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“I can’t remember now,” I lied. “What were you saying, Dottie?”

“I was just asking if you wanted more casserole.”

I looked down at my full plate and said, “I think I’m okay.”

“So tell us the scoop,” Walt said. “Is Reynolds talking yet?”

“Barely,” Dash replied, accepting the coffee Deidre thrust into his hands with a grateful nod. “He lawyered up pretty quick. He’s got an alibi for the night Vanessa was murdered so he knows he’s clear on that. He’s trying to work a deal, hinting he can give us Elizabeth and Vanessa’s murderer.”

“I’m surprised he was working alone all these years,” I said. “What about Larson? They always seemed thick as thieves.”

Dash shook his head. “That’s the interesting part. Larson was actually the one who helped us catch Reynolds. He noticed the discrepancy in the radio logs—that Reynolds had turned his off when he left with you.”

“Larson?” Walt’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. “I thought he was gunning for your job from day one, Sheriff.”

“Turns out he’s been quietly investigating corruption in the department for years,” Dash said. “Found inconsistencies in Reynolds’ reports dating back years. He just didn’t trust me enough to share what he knew.”

“Why the change of heart?” Dottie asked, clearly skeptical.

Dash’s lips twitched slightly. “When Reynolds put Mabel in danger, Larson drew the line. Seems he hates dirty cops more than he distrusts outsiders. He was the first one at the station when they brought Reynolds in—looked ready to take him apart.”

“So he’s one of the good guys?” Dottie asked skeptically.

“Let’s say he’s complicated,” Dash replied. “But he’s thorough, and right now, I need thorough. With Reynolds in custody, we’re down another deputy. I need everyone I can trust working this case.”

“Speaking of Reynolds,” Hank interjected, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“Don’t let him cut any deals. We’ll find out who did it without his help.

” His blue eyes narrowed menacingly. “It makes me wish I was still on the bench. I hate dirty cops. He deserves to go away for a long time.”

“I agree with you,” Dash said. “One thing he did say that was interesting was that we’d been looking at it all wrong.”

“That fits with what he told me last night,” I said, pushing my plate away. “He said it wasn’t about the Harbor Development—not really.”

“We know something was going on with the Harbor Development,” Walt said. “There’s all kinds of evidence that those guys were doing dirty deals.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean it had anything to do with the murder,” I said.

“Then what else could it be about?” Hank said.

“The watch,” Dash said. “I think that’s our key.”

“Speaking of which,” Deidre interjected, her eyes brightening with the fervor of new information, “Dottie and I have been making calls all morning.”

“We might have a lead,” Dottie added.

All eyes turned to them, and Deidre sat up straighter, clearly relishing her moment in the spotlight.

“We called every high-end jeweler in Charleston,” she continued, “And on our seventh try, we struck gold. Marconi’s Fine Jewelry on King Street.”

“The salesman nearly swallowed his tongue when we described the watch,” Dottie added with relish. “Started babbling about client confidentiality faster than Bea can down a sidecar.”

“Speaking of,” she said, scooting back from the table and going over to the bar. “It’s almost noon. Anyone else?”

“How are you not pickled, Bea?” Dottie asked. “I’ve seen body parts in formaldehyde jars that aren’t as well preserved as you.”

“Should tell you something,” Bea said, slicing an orange.

“Anyway,” Deidre continued. “The jeweler wouldn’t give us a name, but he confirmed he did an engraving for a watch that matches our description. That’s all he would tell us.”

“When did he come in?” Dash asked.

“Last week,” Deidre confirmed with a triumphant smile. “Paid extra for a quick turnaround.”

“Whoever ordered it knew exactly what the original looked like,” Dash said.

“Too bad Mr. High and Mighty at the jewelry store wouldn’t give us a name,” Dottie said.

“Time to get a warrant,” Dash said, pulling out his phone.

“Does that mean we’re taking a road trip to Charleston?” I asked.

Dash’s eyes met mine, a silent question in them. “You sure you’re up for it after last night?”

“As long as we’re not walking there I’m fine,” I said, grinning.

* * *

Within the hour, Dash and I were on our way to Charleston, cruising along the coastal highway in his SUV. The bandages on my wrists itched, and my feet still smarted from the splinters, but the discomfort felt distant, overshadowed by the anticipation of getting answers.

