Page 46 of Skin and Bones

Dash brought in a large corkboard, along with colored pins, index cards, and string that reminded me of a middle school project I’d once done, and he spread them out over the dining room table.

“Very official,” I observed.

“Law enforcement 101,” he replied. “Visual organization helps see connections we might otherwise miss.”

For the next few hours, we mapped out the case like generals planning a battle. Photos, names, and dates covered the board in a web of colored threads and stark reality. We created categories of players—the deceased (Paul Cromwell, Clinton Harrington Sr.), the incarcerated (Sheriff Milton), the potentially involved (Clint Harrington Jr., Lucinda Milton, Jason Brooks), and witnesses who might have seen something the night Elizabeth died.

“We should also talk to Vanessa,” I said, making another card.

“Vanessa?” Dash raised an eyebrow.

“Milton’s second wife,” I explained. “They married not six months after his divorce from Lucinda was final. The ink was barely dry on those papers. Big scandal back then, not just because of the timing but because she was young enough to be his daughter—early twenties when he was pushing fifty.”

“That would have been around ’97 or ’98?” Dash asked, making a note.

“Not long after Elizabeth died,” I said. “The timeline’s interesting. Lucinda was still his wife when Elizabeth died, but she left him shortly after. Then he married Vanessa.” I tapped my pen thoughtfully. “They were only married a few years, but she still lives on the island.”

“Any theories about that?” Dash asked.

“Island gossip suggested she got a generous divorce settlement,” I said. “She opened that little boutique on Driftwood Street—Coastal Chic. The startup money had to come from somewhere.”

“Another person of interest,” Dash agreed, adding a thread connecting Vanessa to Milton.

I added more names to our list—potential witnesses who had been around in 1996, island residents who might have seen Elizabeth the night she died, former employees of Harrington Construction who might have known about the bribes and kickbacks we’d found in the lighthouse ledgers.

“I’m going to have Deputy Harris search through the old witness statements he found,” Dash said, writing Harris’s name on the board. “See if any of them match the names we’ve collected here. I’ve got him going through all the old boxes one by one. He may find more hidden evidence.”

“Can you trust him?” I asked, remembering how Dash had mentioned he wasn’t sure who at the department he could rely on.

“He’s new,” Dash said, though his expression remained guarded. “Came in after the Milton scandal. No connections to the old guard. I’ve vetted him thoroughly and keep him on a need-to-know basis.” He paused, a shadow crossing his face. “Trust but verify—a lesson I learned the hard way.”

I nodded, feeling a surge of hope that we were actually making progress in uncovering the truth about Elizabeth’s death.

“This is overwhelming,” I said. “Look at all of these people. We haven’t even scratched the surface.”

“The Silver Sleuths need to divide and conquer,” Dash said. “They’ve been deputized. If most of these people still live on the island they could have statements finished over the next couple of days.”

“You realize once we start asking questions on the island you have no hope of keeping this under wraps.”

“Yeah, I realize that,” he said. “And we’re going to use it to our advantage. It’s pretty obvious someone doesn’t want us digging into these old cases. They’ve already trashed the evidence room and sent someone to follow you. Now it’s time to poke the hornet’s nest.”

By the time we finished, the grandfather clock in the hall had long since tolled midnight, its sonorous chimes the only sound in the sleeping house besides our voices.

I stretched, muscles protesting after hours bent over the evidence board. “I should probably call it a night. This is way past my bedtime. I have to be up in just a few hours.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said, collecting his jacket from the back of the chair. I walked him to the door, Chowder waddling alongside us like a furry chaperone. “You’re going to have to explain to me again how it’s okay for me to be here without ruining your reputation, but not for you to come to my house.”

“Because I’m right here where anyone who wants to see what’s going on can,” I said. “Walt even climbed my fence so he could look in the windows when he heard you’d come by in the middle of the night. It’s like having chaperones. We’re basically sending out a signal to the community that no matter what time you come here, everything is aboveboard and no funny business is happening.”

“The logic is mind blowing,” he said. “Is there a rule book or something I can buy about Southern decorum?”

“It’s a learned art,” I told him. “You’ll figure it out.”

“So you’re telling me that because we’re being wide open about my being here in the middle of the night, that no one will assume the worst because people could be looking through your windows to check on your behavior?”

“Well, when you put it like that it does sound odd,” I said, very nervous all of a sudden.

He turned to face me, one hand still on the doorknob. The hall light cast half his face in shadow, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth as it lifted in a slow smile.

---