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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Holy Moses,” Dottie breathed, leaning so far over the table I thought she might fall face-first into the phone records. “Would you look at that?”

My finger traced the pattern of calls laid out in neat columns and timestamps. Twenty-three calls between Vanessa Garfield and Jason Brooks in the two weeks before her death. The last one—a seventeen-minute conversation—just hours before she’d been strangled.

“There it is,” I said, a chill creeping up my spine despite the warmth of the kitchen. “I guess Reynolds was right.”

His words from the boathouse echoed in my mind— It wasn’t about the Harbor Development. That was just a cover story. You’re looking in all the wrong places.”

Walt adjusted his reading glasses, jabbing his finger at the call log. “Look at the pattern. Short calls every couple of days, then suddenly a flurry of activity the day before she died.”

“Maybe she was threatening him,” Hank suggested. “Blackmail usually starts with a calm negotiation before it turns ugly. And then there’s the ten thousand dollars.”

I scanned the text message log Harris had included, noting the increasingly frantic tone of the exchanges.

Need to talk. Important.

This isn’t something we should discuss over text.

I’m not playing games. Meet me or I go public.

The final text from Vanessa, sent just hours before her death— I know what you did to Elizabeth. $10,000 by midnight or I go to Beckett.

“Jason Brooks,” I said, the name feeling like a betrayal on my lips. The charming attorney who’d flirted with me, who’d asked me to dinner—who’d killed not once, but twice. “What a jerk! I can’t believe he wanted to go out with me.”

“Murderers are looking for love too, Mabel,” Bea said, patting me on the back. “There’s a whole reality show about it.”

“It fits,” Dash said, his hand moving to the small of my back, steadying me though I hadn’t realized I was swaying.

“Frank put Brooks at the marina with Elizabeth the night she died, arguing about going public with some discovery. The jeweler’s description of the man who ordered the watch matches Brooks, not Harrington. ”

“It’s all just circumstantial,” Hank said.

“He wanted to frame Harrington,” Deidre said, tapping her pencil against her notepad. “Old rivalries die hard.”

I sank into a kitchen chair, my mind racing to reconcile the smooth-talking attorney with a cold-blooded killer. “But if it wasn’t about the Harbor Development, what secret was worth killing for? What did Elizabeth really find?”

The kitchen fell silent as we all pondered the question. Dash leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable except for the muscle working in his jaw—a tell I was beginning to recognize as suppressed anger.

“I think I might have an idea,” I said, looking up at Dash.

“What’s that?” he asked, raising a brow.

I took a deep breath. “What if I accepted his dinner invitation? Wore a wire? He already thinks I’m interested in him—if I can get him talking about Elizabeth…”

“Absolutely not,” Dash said immediately, straightening to his full height. “We’ve got enough to bring him in for questioning. We’re not putting you in danger again.”

“It’s just…” I hesitated, searching for the right words.

“What if bringing him in isn’t enough? He’s a lawyer—he knows exactly how to shut down an interrogation.

But he doesn’t see me as a threat. He thinks I’m just a sweet tea shop owner.

” I looked around at the Silver Sleuths.

“He’d never suspect I was trying to get a confession. ”

Walt shook his head, military straight in his chair. “Too risky. Too many unknown variables.”

“I’m with Walt on this,” Deidre added. “After what you went through with Reynolds, I don’t think?—”

“Maybe that’s why it would work,” I suggested softly, not wanting to push too hard but unable to let the idea go. “Brooks has no idea we suspect him. He thinks I’m just a na?ve widow who’s easily charmed.”

Dash studied me, his dark eyes searching mine. “You’ve been through enough already, Mabel. This isn’t your responsibility.”

“I know,” I said, holding his gaze. “But I want to help. For Elizabeth. For her father.” I swallowed hard. “If you think it’s too dangerous, I understand. You’re the expert here. But if there’s a way to make it safe…”

Something in his expression shifted—a flicker of consideration replacing outright refusal. “You’re serious about this?”

“I am,” I nodded. “But only if you think we can do it without unnecessary risk.”

Dash ran a hand through his hair, his internal debate visible on his face. “If—and that’s a big if—we did something like this, there would have to be strict protocols. Public location. Full surveillance. Armed officers within seconds of your position.”

“Of course,” I agreed quickly. “Whatever you think is best.

