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“Tea will be ready in a minute,” I said. “I’ve got Earl Grey for Walt, oolong for Deidre?—”

“And chamomile for me,” Dottie finished. “You’re a dear to remember.”

“It’s not exactly difficult,” I said. “You’ve ordered the same thing for the past three years.”

“Consistency is the foundation of character,” Hank declared.

I retreated to the counter to prepare their tea.

This monthly ritual had become so familiar I could probably do it in my sleep.

First Thursday of every month, the Silver Sleuths Murder Society would descend upon my shop for their book club meeting, which inevitably dissolved into island gossip and wild speculation about whatever mystery novel they’d selected.

The bell jingled again, and Bea Livingston swept in like a tropical storm. Today she wore a flowing caftan in a peacock print so bright it had its own weather system, paired with earrings the size of small chandeliers. Her red hair sizzled with electricity.

“Sorry I’m late,” she announced, though she was actually ten minutes early. “Mr. Whiskers was uncooperative.” She held up her hands to display several small scratches. “Battle wounds.”

“I have some antiseptic cream,” I offered.

“Don’t bother. I’ve survived three husbands and more hurricanes than I can count,” she said with a dismissive wave that sent her bangles jangling. “A few cat scratches are nothing.”

She settled into her usual chair and immediately leaned forward. “Now, before we start, has anyone seen our mysterious sheriff today?”

I rolled my eyes. The whole island was fascinated by the new sheriff.

Maybe because he’d been brought in because of a scandal.

Maybe because he wasn’t a local. Or maybe because none of the gossips could get any personal information out of him.

But the Silver Sleuths’ sheriff watch made the CIA look like a bunch of amateurs.

“Not since yesterday,” Walt reported. “He was at the pharmacy picking up a prescription.”

“Did you see what for?” Deidre asked, leaning in so eagerly she nearly knocked over her teacup.

“Couldn’t tell,” Walt said, clearly disappointed by this gap in his intelligence gathering. “Brown paper bag, folded at the top. Very discreet.”

“Blood pressure medication, most likely,” Hank declared with authority. “Law enforcement has the highest rate of hypertension of any profession.”

“Could be pain medication,” Dottie countered, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Did you notice how he rolls his neck? I bet it’s arthritis. Unless he’s addicted to pain pills. That’s a whole other problem.”

“Maybe it’s something more…personal,” Bea whispered, raising her eyebrows.

All I could do was shake my head. The poor sheriff would have an interminable disease by the time they got through with him. “Or it could just be allergy medicine,” I offered. “I’ve seen him sneeze every time he walks past the magnolias on Harbor Street.”

“Interesting that you’ve noticed his sneezing habits, Mabel,” Bea said, her smile spreading like warm butter.

I felt my cheeks flush. “We live on a four-thousand-acre island. Everyone knows everything.”

“Clearly not everything,” Walt said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Otherwise we’d know what was in that prescription.”

“You all do realize that stalking the sheriff is probably illegal, right?”

“It’s not stalking,” Deidre protested. “It’s community awareness. You should just ask Jerry, Hank. Don’t you two play golf together?”

Hank grunted. “Jerry holds confidences better than a Catholic priest. He’s a pharmacist with scruples.”

“Imagine that,” I murmured.

“He’ll be here any minute.” Dottie said with a meaningful glance at the clock. “It’s almost closing time.”

She wasn’t wrong. For the past three weeks, ever since Sheriff Dashiell Beckett had been appointed to replace our disgraced former sheriff, he’d developed a habit of stopping by The Perfect Steep just before closing time for his evening tea.

Black, strong, no sugar, splash of milk.

It was the most predictable thing about him.

“He’s very consistent,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Professional habit, I guess.”

“Or he likes the view,” Bea suggested with an exaggerated wink in my direction.

I pursed my lips. “He likes the tea, Bea. That’s all.”

“Mmhmm,” all five seniors hummed in unison, with identical expressions of disbelief.

“So what’s the book this month?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

“ The Graves of Walter County ,” Deidre said, producing a worn paperback from her bag. “About a series of cold cases in a small Texas town in the 1960s.”

“How many victims?” I asked, despite myself. These murder mysteries were admittedly a guilty pleasure.

“Seven,” Dottie replied eagerly. “All buried in the woods behind the killer’s house.

But he didn’t bury them deep enough and when heavy rains came one spring one of the bodies was washed into the creek and floated all the way downtown.

