Elder Crenshaw was in the garden when we arrived at Sea Pines, sitting in his wheelchair beneath a massive live oak that filtered the late morning sun into lace patterns across his lap. A blanket covered his legs despite the warmth—the thin blood of age always feeling winter even in summer’s grip. A nurse hovered nearby, watering potted geraniums with the careful attention of someone being paid to look busy.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said quietly. “He tires easily.”
But when Crenshaw looked up at us, his eyes were sharp as broken glass, nothing tired about them.
“Come to accuse me of more crimes, Sheriff?” His voice carried that particular brand of Southern hostility wrapped in politeness, sweet tea with arsenic.
“Come to ask about money,” Dash said, settling onto the bench across from him while I remained standing, watching the play of emotions across the old man’s face. “And about someone called Doogie.”
The name hit him like a physical blow. His fingers tightened on the blanket, knuckles going white as old bone.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Pickering’s journal,” I said. “Multiple entries about Doogie bringing deposit slips, Doogie handling the building fund paperwork.”
Crenshaw’s laugh was dry as Spanish moss. “Doogie. Lord help us, I haven’t heard that name in decades.”
The old man studied us for a long moment, and I could see him weighing forty years of silence against whatever conscience he had left. The garden around us hummed with late morning life—bees in the azaleas, a mockingbird running through its stolen repertoire, the distant sound of a lawn mower—all of it feeling too alive for the conversation we were having about decades-old death.
“Who was doing it?” I asked.
“I had my suspicions, but no proof. George said he’d handle it quietly. Give the thief a chance to confess, make restitution.” His voice turned bitter. “George always believed in redemption.”
“But that’s not what happened.”
“No.” The word came out heavy, final. “George confronted the thief that Friday. September 13. I know because the person came to me that evening, panicked. Said George was going to ruin everything.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him to confess. Take his punishment. That stealing from God was worse than stealing from Caesar.” He looked up at us, eyes red rimmed. “Then he reminded me that George wasn’t the only one in sin. He knew about…some things I was dealing with. Things to do with my personal finances. I got in a bit of trouble with illegal betting. The mafia. I went to George for help, and I knew this trading of sins we were confessing to one another would bind me in ways that could never be untangled.
“But it wasn’t only George who knew about your sins,” Dash said.
“No, it wasn’t.”
Dash leaned forward. “And two days later, George and Ruby were dead.”
“Yes.”
“And the money that appeared in your account afterward?” Dash pressed. “The other board members got similar amounts. Roger Hammond, Gene Forsythe, Craig Baker.”
Crenshaw’s face crumpled like old parchment. “Blood money. All of it. After George and Ruby died, we were told it was from an anonymous donor who wanted to help the church move forward. It was enough to cover the debts I owed. And enough to start my wife and me on a new path. A safe path. If I hadn’t taken the money I’d probably be as dead as George.”
“Who gave you the money?” I asked.
The mockingbird above us switched songs, launching into something that sounded foreboding.
“I’m old,” he finally said. “I know my days on this earth are numbered. I’m at peace with it. I’ve long since cleared my conscience. And the truth is, I saw no other way out. I would have still made the same choice if I were given it today. It makes me guilty of many things, but not of murder. George was guilty too. And he paid the price.”
“No one deserves to pay with their life,” Dash said.
Crenshaw shrugged. “Or maybe God was tired of George disgracing the pulpit and took vengeance into his own hands.”
“Who killed him?” Dash asked. “Who paid off your debts?”
Crenshaw’s gaze grew distant and his voice soft. “He killed that woman. The reporter. She knew everything. And would have blown the case wide open if he hadn’t gotten to her. Must have scared her. Or had something on her too. Because next thing we know she’d packed up and left town. But she came back. And now she’s dead. He’s very clever. He’ll kill me too. Even in a place like this. But like I said, I’ve made peace with death.”
“Give me a name,” Dash said again, his voice leaving no room for argument or more rabbit trails.
