Page 5 of Skin and Bones

“Storm’s coming in,” I said for lack of anything better, nodding toward the windows where dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. “Looks like it could be a bad one.”

Beckett followed my gaze. “You’re right about that,” he said. “Weather service issued a severe thunderstorm warning not long ago. You might want to wrap up your meeting early tonight.”

“Nonsense,” Deidre said dismissively. “We’ve weathered worse. Remember Hurricane Matthew?”

“I remember you showing up on my doorstep because you ate all your hurricane snacks before the storm hit,” Dottie said.

Beckett turned to me. “What time will you close up here?”

“We usually finish at seven,” I said.

He nodded. “You’ll be cutting it close. You’ll want to get home before it gets too bad.”

“I’m just three blocks away,” I told him. “The white corner house with the piazza at the end of Harbor Street. I’ll have time before things get too bad. Those clouds are still a good ways off.”

“You can predict the weather?” the sheriff asked, arching a brow.

“I’m my father’s daughter,” I said, and left it at that.

“Right.” His eyes met mine with that dark, direct gaze that never seemed to waver.

He paid for his tea, leaving his usual generous tip in the jar by the register, and then he nodded to the group. “Enjoy your book club. Try not to solve too many crimes in one evening.”

“No promises,” Bea called after him as he headed for the door.

“Have a good night, Sheriff,” I said.

He paused at the door, glancing back. “Dash,” he corrected quietly. “After hours, it’s just Dash.”

Before I could say anything else, he was gone, the bell chiming in his wake.

Five pairs of eyes immediately swiveled to me.

“After hours, it’s just Dash,” Bea mimicked in a deep voice. “Well, well, well.”

“Don’t start,” I said with a small smile. “It’s just tea and manners. That’s all.”

“I certainly didn’t notice any arthritis in his neck,” Hank said observantly. “He was able to turn his head to look at Mabel just fine.”

“Did you notice the scar on his jaw?” Deidre asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Bar fight in Charleston,” Walt declared.

“Knife fight with a drug dealer,” Bea countered.

“Military,” Dottie guessed. “He has the posture.”

“You’re all ridiculous,” I said, returning to the table with a fresh pot of tea. “He probably cut himself shaving.”

“No way,” Walt shook his head. “That’s a knife scar. Clean, deliberate. Man’s seen action.”

“I heard he’s from Virginia originally,” Deidre offered. “Old family, fell on hard times.”

“I heard he was FBI before this,” Bea said, not to be outdone. “Undercover work. Very hush-hush.”

“I heard he’s just a normal person trying to do his job without being the subject of wild speculation,” I suggested.

“Boring,” Bea dismissed. “My version is better.”