Page 2 of Skin and Bones

I wiped down the large round table by the front window—the Silver Sleuths’ preferred spot for their meetings. They liked to see and be seen, a requirement for five seniors who considered people-watching a competitive sport. I’d arranged six chairs around it, knowing that somehow they’d rope me into joining, despite my protests.

I gave my sea-green dress a final smoothing. It was vintage, with those puffed sleeves I loved, and paired perfectly with the pearl pendant Patrick had given me on our first anniversary.

Frank’s crooning faded, and Ella and Louis came on, deciding whether or not they could be friends as they debated the correct pronunciation of the word tomato. Chowder gave a soft woof and rolled to his side so he could look at passersby out the window.

“I agree,” I told him. “I could never fall in love with someone who says tamahto. A bit too pretentious for my taste.”

Chowder woofed again in agreement. There were some moments when Chowder and I were in perfect accord.

I’d just finished arranging a fresh bouquet of flowers in the center of the table when the bell above the door chimed again.

“Do I smell lemon scones?” Deidre Whitmore called as she bustled in, fifteen minutes early as usual. Her silver hair was secured in a haphazard bun with what appeared to be a pencil, wayward curls flying in all directions. She carried an enormous tote bag, and I knew it was filled with books and enough butterscotch candies to survive an apocalypse.

“Fresh out of the oven,” I confirmed, smiling despite myself. Ms. Whitmore had been Grimm Island’s librarian for most of my life—a woman who had seemed positively ancient when I’d been a kid—only to finally retire a few years ago. Somehow, she looked exactly the same as she had twenty years earlier. I still couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I should whisper in her presence. I also had trouble remembering to call her Deidre instead of Ms. Whitmore.

“Wonderful! I brought some of my lavender shortbread to share,” she said, extracting a tin from her bag. “The recipe’s from 1897. Found it in the historical society archives.”

I smiled and took the tin from her. “You know you don’t have to bring food, Ms. Whitmore. This is a tea shop. I’m happy to provide all the refreshments.”

“Call me Deidre, dear,” she reminded me for what had to be the hundredth time. Her bright red culottes were a blur as she made her way to the prepared table. She untied her red-and-white striped sweater from around her shoulders and put it on the back of her preferred chair to save her spot. “And nonsense. It’s a book club, and book clubs have potlucks.”

The bell jingled again, and Walt Garrison marched in with military precision, followed closely by Dottie Simmons and Hank Hardeman.

“Five forty-two,” Walt announced, consulting his ancient waterproof watch. He wore pressed navy slacks with sharp creases, a matching windbreaker, and the thick-soled shoes his orthopedist insisted he wear for fallen arches. “Right on schedule.”

“We’re early, Walt,” Dottie corrected, adjusting her green cat-eye glasses. “The meeting doesn’t start until six.”

“Early is on time, on time is late,” Walt replied with the air of someone who had been saying the same thing for at least seventy years.

“And late is unacceptable,” Hank finished with a sigh. “We know, Walt. We’ve known since 1972.”

Hank had spent a good part of his career as a federal judge and had finally retired a few years ago at his wife’s urging. He was a no-nonsense sort of man, but he’d taken to wearing shorts since his retirement, showing off knobby knees and the black dress socks he wore pulled up to the middle of his shins.

“Where’s Bea?” I asked, noting the missing member of their quintet.

“Picking up Mr. Whiskers from the groomer,” Dottie explained. “That cat gets more salon appointments than I do.” She patted her freshly cut bob that had been dyed the jet black of her youth.

“Tea will be ready in a minute,” I said. “I’ve got Earl Grey for Walt, oolong for Deidre?—”

“And chamomile for me,” Dottie finished. “You’re a dear to remember.”

“It’s not exactly difficult,” I said. “You’ve ordered the same thing for the past three years.”

“Consistency is the foundation of character,” Hank declared.

I retreated to the counter to prepare their tea. This monthly ritual had become so familiar I could probably do it in my sleep. First Thursday of every month, the Silver Sleuths Murder Society would descend upon my shop for their book club meeting, which inevitably dissolved into island gossip and wild speculation about whatever mystery novel they’d selected.

The bell jingled again, and Bea Livingston swept in like a tropical storm. Today she wore a flowing caftan in a peacock print so bright it had its own weather system, paired with earrings the size of small chandeliers. Her red hair sizzled with electricity.

“Sorry I’m late,” she announced, though she was actually ten minutes early. “Mr. Whiskers was uncooperative.” She held up her hands to display several small scratches. “Battle wounds.”

“I have some antiseptic cream,” I offered.

“Don’t bother. I’ve survived three husbands and more hurricanes than I can count,” she said with a dismissive wave that sent her bangles jangling. “A few cat scratches are nothing.”

She settled into her usual chair and immediately leaned forward. “Now, before we start, has anyone seen our mysterious sheriff today?”

I rolled my eyes. The whole island was fascinated by the new sheriff. Maybe because he’d been brought in because of a scandal. Maybe because he wasn’t a local. Or maybe because none of the gossips could get any personal information out of him. But the Silver Sleuths’ sheriff watch made the CIA look like a bunch of amateurs.

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