Page 20 of Skin and Bones

“Go home and get some sleep. It’s the middle of the night.”

I couldn’t help the growl that came from low in my throat. Arrogant man.

He grinned at me and I stumbled over my own feet as I followed him toward the front door. That grin was a powerful weapon.

At the door, he paused. “Lock this behind me. And be careful, Mabel. Whoever killed Elizabeth might still be on this island.”

“Cheery thought to end my night,” I said dryly.

“Just being thorough.” He glanced out the sidelight window. “Mrs. Pembroke is still watching.”

“She’ll be disappointed. No handcuffs or scandalous goodbye.”

A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Good night, Mrs. McCoy.”

“Good night, Sheriff,” I replied.

I locked the door behind him and leaned against it, watching through the window as he drove away and humming Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” under my breath. Chowder sat at my feet, his expression distinctly judgmental.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him. “It’s just business.”

His snort clearly communicated his disbelief.

“We’ve got work to do,” I said, looking down at the diary in my hands. “And I’ve got a feeling things are about to get complicated.”

CHAPTER

FIVE

I’d just reached the bottom of the stairs at a quarter to five, dressed in my favorite yellow swing dress with white piping and pearl buttons. Chowder clicked down the stairs after me in his yellow vest and bow tie.

“It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing…shoo bop, shoo bop, shoo bop, shoo bop, shoo bop, shoo bop, shoo bop, shoo bop.”

I was trying to perk myself up after only a couple of hours of sleep, and I was praying the concealer I’d applied liberally was doing its job.

My phone rang just as I reached the mudroom to collect my handbag and keys—I decided to drive to work after Dash’s warning. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I answered, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I slipped on my white sandals.

“Sorry to call so early,” Dash said.

“I should’ve known it was you,” I said, scowling. “It’s not even five o’clock in the morning. How did you get my number?”

“I’m a cop,” he said dryly.

My lips pursed and I opened the mudroom door for Chowder. “You saw me three hours ago. What could you have possibly forgotten to say that you couldn’t say in normal daylight hours? I thought you were going home to sleep? I thought?—”

“Mabel,” he said, cutting me off. “Listen, I need to?—”

The line went dead mid-sentence.

“Sheriff?” I said, checking to make sure the call was connected. “Dash?”

Nothing.

A tendril of unease worked its way up my spine. I tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. Chowder whined softly at my feet, sensing my disquiet.

I unlocked the door of my mint-condition powder-blue 1959 Karmann Ghia convertible and Chowder hopped onto the white leather interior, making himself comfortable in the passenger seat.

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