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“All I know is the night Elizabeth was supposedly killed Roy was with me,” she said.

“He got a call about ten o’clock and pulled on his pants faster than if his wife was standing in the room.

Told me there was an emergency and he had to go.

The next morning it was all over the news that Elizabeth’s body had been found. ”

“You think he had something to do with her death?” I asked.

“Not Roy,” Vanessa said. “He was a coward at heart. Wouldn’t have the guts to kill anyone himself. Always had guys to do his dirty work for him.”

“Who?” I asked.

“That’s all the time I have today,” she said.

“So it’s someone besides Roy you’re afraid of,” Dottie said.

Vanessa mouth tightened stubbornly. “I have inventory to catalog.”

Dottie grunted and we turned to leave the shop. But she stopped at the door and turned back. “You know what I find funny,” she said. “Or maybe just coincidental. Is how you purchased this building from Lucinda for right at market value. It’s prime real estate. Do the two of you stay in touch?”

Vanessa’s composure cracked just slightly. “You’re mistaken. I purchased this building through a brokerage firm.”

Dottie just smiled knowingly and we left Vanessa standing rigid behind her counter, her face a carefully controlled mask that didn’t quite hide the calculation behind her eyes.

“Well,” I said once we were safely out of earshot, “That was pretty useless.”

“We got more information than you realize,” Dottie said. “She was lying about almost everything.”

“How’d you know about her buying the boutique from Lucinda?” I asked.

“Hank told me,” she said. “A friend of his was the presiding judge during Roy and Lucinda’s divorce, and apparently Roy didn’t want to divulge that he owned this whole strip of real estate. Had it buried under some bogus developer name. I’m sure Harrington helped him with that.”

“Good grief,” I said. “Commercial real estate on Grimm Island is worth millions.”

“Exactly,” Dottie said. “Makes you wonder how an elected sheriff could afford all that, doesn’t it?”

“I take it the judge found out he was hiding assets?” I asked.

“And then some,” Dottie said, grinning. “Turns out an investigative reporter had put together a nice little exposé on Milton’s assets and published it in the Gazette with receipts. I believe you know the reporter.”

“No,” I said, mouth falling open. “Bea?”

“She’s very gifted,” Dottie said. “Probably one of the best investigative journalists in the country with the best sources. But she liked the gossip beat because it scandalized her family more.”

Our walk back to the tea shop was slower than a snail race on a hot summer day.

Dottie kept stopping to window-shop, claiming interest in everything from garden ornaments to fishing tackle.

I wasn’t born yesterday—she needed to rest but was too proud to admit it.

All the Silver Sleuths were cut from the same stubborn cloth, acting like their Medicare cards were invitations to the Olympic trials.

“Want an ice cream?” I asked as we approached Lickety Split. “My treat.”

Dottie’s face brightened like she’d just spotted a perfectly preserved cadaver. “I wouldn’t say no to one. I’m partial to the raspberry swirl.”

We stepped into the parlor’s cheerful interior, and Dottie made a beeline for one of those white wrought-iron chairs with the heart-shaped backs, lowering herself with the careful precision of someone whose knees had opinions about sudden movements.

I ordered our ice creams and paid, but by the time I turned around, she’d already hauled herself back to her feet, clutching her purse like it contained state secrets.

“I can’t dawdle today,” she announced. “I want to be home in time for my afternoon soaps.”

“So finish telling me about Lucinda and Vanessa. And Bea,” I said, handing her the raspberry swirl.

Dottie’s eyes sparkled with gossip as she took a lick.

“Well, let’s just say there’s never been any love lost between Milton and Bea.

That exposé sealed his fate—after the judge found out Milton had been hiding assets, he awarded Lucinda the majority of all their real estate holdings outright.

” She lowered her voice conspiratorially.

“If Milton could’ve murdered Bea and gotten away with it, I think he would have. He was livid.

“But then Milton and Vanessa headed to divorce court,” she continued, gesturing with her ice cream cone, “and Vanessa isn’t nearly as smart as Lucinda was. Milton learned from his first mistake and got Vanessa and her attorney to agree to what they thought was a generous cash settlement.”

“I’m assuming he didn’t disclose everything again?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Bingo,” she said, pointing her ice cream at me.

“But Vanessa didn’t know that, so she jumped at the cash offer and signed the papers.

Went before the same judge too.” Dottie’s eyes narrowed.

“From what I understand, the judge made a comment after he’d looked at the signed agreement that got Vanessa’s wheels turning.

You see, Lucinda’s the one who reached out to Vanessa and offered to let her buy the boutique property. ”

“Good grief, why?” I asked, nearly dropping my cone. “I thought Lucinda hated her. She’s a horrid woman.”