“The Crab Shack,” I suggested after a moment’s thought. “Weeknight evening crowds are thin. You’ll have good line of sight.”

“Plenty of exits,” Walt added, warming to the idea despite his initial resistance.

“And we could position deputies in plain clothes on the dock,” Dash continued, working through the logistics. “A couple of others in the parking lot and then a female and male in plain clothes inside the restaurant.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, a flutter of nervous excitement replacing the dread in my stomach.

“I still don’t like it,” Dottie interjected, crossing her arms.

“Neither do I,” Dash admitted. “But Mabel’s right about one thing—Brooks might shut down completely in an interrogation room. This might be our best shot at finding out what really happened to Elizabeth.”

Dash nodded, his decision made. “We do this by the book. Full tactical plan. Panic button. And at the first sign of trouble—the very first hint—we move in. No heroics.”

“Understood,” I promised.

He extended his hand, and I took it, his warm fingers curling around mine with gentle strength. The calluses on his palm scraped deliciously against my skin, sending little sparks racing up my arm.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mabel McCoy,” he said softly. “I’ve got plans for you that don’t include you ending up dead.”

“Well,” I said, fighting the urge to fan myself. “That ought to give me incentive.”

Bea’s delighted cackle broke the tension. “If we’re setting a trap for a murderer, I’m going to need another drink. Who wants a sidecar?”

* * *

Brooks sounded genuinely pleased when I called to accept his dinner invitation, though he tried to steer me toward The Blue Crab instead.

“It’s a bit more…refined,” he suggested. “Better wine list.”

“Oh, I’ve been to The Blue Crab,” I said innocently. “But The Crab Shack is more my speed.” I tapped my nail absently against the back of my phone. “Besides, they have the best crab claws on the island.”

He chuckled, his voice warm through the phone. “The Crab Shack it is, then. This will be a first for me. Eight o’clock?”

“Perfect,” I replied, hoping he couldn’t hear the thunder of my heart. “Be casual and comfortable. It’s not fancy, but the food is incredible.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said indulgently. I was starting to intensely dislike Jason Brooks, and it wasn’t altogether because he was suspected of being a murderer.

After I hung up, I turned to find Dash watching me with an unreadable expression.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You’re a natural at this. Had me almost convinced you were looking forward to dinner with a murderer.”

“I’m a real Grace Kelly,” I said dryly.

Two hours later, I stood in my bedroom, staring at the floral sundress I’d laid out on the bed—a vintage piece with a pattern of green leaves and yellow daisies that reminded me of summer picnics and simpler times.

“I’ll probably never be able to wear this again after tonight,” I said as Dash helped me get wired—a surprisingly intimate process that involved threading a tiny microphone up through the fabric and securing it just below my collarbone.

His fingers brushed against my skin, and despite the gravity of the situation, I felt heat rush to my cheeks.

“Good,” he said, his voice low as he taped the transmitter to the small of my back. “It’s not one of my favorites.”

I jerked my head up to meet his eyes, surprised by the teasing. “Since when do you have opinions on my wardrobe, Sheriff?”

That half smile I was coming to adore spread across his face. “Since I started paying attention. Maybe you could wear that polka-dotted number again. I liked that a lot.”

My pulse skittered traitorously, and I blamed the warmth in my cheeks on nerves rather than the way his fingers skimmed the bare skin at the small of my back.

“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice serious again as he stepped back to inspect his handiwork. “Weather service just issued a storm watch for tonight. Might work in our favor though—keep more people inside where our plainclothes officers can maintain visual contact.”

“No,” I admitted, decided I wasn’t sure about anything. “But I’m doing it anyway. Rain or shine.”

The Crab Shack was a weathered building perched on stilts over the water, its wooden deck extending out over the harbor like a gangplank into the darkness beyond.

Paper lanterns strung along the railings cast an amber glow over weather-beaten tables, transforming the humble restaurant into something almost magical against the darkening sky.

The scent of fried seafood and Old Bay Seasoning hung in the humid evening air, mingling with the briny tang of salt marsh and the promise of rain.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, giving myself time to get the lay of the land and identify Dash’s people. The hostess—a college-aged girl with a messy ponytail and a sunburn across her nose—led me to a table with a clear view of both the entrance and the deck beyond. Perfect.