“Good morning, Walt,” I said. “It’s 9 in the morning.”
“Oh-nine-hundred hours.” He was already pushing past me, drawn to the evidence box like a moth to a flame. “Prime operational time. Only wastrels and vagabonds are still slothing about at this hour. I heard you had the Pickering–Bailey files.”
Before I could ask how he’d heard—though on Grimm Island, asking how anyone knew anything was like asking how fish learned to swim—he was already pulling latex gloves from his pocket.
Within twenty minutes, my dining room had been colonized by the Silver Sleuths. They’d arrived with the inevitability of high tide, each bringing their expertise and breakfast contribution. Deidre Whitmore had brought apple fritters from Beaumont’s, the bakery that charged enough to make you reconsider your commitment to pastry. Hank Hardeman wore cargo shorts that had been ironed within an inch of their life and a fishing vest with pockets organized according to a system only he understood. Dottie carried her old medical bag, the leather worn soft as butter from decades of use. And finally, Bea Livingston swept in wearing purple silk that moved like liquid money and earrings that could double as wind chimes in an emergency.
“Right,” Walt announced, assuming command with natural authority. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
The evidence box released its contents reluctantly, each document crackling with age and resentment.
“Case number 85-09-116,” Walt read from the official report, his voice taking on the measured cadence of military briefings. “Double homicide. Victims—Ruby Theresa Bailey, age thirty-two, and George Norris Pickering, age forty-five. Date of discovery: Monday, September 16, 1985, approximately 6:15 a.m. Location: Turtle Point, eastern shore of Grimm Island.”
Turtle Point was one of those places on Grimm Island that tourists photographed for its wild beauty—a curved stretch of beach where the trees grew right down to the sand, their roots creating shadowy caves where teenagers went to do things their parents preferred not to know about. At night, it transformed into something else entirely, a place where the sound of waves could mask almost anything.
“Discovered by Samuel Morrison during his morning jog,” Walt continued. “Bodies found positioned in embrace near tree line. Morrison reported the victims were unclothed and appeared to be sleeping together until he noticed the blood.”
“That’s Tommy Morrison’s father,” I said, recognizing the name. Tommy, who just last night had been ready to swim out to save a whale, came from a family that had its own tragic history with the island’s violence.
“I remember they were killed the weekend before the Seafood Festival,” Bea inserted, picking apart a fritter between crimson nails. “Really put a whole damper on the thing. I tell you one thing, any man who had a sidepiece was thinking twice about paying her a visit. No one wanted to end up with their goods hanging out in the wind and a bullet in their head.”
The Seafood Festival—Grimm Island’s annual celebration of all things that could be caught, fried, and served with cocktail sauce. Even murder, apparently, worked around the island’s social calendar.
“So crass, Bea,” Deidre said, clucking her tongue.
“These are excellent fritters,” Hank piped in. “Beaumont’s really has a light hand with their pastries. Reminds me of the time Eleanor dragged me to Paris. Stood in line for hours to see the Mona Lisa—I wasn’t impressed, let me tell you. And then we shuffled through the halls and Eleanor assured me it was okay to look at the paintings of naked women because it was art.”
“Maybe if we could focus on the mission,” Walt interrupted, before Hank could prolong his story.
Walt spread the crime-scene photos across the table. They were in color, though faded to the peculiar sepia of 1980s photography. Ruby Bailey lay on her side in the sand, her dark hair spread like seaweed around her face. Three bullet wounds were visible on her chest. Reverend Pickering was positioned behind her, his arm draped over her body as if protecting her even in death.
“Same weapon,” Dottie said, consulting her notes from the original autopsy. “A .38 caliber for both victims. Three shots to Ruby’s chest, one to Pickering’s head. All close range.”
“So someone let them get close,” Hank said. “Maybe someone they knew.”
“The positioning,” Dottie continued, pointing to specific details in the photos. “They were arranged immediately after death, while the bodies were still pliable. By the time they were found, rigor mortis had set in. The responding officers had difficulty separating them for transport. Someone wanted them found this way—embracing, like lovers.”
“A statement,” Hank said. “The killer was making a point.”
“But what point?” I asked, humming nervously—a few bars of “Blue Skies” escaping before I caught myself.
“That’s the question,” Walt said, creating a timeline on my dining room wall with index cards and string. “Let’s trace their last day. We’ll put it on the murder board. I must say, Mabel, the new computer and printer you bought is very helpful. You just scan the papers and they print right out. Like magic.”
Deidre rolled her eyes. Since she was the only one of the Silver Sleuths who actually knew how to work any kind of technology, she’d been designated with the task of getting the items from the evidence box scanned and printed so we could put them on the whiteboard that had somehow taken up permanent residence in my dining room over the last several weeks. Walt had it delivered, and he was so excited about the possibility of our next cold case that I didn’t have the heart to tell him it didn’t match my décor.
Walt pulled out witness statements, yellowed with age. “Ruby Bailey’s movements the day of her murder: She was seen singing in the choir at the Methodist church that morning, and she and her son left around 11:30 that morning. Then she cleaned two houses that afternoon. The Carver house, from noon to 3 p.m. And the Watson estate, from 3:30 to 6 p.m. Her son said she didn’t come home that night, but he was used to doing for himself since she worked so much.”
“Old money, the Watsons,” Bea said, studying the timeline. “Cotton fortune from before the war—and when I say the war, I mean the one where we lost but still insist on calling it the War of Northern Aggression at garden club meetings.”
“Ruby was seen leaving the Watson property at 6 p.m. by the gardener, James Mitchell,” Walt continued. “That’s the last confirmed sighting.”
“Her car?” Hank asked.
“Found at her apartment complex. A 1972 Mercury Cougar.”
“Now on to Pickering,” Walt said. “Friday schedule: He arrived at the church at 7 to pray and do final preparations for the sermon. His wife said he had pot roast for lunch at home, and then he had a counseling session with a parishioner back at the church. There was a youth group meeting from 3 to 5 p.m.—twelve teenagers present, all later interviewed. He told his wife he had church business to attend to that evening. He left the parsonage at 7 p.m. and didn’t return.”
“His car?”
