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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I woke with a jolt, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The bandages on my wrists were stark white in the morning sunlight, a painful reminder that last night hadn’t been a nightmare.

My muscles screamed in protest as I pushed myself upright, every inch of my body cataloging new injuries.

The skin on my feet felt raw and tender, peppered with splinters from my barefoot sprint across the marina docks.

But instead of the fear I expected to feel, something else surged through my veins—a fierce, crackling energy that had my lips curving into a smile despite the pain.

I’d escaped a dirty cop, outsmarted a killer’s plan, and lived to tell about it.

Not bad for a tea shop owner whose most dangerous daily activity was usually deciding between Earl Grey and Darjeeling.

“I am woman, hear me roar,” I belted out as I slid from the bed, wincing as my battered feet met the cool hardwood. “In numbers too big to ignore…”

Chowder lifted his wrinkled face from his pillow, his expression a perfect blend of judgment and concern. He snorted once, as if to comment on my newfound feminism, then rolled over to continue his beauty sleep.

“Don’t be such a grump,” I told him, limping to my closet. “Some of us had a very exciting night.”

I stood in my closet in my underwear and bypassed my usual safe choices, pulling out a black-and-white polka-dot halter dress that was very glam Hollywood.

The halter neckline plunged lower than my usual styles, and the fitted bodice hugged curves I typically kept under wraps.

The bandages on my wrists stood out in stark contrast against the playful pattern—visual proof that I wasn’t the same woman who’d gone to bed two nights ago.

“What do you think?” I asked Chowder, who had deigned to open one eye. “Too much?”

His response was a deep sigh that seemed to originate from his very soul.

“I’ll take that as approval,” I decided, slipping into the dress with only minor contortions to accommodate my injuries.

The house was unusually quiet as I made my way downstairs, each step a reminder of my tender feet.

The aroma of bacon and coffee wafted up from the kitchen, making my stomach growl in response.

It was after eleven according to the grandfather clock in the hall—we’d all slept late after the previous night’s excitement.

“She lives!” Deidre declared as I entered the kitchen. She stood at the stove in another pair of plaid culottes and a white eyelet blouse. She was wielding a spatula with the confidence of a samurai. “And look at that dress. Someone is feeling feisty.”

“I had a dress like that once in my day,” Dottie said, sitting next to Walt at the table, her hands cupped around a teacup. For some reason she was dressed in baggy denim overalls and a white shirt rolled up to her elbows. “I used to love to go dancing.”

“Which makes it even more perplexing as to why you’re dressed like Farmer Dale,” Bea said, eyeing Dottie’s overalls.

“The lady at the shop told me they were all the rage,” Dottie said. “It’s the twenty-first century, Bea. There’s no need to dress like you’re a cast member from Three’s Company . We’re never too old to get with the times.”

Bea was wearing one of her favorite wigs today—a chin-length bob with spiky bangs—and she’d added a streak of turquoise eyeshadow to the tops of her papery thin lids.

Her caftan was decidedly Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company in shades of lime green and her signature turquoise, and I suspected she knew it, otherwise she wouldn’t have looked so put out by Dottie’s comment.

Walt sat at the kitchen table, today’s crossword set before him, though his attention remained fixed on the window. He’d positioned his chair for optimal surveillance of the street.

“I miss my house,” he declared. “I’m too old to sleep in someone else’s bed.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Bea piped in, her Cheshire Cat smile glowing. “A little birdy told me why you missed the historical society fundraiser. Fraternizing with the enemy aren’t you, Walt?”

Walt straightened in his chair and slapped his newspaper onto the table. “I would never betray my country,” he said.

“Hmm,” Bea said. “And how was the opera? That is where you took her, isn’t it? And then a little nightcap at her place?”

I looked at Dottie because she normally kept Bea in check, but she was locked into the story, waiting to hear Walt’s answer. The look Walt was giving Bea made me think he might be okay with a midnight mission to stuff her face in a pillow.

“Patrick took me to an opera once,” I said, taking a step between them to break their line of sight. “ The Magic Flute .”

“Hmmph,” Walt said. “German.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Walt,” Dottie finally piped in.

“No one wants to listen to an American opera. And I don’t know who you think you’re fooling trying to keep some clandestine arrangement with a woman.

You knew Bea would find out. You can’t act all suspicious and not expect her to nose around. It’s what she does.”

