He entered my home with confidence. The Silver Sleuths were arranged around the dining table, papers spread before them in artful confusion.
“You have quite the setup here,” he said, looking at the intricate murder board and the stacks of papers and interviews, financial letters, and the blown-up picture of the church picnic the summer before Pickering and Ruby were murdered. “It’s fortunate it was only your tea shop that was damaged. You had a lot more to lose here in your home.”
“Yes, fortunate,” I agreed, trying to look relieved instead of like I wanted to stab him in the eyeball with one of the long toothpicks on the bar.
“Now what about this pattern you mentioned,” he said, moving to the board with the eagerness of a teacher about to correct particularly slow students.
I began carefully, gesturing to the board. “We’ve been trying to reconstruct that night, but there are so many gaps. Stephanie told us about her argument with Pickering at 9, but we can’t figure out what happened next.”
“A tragic evening,” Sutton said, moving closer to study our timeline. “What specifically puzzles you?”
“Well,” Dottie said, adjusting her purple cat-eye glasses, “When I did the autopsies, I placed time of death between 10 and midnight. The physical evidence confirmed they’d been intimate, but the positioning afterward—that staged embrace—that was done postmortem. Someone arranged them deliberately.”
“Like they were making a statement,” Walt said.
“But what puzzles me,” I said, studying the timeline, “Is that Stephanie saw Pickering at 9, argued with him, and left around 9:15. That means Ruby arrived after that, or was waiting somewhere nearby.”
“The killer had to have been watching,” Sutton offered, moving closer to the board. “Waiting for the right moment.”
“From where though?” Bea asked. “How do you watch without being seen?”
“Turtle Point has plenty of tree cover and marsh grass,” Sutton said smoothly. “The killer could have been anywhere. The moonlight that night was strong enough to see by, but it also creates deep shadows.”
“You remember the moonlight from that specific night?” Walt asked, and I could see him testing, probing.
Sutton didn’t miss a beat. “Everyone remembers that night, Mr. Garrison. The whole island was talking about the moon—unusually bright for September. Like God himself was providing a spotlight.” He paused, then added smoothly, “Or so people said at the time. You know how memories become collective on an island this small.”
He was right, of course. The police reports had noted the clear night, the nearly full moon. But there was something about the way he said it—too ready, too rehearsed.
“What we can’t figure out,” I said, redirecting before he got suspicious, “is why they folded their clothes. Frank Holloway told us the clothes were stacked neatly on Pickering’s back seat. Who does that in a moment of passion?”
“Perhaps they weren’t in a rush,” Sutton suggested. “If they thought they had all night…”
“Or someone else folded them,” Dottie said quietly. “After.”
The room went still for a moment, everyone playing their parts perfectly—confused investigators grateful for any insight their helpful pastor could provide.
“The money is what really puzzles us,” Walt said, tapping a financial record with deliberate frustration. “These deposits into the church building fund—they’re all over the place. Some Thursdays, some Fridays. No real pattern we can find.”
I watched Sutton’s shoulders relax slightly at Walt’s apparent confusion.
“Church finances were always complicated,” Sutton offered, his voice taking on a teaching tone. “Multiple donors, various fundraising events. George wasn’t the most organized bookkeeper.”
“That’s what Elder Crenshaw said,” I lied smoothly. “Though he was quite confused about the whole thing. Kept talking about someone named Doogie? Said it was important but couldn’t remember why.”
Sutton’s hand stilled on the edge of the table. Just for a second. Then he forced a chuckle. “Poor Matthias. His mind really is going. Doogie could be anyone—a donor, perhaps. Or nothing at all. You know how the elderly sometimes fixate on random details.”
“Probably,” Bea agreed, then added with studied casualness, “Though it’s funny—Pickering wrote Doogie in his journal several times. Always connected to deposit slips.”
“May I?” Sutton asked, gesturing toward the journal we’d left strategically open.
“Please,” I said. “We’re hoping fresh eyes might see something we’re missing.”
He bent over the journal, and I watched his face as he read his own nickname in Pickering’s handwriting. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“This could be anyone,” he said finally. “A code name, perhaps. George did like his little mysteries.”
“A code name,” Walt repeated thoughtfully. “For someone on the inside. Someone who had access to the church accounts.”
