“I need food,” I said. “And something stronger than tea after the day we’ve had.”
Dash glanced at his watch. “Magnolia’s should be open. Good food, quiet atmosphere. We can talk without half the island listening in.”
Ten minutes later, we were walking through the restaurant’s front door. “Two of us for dinner,” I told the hostess at Magnolia’s, a woman in her thirties whose crisp white blouse and practiced smile suggested she’d been managing the evening crowd here for years. “Somewhere quiet, if you have it.”
She led us to a corner table on the screened porch where the evening light filtered through jasmine vines. The harbor spread below us, all silver water and bobbing masts, deceptively peaceful after the horror we’d left behind.
Our waitress, Riley, appeared with menus and the kind of smile that suggested she’d mastered the art of reading her customers’ moods. “Y’all look like you’ve had a day,” she said gently. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
“Moscato,” I said without hesitation. “The sweetest you have. And we’ll need a few minutes with the menu.”
“Sweet tea for me,” Dash added.
Riley nodded and disappeared, returning quickly with a glass of wine that caught the porch lights like liquid gold. The first sip was exactly what I needed—sweet and light and utterly uncomplicated, washing away the metallic taste that crime scenes always left in my mouth.
“Better?” Dash asked, watching me over his glass of tea.
“Getting there.” I studied the menu, though my appetite felt fragile. “The she-crab soup, I think. Something warm.”
“Grouper for me,” Dash told Riley when she returned. “Blackened, if you do it that way.”
“Perfect choice,” Riley said. “Miss Adelaide’s soup is legendary—she adds just enough sherry to make you forget your troubles without making you forget your manners.”
The food arrived with admirable speed, my soup bowl releasing steam that smelled like comfort and old Charleston recipes. The first spoonful was everything Riley had promised—rich and creamy with that hint of sherry that warmed from the inside out.
“Jane Sutherland had something she needed to finish here,” I said, watching a great blue heron stalk something in the shallows beyond the restaurant’s dock. “Something worth risking her life for.”
Dash was about to respond when a familiar voice called across the porch.
“Mabel! Sheriff Beckett!”
We looked up to find Reverend Sutton approaching, dressed in a navy shirt and tie. He moved with the careful grace of someone who’d learned to navigate social situations without causing offense, his smile warm but carrying an undercurrent of concern.
“Reverend,” I said, genuinely pleased to see him. “Please, join us if you have time. We could use some perspective.”
He hesitated for a moment, then pulled out the empty chair. “I don’t want to intrude. I just finished dinner with the elders when I saw you sitting out here. I’m sure you’ve both had a day. I heard about Jane Sutherland.”
“You knew her,” Dash said. It wasn’t a question.
Sutton’s expression grew somber as he settled into the chair. “Jane wasn’t a member of our congregation, but she was certainly interested in it. Bright young woman, worked for the Gazette. She’d manage to miss service and show up after so she could ask questions.” He paused, accepting Riley’s offer of coffee. “I think she wanted people to see she was asking them. It served her purpose better than her making a one-on-one appointment during the week. Jane came to me several times in the months before the murders, asking about church finances, board meetings. Said she was working on a story.”
“What kind of story?” I asked, watching his reaction carefully.
“She never said specifically, but she was persistent about the building fund. Wanted to know who had access, how decisions were made about expenditures.” Sutton stirred cream into his coffee with deliberate movements. “I was young, naïve. I thought she was just interested in how churches operated. It wasn’t until after George and Ruby died that I realized she’d been investigating something specific.”
“Did you tell her anything?” Dash asked.
“Nothing confidential. Basic information about our structure, who served on which committees. But Jane was clever—she asked the right questions to piece together a larger picture.” His voice dropped. “I’ve always wondered if my answers contributed to what happened to George and Ruby.”
The evening air had grown cooler, carrying the salt scent of low tide mixed with jasmine from the restaurant’s garden. Through the screens, couples strolled along the harbor boardwalk, their voices a gentle murmur against the backdrop of lapping waves.
“George kept detailed records,” I said carefully. “We’ve been reading through some of his pastoral notes.”
Something flickered across Sutton’s face. “George was meticulous about documentation. Sometimes obsessively so. He carried the weight of everyone’s secrets.”
“Including financial irregularities,” Dash said.
Sutton was quiet for a long moment, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup. “George suspected several board members were skimming from the building fund. Elder Crenshaw in particular had access to the accounts, made unilateral decisions about expenditures.” His voice dropped. “George documented what he could—dates, amounts, patterns of withdrawals that didn’t match approved projects. But Elder Crenshaw was powerful, had allies on the board. George knew he needed ironclad proof before making accusations.”
