Embezzlement would ruin reputations, families, careers
Frame the dead lovers as thieves—who would question it?
“The affair was the perfect cover,” I said, watching the pattern emerge. “Everyone expected a crime of passion. A jealous spouse, an outraged congregation. But the real motive was money.”
“And Pickering figured it out,” Deidre added. “That’s what got him killed. He knew someone was stealing from the church, forging his signature.
“So now we know Frank lied to us.” Dash’s voice had gone hard, that lawman edge replacing the warmth I’d grown accustomed to. “He positioned himself as an outsider who knew Tommy professionally. But he was in that church photograph—part of the congregation, sitting in those pews every Sunday. He knew these people personally, and he never said a word about it.”
“Why lie?” Deidre asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“Because he’s protecting someone,” Walt said, his pointer tapping against the board with sharp, staccato beats. “Or protecting himself.”
“We need to confront him,” Dash said. “Today. Before he has time to prepare another story or warning reaches him that we’ve found him in that photograph.”
“What about Crenshaw?” Bea asked, her rings clicking against her coffee cup. “Pickering wrote that Crenshaw couldn’t remove him from his position because of what he knew. That’s blackmail material. That’s motive.”
“And Stephanie,” I added, remembering the way she’d shut down at the hospital, that carefully controlled fear in her eyes. “We need to know if she’s Mary Jane Goodall’s daughter. That birth record search—how long will it take?”
Dash was already pulling out his phone. “An hour, maybe two. I can access the database from my laptop in the car.”
“Then that’s priority one,” Walt said, ever the tactician. “Run the search on the way to Beaufort. We need to know if there’s a family connection before we question anyone else.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said to Dash, and held up a hand before he could protest. “I was there the first time we interviewed him. I’ll know if his story changes, if he contradicts what he told us before. And you shouldn’t be going alone—not after what happened to Hank.
Something flickered in Dash’s expression—concern warring with the knowledge that I was right. “Fine. But we do this my way. Official interview, recorded, by the book.”
“Wouldn’t dream of interfering,” I said, echoing Bea’s earlier promise with a smile that probably looked more confident than I felt.
The truth was, my hands had started trembling the moment we’d identified Frank in that photograph. He’d sat across from us in his meticulously organized office, his earnest face radiating honesty as he told us about Tommy’s crusade for justice, about Milton’s corruption, about how he’d quit because he couldn’t stomach what was happening. And all of it—every word—had been built on a foundation of lies.
Walt stood, already gathering his tactical-planning materials. “Dottie, you approach Stephanie at the hospital. Bea, keep trying Jane Sutherland—if we can get her to confirm anything about what she saw, it strengthens our case. Deidre, you’re on research. I want everything you can find about Mary Jane Goodall—marriage records, employment history, anything that might connect her to Stephanie Donaldson.”
“What about Elder Crenshaw?” Dottie asked.
“Tomorrow,” Dash said, checking his watch. The late morning light slanting through the window caught the worry lines around his eyes, making him look older suddenly, or maybe just tired. “Once we know what Frank has to say and whether Stephanie is connected to Mary Jane. We approach Crenshaw with all our evidence lined up, not half-formed theories that he can dismiss.”
It made sense. It was smart, strategic, the kind of methodical police work that solved cases. But every instinct I had screamed that we were running out of time, that whoever had put Hank in the hospital was watching us get closer, planning their next move while we planned ours.
“Everyone else goes home after we leave,” Dash continued, his voice carrying that note of command that suggested arguing would be futile. “Lock your doors. Don’t answer questions from anyone about the investigation. And text me when you’re home safe.”
“Very authoritarian,” Bea observed, but there was approval in her voice rather than criticism.
“Very practical,” Deidre said quietly. “Hank’s in the hospital with a cracked skull. We’d be fools to ignore the danger.”
The Silver Sleuths dispersed with less theatrical flair than usual, the weight of what we’d discovered settling over all of us like morning fog—heavy, obscuring, impossible to ignore. Even Bea’s exit was subdued, her usual dramatic sweep reduced to a quick squeeze of my shoulder and a whispered, “Be careful.”
After they’d gone, the back room felt strangely empty despite being full of evidence and murder boards and the lingering scent of coffee gone cold in forgotten cups. Dash stood at the board, studying the church photograph with an intensity that made the muscles in his jaw jump.
“He never mentioned being part of the congregation,” I said, the realization still stinging. Dottie and I had sat across from Frank in that small office while he told us about Tommy’s investigation, about Milton’s corruption, about how hard it had been to be an honest cop on Grimm Island. And not once had he said, “I knew these people. I sat in those pews every Sunday. I was there.”
“It’s a significant omission,” Dash said, his tone more analytical than angry. “He positioned himself as an outside observer when he was actually part of the community. That changes the nature of his testimony.”
“Do you think he knows who killed them?” I asked.
Dash was quiet for a moment, considering. “Maybe. Or maybe he knows something that would point us in the right direction, and he’s been sitting on it for forty years.” He glanced at me. “Either way, we need to ask him directly. See how he responds when confronted with the photograph.”
“We should go,” I said, because standing here speculating wouldn’t get us answers, and the drive to Beaufort was long enough that we needed to leave soon if we wanted to catch Frank before his store closed. “Let me tell Carly she’s closing up tonight.”
