Page 7

At precisely six o’clock, the bell above the entrance jingled, and Sheriff Beckett entered. I noticed Walt look at the clock and shake his head in disappointment. To be on time was to be late. The sheriff wasn’t exactly starting off in Walt’s good graces.

Another man followed Sheriff Beckett inside. He was young, probably early twenties, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“This is Deputy Harris,” Beckett said by way of introduction. “He’ll be assisting with some of the procedural aspects of the case.”

“How long you been on the job, sonny?” Walt asked.

“I graduated from the academy two weeks ago,” Harris said, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Good call, Sheriff,” Walt said, nodding approvingly. “He’s untainted. Sometimes new blood is more needed than experience.”

Sheriff Beckett’s eyes shone with humor, but he nodded. “You can trust Harris. He reports only to me.” He stood at the head of the table, a man who commanded attention. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sure you all have busy schedules.”

“Sidecar?” Bea interrupted, swiping a lemon around the rim of a cocktail glass like a pro and then dipping the rim in sugar.

“They’re on duty, Bea,” Dottie said. “But I’ll have one. Go heavy on the orange.”

“I’ll stick with tea,” Walt said. “One of us needs to be clearheaded to hear why the sheriff called us here tonight.”

Dash nodded, setting a thick file on the table. “I’m in need of an official posse. That includes you, Mrs. McCoy.”

I bobbled Walt’s teacup slightly before setting it down in front of him. “Oh, but I’m not…this isn’t my area of…” I stammered.

“You know the island and the people on it,” he said. “I want your perspective too.”

Before I could protest further, Dottie patted the empty chair beside her. “Sit, dear. The sheriff has an excellent point.”

With no graceful way to refuse, I took the seat, setting down my teapot.

“Now,” Sheriff Beckett began. “I’m going to be upfront and let you know I’ve already done a cursory check on you all.”

“You ran a background check on us?” Bea asked, smiling mischievously.

“Nothing so in depth,” he said. “Not yet. But the internet has plenty to say about all of you. I’ll have to run a background check if you’re officially brought on to work the case.”

Bea’s lips twitched. “Don’t believe everything you read on the internet, Sheriff. Sometimes the truth is much more scandalous.” And then she winked at him.

“Ignore her,” Walt said. “Everybody in the state knows Bea was caught in flagrante delicto with one of her snitches in the nineties. It made front page news everywhere.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “No one cares, Bea. It was forty years ago.”

“He wasn’t a snitch,” she said, lips pursed. “He was a senator.”

“Same thing,” Walt said. “Keep going, Sheriff. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

“This case was officially closed decades ago, but I have reason to believe the investigation might have been compromised.”

“By Sheriff Milton,” Hank said immediately, his expression darkening.

The sheriff nodded. “Yes. And a few others.”

“Not surprised,” Dottie said, her lips pursed in disapproval. “That man was as crooked as they come.”

“And now he’s enjoying federal accommodations,” Bea added, passing out sidecars like candy.

She handed one to me and I could’ve sworn Chowder arched a wrinkled brow at me.

I took a small sip and watched the sheriff over the rim.

I knew the hornet’s nest he’d walked into after Milton’s arrest couldn’t be an easy one.

The scandal had rocked our sleepy island community, leaving the department short staffed and under scrutiny.

It would be a long time before people on the island trusted law enforcement again.

“The case I’m interested in goes back further than the recent issues,” Sheriff Beckett said diplomatically.

“What’s the case?” Hank asked.

“The drowning death of Elizabeth Calvert, summer of 1996.”

A hush fell over the table. Even Bea, never at a loss for words, seemed momentarily silenced.

“Oh, I remember that one,” Hank said. “Tragic.”

“We all remember that one,” Deidre said. “With the exception of Mabel, of course. Were you even born, dear?”

“Yes,” I said. “And things like that don’t happen often on Grimm Island. It was the talk of the town for years during my childhood.”

Beckett placed a thick manila folder on the table.

“Hold on, young man,” Hank said. “I know the law. Any case files or evidence is for law enforcement eyes only. You can’t show us any of this legally.”

Sheriff Beckett smiled and pulled out a single sheet of paper that looked very official. “Which is why I’m officially swearing you in. I told you I need a posse. Now raise your right hand and repeat after me.”

