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He stopped abruptly, staring out at the distant silhouette of Grimm Island. “When I got to the docks, she wasn’t there. Her car wasn’t there either. I figured she’d changed her mind.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t know she was already dead.”

“Did you tell Sheriff Milton about your meeting at the docks?” Walt asked.

Harrington laughed—a harsh, empty sound. “I tried. He wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t support his accidental drowning theory.”

A chill ran down my spine. Brooks had said almost exactly the same thing.

“It’s been almost thirty years,” I said. “I’ve seen the ledgers and some of the paperwork. Her research didn’t come up with nothing. Something was going on between your dad, Milton and Paul Cromwell.”

He sighed, looking defeated. “I know. Dad left me with a heck of a mess when he died and I took over the company. It almost broke us for me to get everything back on the up-and-up. There were financial irregularities in the Harbor Development Corporation records. Money through shell companies, kickbacks to officials. She was particularly obsessed with environmental violations—protected wetlands being developed despite conservation laws.”

“Your father’s company was responsible for that development,” Walt pointed out.

“Along with Milton, Cromwell and most of the city council and other high-ranking officials. Even our state reps and a senator.” He turned back to the window.

“The Harbor Development was clean compared to some of the other projects happening back then. Elizabeth wasn’t wrong.

But she didn’t have the resources or the street smarts to stay out of the kind of trouble that story was bringing her.

It was hundreds of millions of dollars on the line.

People will do a lot of unscrupulous things for that kind of money. ”

“You think someone in that circle killed her?” I asked.

“I think it’s more than possible,” he said.

“And Milton would hold all the power to cover it up. It doesn’t matter much now.

It’s ancient history. Elizabeth is dead.

Milton is in jail. Dad and Cromwell are both gone.

I don’t know what else I can tell you. I hope Gerald Calvert finds peace before he passes. I always liked him.”

“Just one more question,” I said as he was clearly preparing to usher us out. “There were very few statements in the case file. Where were you the night she died?”

His expression didn’t even flicker. “At a fundraiser for the Charleston Symphony with my parents until about nine. About two hundred witnesses can place me there. I left early, drove to the docks to meet Elizabeth as we planned, but she never showed. When I didn’t find her there, I went back to the fundraiser after-party.

Plenty of people saw me there after eleven.

” He glanced at his watch pointedly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in five minutes. ”

“You realize that means you don’t have an alibi during the time the medical examiner said Elizabeth was murdered,” I pointed out.

“Not much else I can say,” he said. “All I can tell you is the truth.”

* * *

“What do you think?” I asked Walt as we rode the elevator down.

“He was telling the truth about loving her,” Walt said, checking his watch with military precision. “The anger was real too. But he didn’t tell us the whole truth. Now we just have to figure out what’s missing.”

As we walked to the car, I spotted Reynolds across the street in his cruiser, and I gave a quick wave.

“He’s not even trying,” Walt said, unlocking his Volvo and opening the door for me. “A good tail doesn’t let you spot them. That’s just sloppy work.”

I slid into the passenger seat, glancing back at Reynolds. “At least Dash is being thorough. I appreciate the extra eyes after that note.”

Walt harrumphed as he started the engine. “True. Can’t be too careful these days.”

I pondered this as we crossed back over the causeway to Grimm Island, the late afternoon sun glinting off the water. Reynolds maintained his distance behind us, a reassuring presence despite Walt’s critique of his surveillance technique.

* * *

My house had transformed into FBI headquarters—minus the efficiency but with a lot more bourbon. The Silver Sleuths had taken over every available surface, spreading evidence photos, timeline charts, and suspect lists across my once-pristine dining room.

“Mrs. Whitaker just dropped off her famous chicken and rice,” Dottie announced, emerging from the kitchen with a casserole dish that could have doubled as a small bathtub.

“That makes four casseroles since we got here. Word’s spreading faster than kudzu that your house is the new crime-solving central. ”

“At this rate, we could feed the entire sheriff’s department,” I said, navigating around Walt’s meticulously arranged floor files. My vintage heels clicked against the hardwood as I dodged case notes and color-coded index cards.