Walt hmmphed again and went back to his crossword.

Deidre rolled her eyes at men and mouthed, “Men,” and then she opened the oven and took out a casserole that smelled like heaven. Once she’d put it on the table in front she said, “Walt, why don’t you tell Mabel what you told me a bit ago. About Clint Harrison.”

That got my attention. “What about him?” I asked.

“He drove by the house,” he reported, putting aside his crossword so Deidre could put his plate in front of him. “Slowed down so I was able to get a good look at him.”

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” I said. Walt’s mouth quirked in his version of a smile.

“Hank,” Dottie yelled. “Get in here. The food is ready and I’m starving.”

Hank entered the kitchen from the living room, his seersucker suit pristine, his cheeks rosy and his white eyebrows in need of a trim.

“You’ve made the front page,” he announced, handing me the Grimm Island Gazette .

“‘Local Woman Escapes Corrupt Deputy.’ I have a mind to go down to the Gazette and talk face-to-face with Loretta Hampton. She made it sound like you and Mark Reynolds were having a leisurely stroll at the docks rather than him kidnapping you and you whomping him in the face with a fishing sinker.”

“Isn’t Loretta Hampton his grandniece?” Deidre asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hank said. “Right is right and wrong is wrong. And her uncle is a dishonest pig who deserves to rot in prison. I’m tired of having corrupt cops on this island. It makes me want to be on the bench again. I’d send them away for life.”

“Have some breakfast casserole, Hank,” Dottie said, pulling out a chair for him. “Virginia Gerber brought it by this morning. She’s an excellent cook.”

“People are still bringing food by?” I asked, noticing there were an abundance of fresh baked breads and desserts on my countertop.

“For as long as something is newsworthy at this house there will be a casserole,” Deidre said. “It’s the Southern way.”

“And the only way to find out what’s really happening,” Bea said.

“Casserole delivery is the oldest trick in the book. Kind of like women’s prayer meetings.

I used to belong to one of those at the Methodist church.

All those ladies would get together and gossip about everyone on the island and then ask us to pray for that person at the end of the meeting so it sounded legitimate instead of like they were spreading people’s business. ”

Dottie snorted out a laugh but didn’t disagree.

“Where’s Dash?” I asked.

“Went to the station,” Deidre said. “Said he needed to be there when Reynolds was processed. Left at dawn but said he’d be back.” She peered at me over her glasses. “How are those wrists? You look like you’ve been in a wrestling match with a gator.”

I glanced down at my bandaged arms. “They sting a little, but I’m fine.”

“Well, sit down before you fall down,” she said. “Your feet must be killing you.”

I didn’t argue, sliding into a chair as Dottie placed a steaming mug of coffee before me. The rich aroma hit my nose, instantly making my eyes water with pleasure. And then she put a plate in front of me heaped high with breakfast casserole, banana bread, bacon, and what looked like banana pudding.

“Banana pudding?” I asked.

“It’s fruit,” she said. “And Walt said he’s getting a toothache so I figured he’d want something soft.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Dash entered, the weariness of a sleepless night evident in his posture.

His uniform was as crisp as ever, but shadows darkened the skin beneath his eyes, and a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his jaw, giving him that rugged, intense look that somehow made him even more handsome.

When his gaze found mine across the kitchen, something in his expression softened, the fatigue momentarily vanishing from his features.

“Good morning,” he said, his eyes taking in my dress with a flash of surprised appreciation that sent heat rushing to my cheeks. “You look…”

“Like a woman who escaped a kidnapping and beat a deputy senseless with a fishing weight?” I supplied.

His lips quirked. “I was going to say recovered, but your version has more dramatic flair.”

“Have some brunch,” Dottie insisted, already loading a plate. “You look dead on your feet.”

I had an odd moment where I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience.

It was such a surreal scene in my kitchen—the Silver Sleuths gathered around the table, Dash coming home from a hard day’s work, all that was missing was him kissing me on the head in greeting and a couple of kids to run in and hug him around the neck.

“Mabel?” Dottie said. “Mabel did you hear me?”

I shook my head, trying to get the vision out of my head.

“Maybe she’s addled,” Hank said. “Could’ve hit her head last night. She should go back to bed.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Was just thinking.”

“About what?” Bea asked, curiously.