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“Makes sense,” Hank said. “Milton wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him in the face.”

“Her father never accepted the ruling,” Beckett said. “He insisted Elizabeth was a strong swimmer who knew the harbor currents. He believed she’d stumbled onto something related to her research.”

“What was she researching?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

“Officially, she was working on a summer internship with the Observer ,” Beckett replied.

“Ooh,” Bea said. “A journalist. Digging into people’s secrets is a good way to get dead.”

Dash nodded. “She’d been accepted into the master’s journalism program at Duke. I found notes indicating she was specifically looking into financial irregularities related to several development projects in the area.

“The case was closed after three weeks, despite the father’s objections, despite the inconsistencies in the physical evidence, despite the fact that Elizabeth’s research materials were never found.” He looked around the table, eyes settling on each of us. “Milton buried this case.”

“Cover-up,” Walt said grimly. “Classic Milton.”

“There’s more,” Beckett said, pulling out another file.

“I’ve been having our newly hired deputies going through old boxes of evidence.

It’s a mess. Deputy Harris found these notes shoved into another case box.

” Beckett opened the file folder and produced several yellowed papers.

“Witness statements that never made it into the official report. Statements that contradict the accidental drowning theory.”

“Why now?” I asked. “Why reopen this after all these years?”

The sheriff’s eyes met mine, and something in them made my stomach tighten.

“I’ve worked a lot of homicides,” he said. “And I know when I look at a case file and two and two don’t add up to four. I need people who know this island’s history, who understand its dynamics, and who aren’t afraid to ask uncomfortable questions.”

“People who aren’t on the official payroll,” Walt added shrewdly.

Sheriff Beckett didn’t deny it. “I’m new here. There are connections I might miss, histories I don’t know.”

“And if it turns out a former sheriff was involved in a cover-up, it could reflect badly on the current department,” Bea concluded.

“There’s more,” Sheriff Beckett said quietly. “Elizabeth Calvert’s father is still alive. Cancer. Doctors give him weeks at best. His last wish is to know what really happened to his daughter.”

I felt a lump form in my throat. This wasn’t just about solving a case—it was about giving a dying man peace.

“So what exactly are you asking us to do?” I questioned, gesturing at the file. “We’re not detectives.”

“Speak for yourself, dear,” Bea interjected, patting my hand. “I was an investigative journalist for years before I decided the social column had the juicier stories.”

“I want you to review the case file and the evidence,” he explained. “Talk to people who were around back then. See if memories have loosened with time, if people are more willing to speak now that Milton is behind bars. Retrace the steps of the investigating officer.”

“Should be interesting,” Hank said. “Milton’s reach is far, even from the state penitentiary. He’s still got more supporters than he should around here.”

Deidre nodded. “A lot of people benefited from his arrangements.”

“What’s our operational timeline?” Walt asked, getting down to business.

“I can give you three weeks,” Beckett said. “That’s how long I can keep this under the radar before questions start getting asked.”

“And our authority?” Hank inquired, ever the judge.

“None, officially,” he admitted. “You’re temporarily deputized volunteers having conversations. I’ll handle anything that requires actual law enforcement.”

“What about interference?” Dottie asked. “There will be those who won’t want old cases reopened.”

Sheriff Beckett’s expression turned serious. “Her father wants it. But that’s also why we’re keeping this quiet. It’s why I’ve brought you all in on this instead of bringing in outside investigators. An outsider would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“And we’re practically invisible,” Bea said, cackling. “Nobody pays attention to old people asking questions. Especially around here. Everyone is nosy. And so little happens around here that the past might as well be the present.”

“And me?” I asked, still not sure why I was included. “What’s my role in all this?”

“You’re essential,” the sheriff said, his eyes meeting mine directly. “You’re the legs of this operation.”

“The legs?” I repeated.

“You’ve got youth on your side,” Walt explained matter-of-factly. “You can cover ground faster than we can.”

“And you can go places we can’t without raising suspicion,” Dottie added. “People talk to you differently.”

“Not to mention your tea shop gives us legitimate cover for meetings,” Deidre pointed out.

Bea patted my hand. “Face it, dear. You’ve just been drafted as our field agent.”

I looked at Sheriff Beckett, who nodded. “I need you out there with them. Sometimes on your own, sometimes accompanying one of them.”

“Plus you can run if necessary,” Walt added pragmatically. “My sprinting days ended with the Reagan administration.”

I couldn’t deny a flicker of excitement at the thought of my involvement in the case. After ten years of predictable routines, I was ready for something different.

“So,” Sheriff Beckett continued, looking around at our unlikely group, “are you in?”

The Silver Sleuths exchanged glances, some unspoken agreement passing between them in the way that only people who’ve known each other for decades can communicate. I found myself holding my breath, caught up in a moment that suddenly felt like a turning point—not just for the case, but for me.

“We’re in,” Walt declared, speaking for all of them.

I nodded, surprisingly certain of my answer. “I’m in too.”

As I looked around the table at this band of senior citizen sleuths and the mysterious sheriff who’d brought us together, I realized I’d just agreed to dig up secrets that had been deliberately buried for decades. Secrets that powerful people would prefer stayed hidden. Secrets worth killing for.

What had I just gotten myself into?