“I don’t know why,” Dottie said, shrugging. “Maybe she felt sorry for her. Lucinda knew better than anyone what it was like to be married to Milton.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “But it never set right with me. It’ll be interesting to talk to Lucinda tomorrow.”

“You think she and Vanessa are in contact now?”

“That would be a fascinating development, wouldn’t it?” Dottie mused, a sly smile crossing her face. “Two women with every reason to hate each other, turning out to be partners?”

* * *

The Perfect Steep was still buzzing into the dinner rush, and I was glad for Genevieve’s help.

Word of our investigation had spread through town with the efficiency of a Cat 5 hurricane, and it seemed like half of Grimm Island had suddenly developed an urgent need for tea and sandwiches.

The usual after-dinner crowd had swelled to three times its normal size, with people lingering over their cups and craning their necks whenever the bell above the door jingled.

I moved between tables, fielding not-so-subtle questions with deliberate deflection. No, I haven’t heard anything about unmarked graves. Sorry, I don’t know why the sheriff was looking at old harbor development records. Yes, these are new earrings. No, they weren’t a gift from the sheriff.

By closing time, my face hurt from maintaining a pleasant smile, and my ears were ringing from the constant hum of speculative conversation. As I flipped the sign to CLOSED , ushered Genevieve out the door and locked it behind her, I let out a sigh of relief that whistled between my teeth.

I didn’t mind the extra business, but the barely concealed nosiness was exhausting.

Still, I’d learned from the snippets of conversation that our investigation was stirring up old memories.

I’d overheard Mrs. Townsend telling her bridge club that her late husband had mentioned irregularities with the harbor project permits.

And Mr. Caldwell had reminisced about Elizabeth Calvert’s unfortunate accident with a knowing look that suggested he’d never believed it was an accident at all.

People were talking. And where there was talk, there were slip-ups. Secrets couldn’t stay buried forever.

As I wiped down the last table, my mind kept circling back to Vanessa and Lucinda. You couldn’t be married to a man like Milton and not know some of his secrets.

I moved to the back of the shop to empty the dishwasher, the mundane task soothing after a day of high-tension conversations. The gentle rhythm of stacking cups and saucers grounded me, a reminder of the simple life I’d built here.

I was so lost in thought that at first, I didn’t notice the cool draft from the back door.

When it finally registered, I froze, cup in hand, the porcelain suddenly cold against my fingers.

I knew I’d locked that door after taking out the trash earlier.

I always locked it—island crime rates notwithstanding, ten years of living alone had made me meticulous about security.

Setting down the cup with a deliberately steady hand, I reached for my phone. But before I could dial, I noticed something else—a small white envelope on the floor just inside the door, as if it had been slipped underneath.

My name was written on it in block letters.

Common sense said to leave it alone, to call Dash immediately. But curiosity had always been my weakness, and before I could stop myself, I picked up the envelope and tore it open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper with eight words written in block letters that turned my blood to ice water.

STOP DIGGING, OR YOU’LL END UP LIKE HER.

The paper dropped from my fingers like it had suddenly caught fire.

My heart hammered against my ribs with enough force to register on the Richter scale, and my lungs seemed to have forgotten their basic function.

Every shadow in my usually cozy shop transformed into potential hiding places for whoever had invaded my space.

The familiar squeak of the floorboard near the kitchen nearly sent me through the ceiling, until I realized it was just Chowder waddling in from his nap, blissfully unaware that his owner was two heartbeats away from a cardiac event.

I fumbled for my phone, dropping it once before managing to find Dash’s number with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else. I jabbed at the screen and held my breath.

“I was wondering when you’d call me,” Dash answered, his voice warm and teasing.

“Someone was in my shop,” I said, skipping the pleasantries. My voice came out surprisingly steady for someone whose internal organs were performing an Irish step dance. “They left a note. A threat.”

The silence that followed was brief but loaded.

“Lock the door and don’t touch anything else. I’m on my way.” The dangerous edge in his voice made the hair on my arms stand at attention.

I stood frozen, staring at the eight words that had turned my quaint tea shop into a crime scene, when something warm pressed against my legs. Chowder looked up at me, his wrinkled face scrunched with what appeared to be genuine concern—a departure from his usual expressions of judgment or hunger.

“Someone’s playing for keeps, buddy,” I whispered, oddly comforted by twenty pounds of snorting, shedding bulldog. Chowder pawed at my ankle and whined, which in bulldog was practically a soliloquy of emotional support.

The initial shock began to fade, replaced by something unexpected—determination. Whoever left this note wasn’t making a casual threat. They were scared. Scared of what we might uncover. Scared we were getting close.

I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. Elizabeth Calvert had been silenced permanently for seeking the truth. I’d be darned if a threatening note was going to stop me from finding it.