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Beckett looked thoughtful as he sipped his tea, his eyes moving from one Silver Sleuth to another as if reassessing them. “That’s an interesting combination of skills.”

“You never want to watch mystery movies with us,” Dottie said. “We always figure out who did it.”

“We call ourselves the Silver Sleuths,” Walt said, puffing out his chest slightly.

“Catchy,” Beckett commented, but he was looking at me as if he were waiting to hear what my special skills were.

I hated to disappoint him, but I didn’t think he’d be too interested in my ability to do crossword puzzles or how I can memorize song lyrics the first time I hear them.

Neither of those things is helpful when watching mysteries on TV.

“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.”

“We should invite him to join the book club,” Dottie suggested suddenly. “He seems interested in true crime.”

“Occupational hazard, I imagine,” I said dryly.

“No, it’s perfect,” Deidre agreed, warming to the idea. “We need fresh perspectives.”

“And it’d give him a chance to stare at Mabel more,” Bea added with a wink.

“He’s probably very busy with sheriff duties,” I said, adjusting my pearl pendant.

“Not too busy for tea, apparently,” Deidre pointed out, patting my hand.

“Mabel should consider courtship,” Hank announced to the table, as if I weren’t sitting right there. “A respectable widow of her standing would be quite eligible.”

Bea nodded sagely. “In my day, ten years was more than sufficient mourning period. I married my second husband six months after my first had been buried. Of course, Leonard and I had something of a past if you know what I mean.”

“If you mean you were having an affair with him while Earl was alive then we know what you mean,” Deidre said, shaking her head. “The whole island knew.”

Bea pursed her lips tightly, but she didn’t dispute it.

“Patrick would have wanted you to move on,” Dottie said softly, using the exact phrase she’d repeated at years two, five, and seven.

Walt cleared his throat. “Sheriff seems like a decent sort. Responsible. Reliable pension. Good posture.”

I glanced between them, fighting both amusement and exasperation. They’d decided my future with the same certainty they used to plan the church bake sale or determine who was stealing Mrs. Peterson’s newspaper.

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know what to say. I started singing.

“Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather…”

“Ethel Waters or Lena Horne?” Walt asked immediately.

“Lena,” I said. “Though Ethel did it first.”

“Good taste,” he approved. “My Margaret loved Lena Horne. Saw her perform in New York once, before we were married.”

And just like that, we were back on safe ground, with Walt launching into one of his stories about his late wife that somehow always involved either naval intelligence or jazz music, often both. The tension dissolved, and I found myself relaxing back into the familiar rhythm of their conversation.

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. I sipped my tea and half listened as Deidre started discussing the book, with frequent interruptions from the others. The storm was building, but in here, in this moment, everything felt comfortingly normal.

I’d spent ten years building this life—the tea shop, the routines, the careful distance I maintained from anything too emotional or complicated. Ten years as Mabel McCoy, young widow, tea shop owner, honorary senior citizen.

But as another rumble of thunder shook the building, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe, I was ready for a little storm in my life.

Not that I was thinking about Dash Beckett when that thought crossed my mind.

Not at all.