I was too shocked to do anything but stick my hand up in the air and repeat the words the sheriff was saying. I’d had no idea posses still existed, and I’d never imagined that I’d be part of one. I didn’t own a cowboy hat, and I’d never ridden a horse.

“So help me God…” we all repeated in unison.

“I need signatures from each of you,” Sheriff Beckett said, “and then I’ll file this with the clerk of court.”

“Do we get badges?” Dottie asked.

“No,” Beckett said.

“No matter,” Bea said. “I’ve got a fake one somewhere. Used it once when I was working on a story.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Beckett said.

“I need to buy more bullets for my gun,” Dottie said. “I’ve only got four left.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a silver .45 revolver with a pearl handle. And then she pulled out a makeup compact and opened it up. Inside were four bullets.

Sheriff Beckett opened his mouth to say something and then promptly closed it again. Probably a smart move on his part.

“What good is it to carry a gun around if it’s not loaded?” Walt asked, incensed.

“I used to keep it loaded but I was digging around for a pen one day and accidentally pulled the trigger. Shot a hole right in the bottom of my brand-new Vera Bradley bag. So I took the bullets out and put them in here.” She closed the makeup compact and rattled it for good measure.

“I’ve got a .22 you can use,” Hank said. “That .45 will knock your teeth loose.”

“Deal,” Dottie said. “We can trade.”

Deputy Harris winced and Sheriff Beckett shook his head, probably second-guessing his idea of making a posse that included five octogenarians and me. I had to admit, I was questioning his judgment as well.

He opened up the case file and spread out several photographs.

I recognized the harbor shoreline, though the images were grainy and weathered with age.

In one photo, something dark lay half submerged at the water’s edge.

I looked away quickly, my stomach clenching as the reality of what we were discussing suddenly hit home—not just an old case file but a young woman’s life cut short.

“Elizabeth Calvert, twenty-two years old,” he began, his voice taking on a clinical edge that I suspected helped him maintain professional distance.

“Found floating near the pier on the morning of July 16, 1996. Top of her class at Charleston College, home for the summer before starting graduate school at Duke. According to the official report, she had been in the water approximately twelve hours.”

“In 1996 I was working as a medical examiner for the state,” Dottie said. “If I remember right it was the Charleston ME who did the autopsy. It was declared an accidental drowning.”

“Accidental my foot,” Walt snorted. “Girl was a champion swimmer. Won state titles three years running.”

“Which was her father’s argument and why he insisted foul play was involved,” Dottie added.

Beckett nodded. “That’s one of numerous inconsistencies I’ve found.

The official cause of death was drowning, but the report contains several troubling details.

” He pulled out a photocopy of what appeared to be the autopsy report.

“Bruising on both wrists, consistent with restraint. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, which the ME claimed happened postmortem when the body struck rocks in the harbor.”

“Defensive wounds?” Hank asked, leaning forward.

“None documented,” he replied. “But the photos tell a different story than the written report.” He pointed to another image. “Look at her hands. Those are clearly defensive injuries on her knuckles. They’re mentioned in the initial examiner’s notes but omitted from the final report.”

The knowledge that we were looking at a dead girl’s hands made my skin prickle with unease. My tea suddenly tasted too sweet in my mouth as I tried to reconcile the clinical terminology with the horror of what actually happened to this young woman.

“Toxicology?” Dottie asked.

“Showed alcohol in her system, but not enough to cause impairment for someone her size. No other substances.” Beckett tapped another document.

“The timeline is perhaps the most problematic element. Elizabeth was last seen leaving the library around six o’clock.

According to witnesses, she appeared agitated but not intoxicated.

The ME placed time of death between midnight and 2 a.m.”

“So what happened in those six hours?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

“Exactly,” he said, meeting my eyes with an intensity that made my chest tighten. “Her car was found in the library parking lot, suggesting she never made it home. But her purse and belongings were missing and never recovered.”

“There’s got to be someone who saw her in those six hours,” I said. “This is a small island.”

“That’s where you come in,” he said. “People on this island have long memories. If the medical examiner’s report has holes, we can assume the police report has holes too.

There are just a handful of witness statements in the case file, and they’re not well documented.

Milton stated over and over again in the report that she must have been drinking, hit her head and drowned.

He didn’t bother too much with gathering facts. ”