“I don’t know why,” Dottie said, shrugging. “Maybe she felt sorry for her. Lucinda knew better than anyone what it was like to be married to Milton.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “But it never set right with me. It’ll be interesting to talk to Lucinda tomorrow.”
“You think she and Vanessa are in contact now?”
“That would be a fascinating development, wouldn’t it?” Dottie mused, a sly smile crossing her face. “Two women with every reason to hate each other, turning out to be partners?”
The Perfect Steep was still buzzing into the dinner rush, and I was glad for Genevieve’s help. Word of our investigation had spread through town with the efficiency of a Cat 5 hurricane, and it seemed like half of Grimm Island had suddenly developed an urgent need for tea and sandwiches. The usual after-dinner crowd had swelled to three times its normal size, with people lingering over their cups and craning their necks whenever the bell above the door jingled.
I moved between tables, fielding not-so-subtle questions with deliberate deflection. No, I haven’t heard anything about unmarked graves. Sorry, I don’t know why the sheriff was looking at old harbor development records. Yes, these are new earrings. No, they weren’t a gift from the sheriff.
By closing time, my face hurt from maintaining a pleasant smile, and my ears were ringing from the constant hum of speculative conversation. As I flipped the sign to CLOSED, ushered Genevieve out the door and locked it behind her, I let out a sigh of relief that whistled between my teeth.
I didn’t mind the extra business, but the barely concealed nosiness was exhausting. Still, I’d learned from the snippets of conversation that our investigation was stirring up old memories. I’d overheard Mrs. Townsend telling her bridge club that her late husband had mentioned irregularities with the harbor project permits. And Mr. Caldwell had reminisced about Elizabeth Calvert’s unfortunate accident with a knowing look that suggested he’d never believed it was an accident at all.
People were talking. And where there was talk, there were slip-ups. Secrets couldn’t stay buried forever.
As I wiped down the last table, my mind kept circling back to Vanessa and Lucinda. You couldn’t be married to a man like Milton and not know some of his secrets.
I moved to the back of the shop to empty the dishwasher, the mundane task soothing after a day of high-tension conversations. The gentle rhythm of stacking cups and saucers grounded me, a reminder of the simple life I’d built here.
I was so lost in thought that at first, I didn’t notice the cool draft from the back door. When it finally registered, I froze, cup in hand, the porcelain suddenly cold against my fingers. I knew I’d locked that door after taking out the trash earlier. I always locked it—island crime rates notwithstanding, ten years of living alone had made me meticulous about security.
Setting down the cup with a deliberately steady hand, I reached for my phone. But before I could dial, I noticed something else—a small white envelope on the floor just inside the door, as if it had been slipped underneath.
My name was written on it in block letters.
Common sense said to leave it alone, to call Dash immediately. But curiosity had always been my weakness, and before I could stop myself, I picked up the envelope and tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper with eight words written in block letters that turned my blood to ice water.
STOP DIGGING, OR YOU’LL END UP LIKE HER.
The paper dropped from my fingers like it had suddenly caught fire. My heart hammered against my ribs with enough force to register on the Richter scale, and my lungs seemed to have forgotten their basic function. Every shadow in my usually cozy shop transformed into potential hiding places for whoever had invaded my space. The familiar squeak of the floorboard near the kitchen nearly sent me through the ceiling, until I realized it was just Chowder waddling in from his nap, blissfully unaware that his owner was two heartbeats away from a cardiac event.
I fumbled for my phone, dropping it once before managing to find Dash’s number with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else. I jabbed at the screen and held my breath.
“I was wondering when you’d call me,” Dash answered, his voice warm and teasing.
“Someone was in my shop,” I said, skipping the pleasantries. My voice came out surprisingly steady for someone whose internal organs were performing an Irish step dance. “They left a note. A threat.”
The silence that followed was brief but loaded.
“Lock the door and don’t touch anything else. I’m on my way.” The dangerous edge in his voice made the hair on my arms stand at attention.
I stood frozen, staring at the eight words that had turned my quaint tea shop into a crime scene, when something warm pressed against my legs. Chowder looked up at me, his wrinkled face scrunched with what appeared to be genuine concern—a departure from his usual expressions of judgment or hunger.
“Someone’s playing for keeps, buddy,” I whispered, oddly comforted by twenty pounds of snorting, shedding bulldog. Chowder pawed at my ankle and whined, which in bulldog was practically a soliloquy of emotional support.
The initial shock began to fade, replaced by something unexpected—determination. Whoever left this note wasn’t making a casual threat. They were scared. Scared of what we might uncover. Scared we were getting close.
I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. Elizabeth Calvert had been silenced permanently for seeking the truth. I’d be darned if a threatening note was going to stop me from finding it.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Dash arrived in less than five minutes, blue lights flashing as his cruiser stopped outside The Perfect Steep. Deputy Harris was with him, the young officer looking simultaneously nervous and determined as he followed Dash’s lead. Where Dash moved with the experience of someone who’d seen it all, Harris had the eager alertness of a rookie getting his first real taste of detective work.
“Where is it?” Dash asked, scanning the shop as if expecting to find the intruder still hiding behind the pastry case.