Victim was a girl that had gone missing from the college in the next town. ”

“The killer strangled all his victims with his belt,” Walt said. “Had a real unusual belt buckle that left an impression in the tissue.”

“The author’s research was impressive,” Hank added, reaching for a scone.

“Though I found myself quite irritated by his abbreviations of words. He kept using the word anal for analysis, as if that’s some kind of shorthand those of us who deal in crime use on a daily basis.

I can tell you I’ve never uttered the word anal in my courtroom. ”

I stifled a laugh, entertained by the absurdity of the conversation.

“Pass the clotted cream,” Walt said, unfazed. “I enjoyed the book. It reminded me of a case in Annapolis back in ’82.”

The bell above the door jingled, and I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. A hush fell over the Silver Sleuths as Sheriff Beckett entered, right on schedule.

He was still in uniform, dark pants and a short-sleeved button-down that fit well across his broad shoulders and hugged his biceps.

His dark hair was slightly tousled by the wind.

A thin scar ran along his right jawline, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it because of the stubble he’d let grow.

“Evening, ladies. Gentlemen,” he nodded.

“Sheriff,” Walt replied.

“Good evening, Mrs. McCoy,” Sheriff Beckett said, turning to me with a polite nod. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

I smiled at the formal address. After ten years as a widow, “Mrs. McCoy” felt like a well-worn sweater—comfortable, familiar, and something I had no desire to take off.

“Not at all, Sheriff,” I replied. “Just in time for your usual?”

“Please,” he said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sheriff Beckett smiled with his mouth, but his eyes always remained watchful, alert. It was slightly unnerving and, if I was being honest with myself, slightly fascinating.

“Book club night?” he asked, glancing at the table where the Silver Sleuths had spread out their books and notes like battle plans.

“First Thursday of every month,” Deidre confirmed, straightening her glasses with a librarian’s precision. “We’re discussing The Graves of Walter County .” She held up the book.

“True crime?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I saw a TV special on that case. It was fascinating.”

“We only read true crime,” Dottie explained with a dismissive wave. “Fiction is too…” She paused, nose wrinkling like she’d smelled something unpleasant. “Unrealistic.”

The corner of Sheriff Beckett’s mouth quirked up. “How so?”

“Too many coincidences,” Hank declared. “And the detectives—” he jabbed a finger toward Beckett, “—are too incompetent, so the amateur sleuth ends up solving the case. It’s ridiculous.”

“Unlike real detectives, who welcome civilian input,” Beckett said dryly, his eyes crinkling at the corners despite his deadpan delivery.

Walt leaned forward, elbows on the table, entering what I’d come to think of as his intelligence-briefing posture. “Depends on the detective,” he countered. “And the civilian. Some of us have relevant expertise.”

“Is that so?” Beckett asked, accepting the to-go cup I handed him, his fingers briefly brushing mine.

Deidre sat up straighter, fairly bursting with pride. “Walt was career military. He spent thirty years in Navy intelligence,” she said, patting Walt’s arm. “Worked for the Department of Defense before he retired. Appointed by the president.”

“Really?” Beckett asked.

Walt nodded. “If I told you about it I’d have to kill you. Top secret security clearance.”

“And of course Dottie was a pathologist with the Charleston medical examiner’s office,” Deidre continued.

“It’s true,” Dottie said, cleaning her glasses. “I’ve had my hands in a lot of bodies.”

Deidre’s eyes widened comically, but she continued as if that were a perfectly normal thing to say. “Hank was a federal judge.”

“They called me The Hammer because I liked to put the final nail in a criminal’s coffin as I sentenced them,” Hank added.

Dottie rolled her eyes. “I’ve known you for forty-five years, and I’ve never heard anyone call you The Hammer.” She patted his hand to soften the blow. “But you were tough on those criminals.”

“I spent almost fifty years as a librarian,” Deidre said. “But my true love is research. I can get lost for days in research. And then there’s Bea…” Deidre paused, looking like she was unsure what to say. “Bea?—”

“Had access to more secrets than the CIA,” Bea said with a theatrical flourish of her bangle-laden wrist. “Society columnist. You’d be amazed what people will tell you at charity galas after two gin and tonics.

I’ve got the dirt on every player in town if they’ve been here long enough.

Of course, I’ve got the dirt on anyone who thinks they’re anyone in the whole state.

The South loves old money and family secrets. ”