Page 22 of Skin and Bones

“The diary must be what they’re looking for,” I said, clutching it tightly. “What should we do?”

Walt’s expression grew serious. “First, we need to make a copy. If you trust me with it I’ll take it over to the library and use the copy room. They open at seven, but hardly anyone is there first thing in the morning except old Mr. Verlander. He likes to have his coffee and a muffin at his desk every morning, so I don’t think he’ll give me too much trouble. I promise I’ll bring it right back.”

I bit my lip nervously. “I do trust you. But if someone broke into the sheriff’s office looking for the diary then they might be willing to hurt whoever has it.”

“Then I’ll make copies for all of us,” he said. “He can’t hurt us all, and the more copies we have the more power we take from him.”

I nodded and handed over the diary. He immediately put it in the inside zipper pocket of his windbreaker and zipped it up.

“Okay, but if you’re not back in an hour I’m closing up and coming to look for you.”

“Deal,” he said. “I think we should call an emergency meeting of the Silver Sleuths. But not here—too many eyes. Your house, tonight.”

I nodded, the seriousness of the situation sinking in. “I’ll let the others know.”

Walt headed for the door, then paused. “Take a different route home tonight. And Mabel?” His eyes were steel serious. “Watch your back.”

With that cheery advice, he left, and I returned to my scones, my mind whirling. I went through the motions of opening the shop and serving my morning regulars, all while keeping an eye on the door, hoping Dash would walk in.

He didn’t. But I’d at least felt the tension leave my shoulders when Walt had walked back in, almost exactly an hour later, and passed me the diary like we were doing an undercover drug deal.

When I still hadn’t heard from Dash by midafternoon, I took matters into my own hand. I put the Back in Fifteen Minutes sign on the door, left Chowder napping in the window seat to stand guard, and drove to the sheriff’s office.

The place was buzzing like an overturned beehive. Deputy Mark Reynolds was at the front desk, looking harried. When he spotted me, his usual easy smile flickered briefly through the stress.

“Mabel,” he said, his voice warmer than his professional demeanor would typically allow. “This isn’t the best time for your afternoon tea delivery.”

“I need to speak with Sheriff Beckett,” I said, trying to peek past him into the main office area. I happened to notice a hallway at the far backside of the large square room where desks were shoved together, and it was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.

Reynolds lowered his voice, leaning slightly over the desk. “He’s been in meetings all day with the mayor and county commissioner. Something big’s happening.” His eyes showed genuine concern. “Everything okay at the shop? You look worried.”

“Just need to talk to the sheriff,” I said, not wanting to reveal too much, even to a friendly face.

He studied me for a moment, then sighed. “I can try to get a message to him when he’s free. You know I’d help if I could, Mabel.”

As Reynolds spoke, the door behind him swung open, and Deputy Larson stepped out, his perpetual scowl deepening when he saw me. Where Reynolds had been on the force for decades, a constant in the island’s law enforcement landscape, Larson was relatively new—hired during the Milton administration about ten years ago. He was hard edged where Reynolds was soft, all sharp angles and rigid posture. The creases in his uniform were military precise, his dark buzz cut equally severe.

“Another tourist lost her way?” Larson asked.

“Mrs. McCoy’s looking for the sheriff,” Reynolds explained, his tone noticeably cooler toward his colleague.

“Join the club,” Larson said, cutting his eyes toward me. “Seems our fearless leader had more important things to do than explain why someone broke into the evidence room on his watch.”

The hostility in his voice was unmistakable.

“That’s enough, Larson,” Reynolds admonished quietly, his protective instinct flaring briefly as he glanced at me.

Larson’s jaw tightened, but he backed off, turning his attention to me. “What’s your business with Beckett, anyway? Someone file a complaint about those relics you sell?”

“I run a tea shop,” I corrected, forcing a pleasant smile. “If you have questions about my shop you should come in or ask Jennifer. She comes in on Mondays and Thursdays every week like clockwork.”

Reynolds’ eyes got big and he went into a coughing fit, though I could’ve sworn I heard some laughter in there.

Larson colored slightly, and I knew I might have gone too far, which was not at all like me. Proper Southern women weren’t confrontational. But there was something about Larson that just rubbed me the wrong way, and the words popped out of my mouth before they’d barely formed in my brain.

Everyone on the island knew Larson and his wife were trying to “work things out.” But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that wasn’t going to happen as long as his cruiser was parked on the side street of Jennifer Newsom’s home twice a week.

Something flickered across Larson’s face—so brief I almost missed it—but I had a feeling I’d just made an enemy.

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