,” Walt added, spreading out pages covered in Tommy’s handwriting. “Look at the dates on these notes—they span over a decade. 1986, 1989, 1993, picking up intensity in ’96, ’97, ’98. He was chipping away at it whenever he could, interviewing people, digging through financial records. And here—” he pointed to a notation in Tommy’s day planner, “—a meeting scheduled with FH for September 23, 1998. Three days later, Tommy’s dead.”
“Frank Holloway,” I said. “Unless there’s another FH involved in this case we don’t know about.”
Deidre pulled out a butterscotch candy, unwrapping it with deliberate slowness. “At this point, I don’t believe in coincidences anymore. Tommy dies right before sharing what he found? That’s not bad luck, that’s murder.”
“Can’t prove it, though,” Dash said. “I pulled the death certificate. Natural causes, signed off by the coroner at the time. No autopsy was done.”
“Who was the coroner in 1998?” I asked.
“Dr. Vernon Keats,” Dottie’s voice came from the doorway, where she’d appeared like a perfectly timed stage entrance, still wearing her coat and carrying a travel mug. “He died in 2003. Liver failure. The man drank like Prohibition was coming back.” She shrugged off her coat, revealing her signature cat-eye glasses and a mint-green cardigan. “He had a small practice here on the island for a while.”
“I remember him,” Deidre said. “Never went to him myself. He was a pill pusher.”
Bea snorted. “Among other things.”
“He was rarely sober,” Dottie continued. “But for the island he was easy enough for the council to post as coroner. All he’d need to do is sign death certificates. Any death that showed obviously signs of foul play they’d send to me in Charleston.”
“Right,” Walt said finally. “So it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Wheeler died not of his own volition. But we’ll put a pin in that for another day. We can’t solve all the world’s problems.”
“But we can solve this one,” I said, pulling the manila folder closer. Tommy Wheeler’s file—the one Frank had given us at the hospital. The edges were soft with age, corners bent from being handled over the decades. Someone—probably Tommy himself—had written Pickering–Bailey across the tab in blue ink that had faded to almost gray.
Inside were witness statements, crime-scene photos, autopsy reports we’d already seen, and notes in Tommy’s cramped handwriting. But tucked into the back pocket of the folder was a smaller envelope, sealed and yellowed with time.
“What’s that?” Deidre asked as I worked my finger under the flap. The old glue gave way with a sound like tearing silk.
Inside were deposit slips. Five of them, from Grimm Island Community Bank, dated between January and June of 1985. Each one showed a deposit to the “New Hope Recreation Center Building Fund” account. The amounts varied—$2,500, $3,200, $4,100, $5,000, $2,800.
“Look at the signature line,” Walt said, leaning in close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath.
Each slip was signed G. Pickering in the same neat script we’d seen in the journal. But something about the signatures looked off. Too perfect. Too uniform.
“These don’t match his handwriting in the notebook,” I said, comparing them to an open page of Pickering’s journal that lay nearby. The journal entries had natural variation—some letters slanted more than others, the pressure varied with his mood. These signatures were identical, like they’d been traced.