Every few minutes, blue and red lights swept across my front windows as another patrol car drove by, Dash’s security measures in full effect.

In the living room, Bea had commandeered my record player for her Ella Fitzgerald collection, while the television in the den broadcast the local news covering developments in the Vanessa Garfield investigation.

“They’re calling it the Grimm Island Conspiracy now,” Hank reported, looking up from the Charleston paper. “Your name’s mentioned three times.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Just what I need.”

“Mabel!” Bea’s voice carried above Ella’s smooth contralto. “Get in here! I’ve got something juicy!”

I found her at my dining table, a half-empty sidecar beside her and an expression that meant somebody’s secrets were about to become public knowledge.

“My contact at First Island Bank just called,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper despite the fact that we were alone. “Vanessa Garfield deposited ten thousand dollars in cash the day before she died.”

“Blackmail money?” I asked, sliding into the chair opposite her.

“Or she sold information,” she replied, tapping red-tipped nails against her glass.

Dash appeared in the doorway. He’d changed out of his uniform and wore jeans and a navy-blue henley that had the top couple of buttons unbuttoned. My lungs started to ache and I realized I was holding my breath. I fought the urge to slap some sense into myself.

The doorbell chimed for what felt like the hundredth time today.

“It’s Meredith Johnson with a peach cobbler,” Deidre called from the hallway. “She’s asking if she can use the powder room—claims it’s an emergency.”

“Tell her the plumbing’s acting up,” I called back. “Last thing we need is the island rumor mill getting a firsthand look at our evidence board.”

“You’re learning,” Dash said with approval. “I might make a detective out of you yet.”

“Only if I can pick my uniform,” I said. “I’m not wearing those ugly pants.”

“We should check Vanessa’s phone records,” Dottie suggested, joining us with a steaming mug of what smelled like her special ginger tea. “See who she was talking to before she died.”

“I’ve already got the warrant and sent in a request,” Dash said. “Should have them at any time.”

The discussion continued as theories bounced around the room like pinballs, each one setting off new possibilities. My eyes grew heavier with each passing minute, the adrenaline that had kept me going finally ebbing away.

“I need to step away from this for a bit,” I announced, interrupting Hank’s detailed analysis of offshore banking laws. “My brain feels like it’s been through a blender.”

“Take all the time you need,” Deidre said kindly. “The others will get settled and things will quieten down. Don’t worry. I’m going to make myself comfortable in the living room with my tea and book.”

I knew better than to argue about my unwanted security detail. At least Deidre would be quiet company.

“Before you go,” I said to Dash.

“Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” he asked, smiling.

“Sorry,” I said. “My manners disappeared with the last casserole. I was just going to say that Clint Harrington admitted that there was impropriety with the development deal. And he named Milton, Cromwell, and his dad as being involved, along with a handful of other prominent citizens.”

“It’s motive,” Dash said. “Just because he confessed to his father’s crimes doesn’t mean he didn’t commit murder.

That company was his legacy. He’d have as much of a reason for Elizabeth to be dead as anyone.

” He gave me a long stare and then moved in closer, bringing his hand to the side of my face. “You’re asleep on your feet.”

“Don’t kiss my forehead,” I said, slightly dazed by his touch.

He grinned. “What should I kiss instead?”

The thought scrambled my brains and something incoherent came out of my mouth.

“A question for another night,” he said, taking a step back. “Go get some sleep, Mabel.”

* * *

I’d thought about taking a cold shower, but I couldn’t put myself through that kind of torture. I’d spent forty-five luxurious minutes under the hot spray, and I’d thanked my lucky stars for the invention of the tankless water heater.

By the time I emerged from the shower, the house had quieted considerably—Bea’s records replaced by the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

Wrapped in my vintage silk robe, I padded downstairs to the kitchen in search of something to eat that wasn’t encased in cream-of-mushroom soup.

I flipped on the light, already mentally inventorying the contents of my refrigerator—and stopped dead in my tracks.

There, on my pristine counter, sat an elegant woman’s watch—gold and encased with diamonds.