Page 24 of Skin and Bones

“Really? Those are just starting to bloom,” I said with a sigh.

I unlocked the door, stepped into the mudroom, and secured the dead bolt behind us. Then I immediately started checking windows and drawing curtains, humming “Mind Your Own Business” by Hank Williams under my breath. Nothing like a pointed musical warning to set the mood for a clandestine meeting about murder.

The phone rang just as I finished closing the living room drapes.

“Mabel, dear, is everything all right?” Mrs. Pembroke’s voice crackled through the line, her concern as transparent as plastic wrap. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re drawing all your curtains. At six thirty in the evening. On a Saturday night. You never close your curtains.”

“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Pembroke,” I said, moving to close another set of curtains while I talked. “Just getting a headache and wanted to keep the light out.”

“A headache? Are you sure you’re not preparing for a gentleman caller? I saw the sheriff’s car drive by twice earlier.”

I rolled my eyes. “No gentleman callers, Mrs. Pembroke.”

“Well, if you need anything—aspirin, a casserole, an alibi—you just let me know.”

After hanging up and changing into my favorite high-waisted navy swing trousers with white side buttons, a soft white button-down, and white tennis shoes, I tied my hair back with a red scarf. Comfort with a dash of vintage—my at-home armor for facing conspiracy.

I had just finished setting out glasses for Bea’s inevitable bourbon when I heard someone pull into my driveway, followed by the sound of multiple car doors slamming.

“Showtime,” I muttered.

The doorbell chimed three times in quick succession—a pattern that could only be Walt.

I opened the door to find all five Silver Sleuths on my porch, looking like they were ready for battle.

“You’re late,” Walt announced, checking his watch as he breezed past me.

“I live here, Walt. I can’t be late to my own house,” I replied, accepting Deidre’s kiss on the cheek.

“Did you know Mrs. Pembroke’s at her window with what appears to be opera glasses?” Deidre asked.

“She said it was for my protection,” I said, trying not to grimace.

Dottie shuffled in behind Deidre and handed me a tin of homemade cookies. “Those contain dark chocolate. Good for the heart.” Her hair was as black as an inkpot and I wondered if she’d been to the salon earlier in the day.

Everyone had been to my home enough times that they felt comfortable going through my cabinets for plates and cups. Bea swept in with a large casserole dish of jambalaya, and Walt arrived carrying what appeared to be surveillance equipment.

“Walt made us all meet at the library and condense to one vehicle in case we were being followed,” Dottie explained as they settled around my dining room table. “Took us twenty minutes to get here because he took every back road on the island.”

After everyone had filled their plates with Bea’s excellent jambalaya, Walt pulled out a manila envelope and slid it across the table to me like a scene from Mission: Impossible. Nervous laughter bubbled up inside of me, but I managed to tamp it down so no one thought I was insane.

“Your copy so you don’t have to use the original,” he said. “I delivered everyone else’s copy earlier so they had time to review it before this briefing.”

“And what fascinating reading it was,” Bea said, her brash voice cutting through the room. “Poor girl. So young, so bright. A woman who knew what she wanted and what she liked.” Bea waggled her eyebrows. “Especially in bed. Some of those pages were quite racy.”

“She had the makings of a fine romance novelist,” Deidre agreed. “I read the juicy parts twice.”

“Who cares about that crap?” Dottie said. “Some poor fella whose name starts with C is cemented in history as an enthusiastic, but quick, lover. And the guy whose name starts with a J was a stallion.” Dottie dug into her jambalaya. “I skimmed most of those pages so I could get to the good stuff. That last entry about the lighthouse gave me chills,” she said, shivering delicately. “Poor girl was scared down to her toes.”

“Which is why we need to keep these diaries hidden,” Walt said. “If Elizabeth hid something in the lighthouse then we can bet it’s something her killer doesn’t want us to find. Trust no one.”

“Not even each other?” Bea asked, arching a perfectly penciled eyebrow.

“Especially not each other,” Walt replied without a hint of irony.

“Bunch of baloney, Walt,” Dottie muttered. “Maybe you need to ask Doc Givens to adjust your medication before you turn into a full-blown conspiracy theorist.”

“My medication is fine, thank you very much,” Walt said stiffly.

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