“Have you ever been married?” I asked as we crossed the causeway, surprising myself with my directness.

Dash glanced at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Personal questions equal a date,” he said. “The level of question determines the level of date.”

I paused for a second and pressed my lips together. “Dinner. But not on Grimm Island. I’ve had enough of people staring at me for a while.”

“Deal,” Dash said, looking much too smug for my liking. “Then to answer your question, no, I’ve never been married. Came close once, during my time with the DEA. Job got in the way—undercover work isn’t exactly conducive to healthy relationships.”

“Do you regret it?” I pressed, feeling bold in my polka dots and bandages.

“Not anymore,” he replied.

Marconi’s Fine Jewelry occupied a prime corner of King Street, its elegant facade and discreet signage suggesting old money and refined taste.

As soon as we stepped through the door, my senses were assaulted by the overwhelming scent of vanilla and sandalwood—an expensive cologne trying too hard to create an ambiance of luxury.

The lighting was calibrated to make every surface gleam, from the polished mahogany display cases to the diamonds nestled on velvet cushions.

A man materialized from the back, moving with the theatrical flourish of someone who’d once dreamed of Broadway but settled for retail.

He was tall and rail thin, with a shock of silver hair styled in a gravity-defying pompadour that added a good three inches to his height.

His charcoal suit was impeccably tailored, and he wore more rings than Dottie—no small feat.

“Welcome to Marconi’s,” he greeted, his voice carrying just enough Italian accent to seem exotic without being difficult to understand. “A couple in love. Here for an engagement ring. How wonderful?”

His smile dimmed as Dash showed him his badge. “One of my deputies called earlier and spoke to someone about a watch.”

“That was one of your deputies?” he asked. “The elderly woman?”

Dash paused before he answered, but said, “Yes.”

“Interesting,” he said. “I am Vincent Marconi. How can I be of service?”

“The watch,” Dash said, pulling out a picture of the one that was left on my island counter.

Vincent’s dark eyes flickered with recognition and he said, “Yes, as I told the fine deputy this was one of our higher quality watches. The customer paid cash, and paid extra for an expedited engraving. But I’m afraid I have a reputation for keeping my clients’ privacy. That’s all I was able to tell her.”

“He asked for this watch specifically when he came in?” Dash asked.

Vincent opened his mouth to speak, and then paused. “Well, now that you mention it, no. He came in with another photograph. An older photograph. I assumed it was an heirloom he’d lost and was trying to replace.”

“He was looking for that specific watch?” I asked.

“He was looking for someone who could do a custom commission and replicate it. But I told him a piece like that would take at least two months, and it would cost him. He didn’t seem to care about cost though.

But he did seem upset that I couldn’t get the piece commissioned sooner.

That’s when I suggested this piece. It’s very similar, though the scrollwork is a bit different, as well as the diamond face. It’s a fine piece.”

“He was in a hurry,” I said to Dash.

“Very much so,” Vincent said, his hands as animated as his expressions. “As soon as he made the decision to purchase, he told me he had to have it engraved in twenty-four hours. Paid for it too.”

“I need to know a name,” Dash told him.

Vincent put his hand to his heart. “I wish I could help you, but my reputation is how I’ve stayed in business for thirty years.”

“I think a homicide trumps your reputation,” Dash said.

Vincent’s olive complexion paled to the color of dirty dishwater. “Homicide?” His voice rose an octave. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” Dash said, reaching into his jacket and producing an official-looking document. “This is a warrant for your business records related to the creation of this specific watch, including any names or personal information you collected.”

“Well then,” he said, taking the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing his forehead. “Follow me.”

He led us through a door behind the main counter, into an office that looked like it had been decorated by someone with unlimited funds and questionable taste.

Everything gleamed with gold leaf, from the ornate picture frames to the baroque desk that dominated the space.

The walls were lined with antique clocks, all showing slightly different times, their ticking creating a cacophony of tiny heartbeats.

“This is highly irregular,” Vincent said. “I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before. The man didn’t look like a murderer.”

I wanted to ask him what murderers were supposed to look like, but didn’t figure now was the time.

“I need a name,” Dash said.

“Let me check my records,” he said, moving to a file cabinet behind his desk.

I would’ve bet dollars to donuts that he had the name memorized, but he was enjoying his moment in the spotlight.