Page 32 of Skin and Bones

“You’re staring, dear,” Deidre murmured, the amusement in her voice dragging me back to reality. Her words felt like being doused with cold water, and I blinked rapidly, trying to regain my composure.

“I was just…assessing the situation,” I said lamely, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress as if I could wipe away the evidence of my thoughts.

“Mmhmm,” Deidre said, clearly unconvinced. “The ‘situation’ does look quite appealing in that suit.”

I ignored her comment and focused on our mission. “Remember the plan. We mingle and act inconspicuous and then join the first lighthouse tour at eight. Dash will create a distraction at the second level while we search the third.”

“I may be old, but my memory’s just fine,” Deidre said, patting my arm. “Now, let’s go charm some potential suspects.”

I scanned the area, searching for familiar faces. Dottie and Hank were engaged in animated conversation with the historical society president, Mrs. Elvina Whitaker, a formidable woman in her sixties whose family had been on the island since before the Civil War.

“Mabel, darling!” Mrs. Whitaker exclaimed when she spotted me. “How lovely to see you this evening. You’re looking radiant as always.”

I allowed her to envelop me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and air-kisses. “I wouldn’t miss it, Elvina. The lighthouse preservation fund is so important to the island’s heritage. It was a passion project of Patrick’s.”

“Rest his soul,” she said, touching her hand to her bosom. “And speaking of preservation, have you met our new sheriff? Such a dedicated public servant. He’s been asking the most interesting questions about the lighthouse’s history. Too bad he’s an outsider.”

My gaze traveled back to Dash, who was now speaking with Mayor Cromwell. The mayor’s face was flushed, his hand gestures growing more animated by the second. Whatever they were discussing, it clearly wasn’t pleasant small talk about the weather.

“We’ve crossed paths,” I said neutrally. “He seems very…thorough.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Whitaker replied, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Between us, I think Mayor Cromwell is feeling a bit threatened. The new sheriff doesn’t play by the old island rules, if you catch my meaning. I’m trying to arrange a time for him to meet my daughter.”

I made a noncommittal sound. Josephine Whitaker had been a few years behind me in school, and she was a sweet girl, but she didn’t have the sense that God gave a goose. Of course, I didn’t really know a thing about Dashiel Beckett. He might have a fondness for empty-headed nitwits.

“There you are!” Bea’s voice rang out, causing heads to turn as she made her entrance—fifteen minutes late, exactly as planned. She glided toward us in her signature turquoise raw silk cocktail dress, the peacock feathers at the collar pluming dramatically around her neck and framing her face. Her red hair was styled in an elaborate updo that caught the light like a flame.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Deidre said, giving Bea a knowing look.

“Darling, one must time these things perfectly,” Bea replied, adjusting one of her enormous turquoise earrings. “The first fifteen minutes of any party are dreadfully dull. Besides, an entrance is wasted if everyone isn’t already there to appreciate it.”

“That dress is certainly an attention-getter,” Deidre said. “How many peacocks had to die for you to look that silly?”

“Oh, shut up, Deidre,” Bea said good-naturedly. “At least I don’t look like I’m going to a funeral for a tinsel maker.”

I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh. One thing I’d learned about older people since hanging out with the Silver Sleuths was they never held back on their words and it was almost impossible to insult them.

“Did you see Mayor Cromwell’s face when you walked in?” I asked, interrupting their bickering. “I don’t think he’s a fan of yours, Bea.”

“Oh, I imagine not,” Bea said with satisfaction. “I can’t stand that blowhard. And I’ve still got juicy stuff on him I never put in print.”

“Bea,” I said, covering my mouth to hide my laughter. “Be nice.”

“Good Lord, what for?” she said, grinning. “Nice girls never have any fun. Remember that, darling.” She glanced toward the lighthouse and pitched her voice louder than usual. “The first tour starts soon. We should all go together.”

“Subtle,” I murmured as she swept past.

“Subtlety is for people under seventy,” she whispered back. “I don’t have time for it anymore.”

As eight o’clock approached, I excused myself from a mind-numbing conversation with Dr. Peterson about his recent gallbladder surgery and made my way toward the lighthouse entrance.

Dash intercepted me before I reached the gathering tour group.

“Everything’s set,” he said quietly, falling into step beside me. “Dottie created a small diversion in the museum. Knocked over a replica of an antique sextant that was precariously balanced on its display stand. They’ll be busy examining it for damage for at least fifteen minutes.”

I winced, thankful it was only a replica. “I think you’ve created a monster. They’re really getting into this.”

We reached the lighthouse entrance where a small crowd had gathered for the tour. The historical society docent, a retired schoolteacher named Mrs. Collins, was explaining the lighthouse’s construction and operational history.

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