“The finance committee had six members,” Deidre said, consulting her notes. “You were on it, weren’t you, Reverend? As assistant pastor?”
“I handled some administrative duties, yes,” Sutton said carefully. “But George oversaw all the finances himself. Very particular about it.”
“Except someone was stealing,” I said softly. “And Ruby figured it out. That’s what got them killed, isn’t it? Not the affair—the money.”
Sutton straightened slowly, and for the first time, I saw calculation in his eyes as he reassessed the situation. We weren’t as lost as we’d appeared.
“That’s quite a leap,” he said, his voice still steady but missing its earlier warmth.
“Is it?’ Dash asked from his position by the window. “Union Theological Seminary in New York keeps good records. From 1976—Douglas ‘Doogie’ Sutton. Your alternate name in their files. Same man who became assistant pastor here in 1983.”
Sutton went completely still.
“And Ruby cleaned both of your offices,” I added, watching his face. “Yours and Pickering’s. She emptied your trash, saw the duplicate deposit slips. That’s what she meant when she told Pickering she knew where the money was going—she wasn’t talking about some bank account. She meant your office.”
“She could have meant anything,” Sutton said.
“The timeline keeps bothering me,” I said, crossing to where our evidence sprawled across the table like tea leaves waiting to be read. “Pickering’s last journal entry—September 14—says they were meeting at Turtle Point to talk about leaving. Not their usual Tuesday or Thursday at the Flamingo, but Sunday night. Someone knew exactly where they’d be.”
“Someone who’d been listening,” Dash said quietly from his position by the window, his voice carrying that edge of certainty when pieces finally click.
“Through a heating vent, perhaps,” Dottie said, adjusting her purple cat-eye glasses. “Your office shared one with Pickering’s, didn’t it, Reverend? You mentioned once how you could hear him practicing his sermons.”
The silence stretched taut as piano wire. Sutton’s eyes moved from face to face, calculating—measuring the distance to the door against six senior citizens who’d proven surprisingly adept at solving murders, weighing decades of successful deception against truth closing in from all sides.
“You made mistakes, Reverend,” Dash said, emphasizing his title. “You thought you had the power because you knew things that could discredit those who might turn you in. Blackmail, if you will. You could have just sat on things and let the secret die with you. But you followed Hank and Dottie and Mabel to Beaufort. Haven’t you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat? You followed Hank to that parking lot and hit him over the head. You could have killed him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly.
“That’s the great thing about technology,” Dash said. “It’s really hard to get away with crimes nowadays. The toll road cameras caught your vehicle and license plate crossing the bridge into Beaufort.”
Sutton shrugged. “I let people borrow my car all the time,” he said. “Anyone who is in need, really. It’s part of my job to tend to my flock.”
“And then you really made a big mistake,” Dash continued on, as if Sutton hadn’t spoken at all. “You killed Jane Sutherland. Ballistics came back showing that it’s the same gun that was used to kill Ruby and George. I’ve got warrants for your house, car, and the church office. There are cops going through your things as we speak. Wonder what we’ll find? Not only is it the same weapon, but the crime-scene team found a partial fingerprint in the oils on our victim’s face. Did you decide to absolve her of her sins?”
“You know,” Sutton said finally, his voice different now—stripped raw, exposed as a nerve, “George always thought he was so clever. Writing everything down in that journal, collecting secrets like communion wafers. But he never realized the biggest secret was right next door, listening to every word through thin walls and shared ventilation.”
“The money,” Walt said. It wasn’t a question.
“My money,” Sutton corrected, and there was something almost relief in his voice, as if forty years of performance had finally exhausted him. “Money I’d earned through while having to cover for George and every other member of our leadership team. They truly were terrible people. I felt I was justified. George paid himself three times what I made. Three times! He had a wife and kids, and a piece on the side. He was getting his cake and eating it too. Why shouldn’t I?”
“So you embezzled,” I said.
“I took what was mine.” His voice had risen to sermon pitch, but this was a different kind of sermon—one about resentment fermented into rage. “Every Thursday, my day off, I’d make deposits. Small amounts transferred to the building fund, then redirected. I was careful. Methodical. It would have worked perfectly if that woman hadn’t?—”
He stopped himself, but it was too late.
“If Ruby hadn’t found the duplicate deposit slips in your trash,” Dash finished.
Sutton’s laugh was bitter as communion wine gone to vinegar. “She threatened to tell George everything unless I helped them run away. Can you imagine? That whore and her hypocrite lover, blackmailing ME?”
“So you killed them,” Dottie said flatly.
“I followed them to Turtle Point.” The words poured out now like a confession he’d been rehearsing for four decades. “Watched them from the trees. Waited until they were…distracted. Vulnerable. George never even saw me coming. I took them by surprise. Had them both kneel. I knew I had to make it quick. There was no need drawing it out. I’d already decided their sentence. One shot to the back of the head while he was still naked, still flushed with his sin.”
“And Ruby?” I asked, though my throat felt tight.
“She ran.” His eyes had gone distant, seeing that night instead of my dining room.
