Page 56 of Skin and Bones

Dash looked down at Chowder and gave him another belly rub. “Lock the doors and turn on the alarm,” Dash instructed. “Call me immediately if anything—and I mean anything—seems off.”

“I’ve got you on speed dial,” I said, herding him out the door.

He leaned in slowly and I tilted my head slightly, and then I felt his lips on my forehead.

“What’s that about?” I asked.

“You’re looking a little dangerous tonight. And somewhat unhinged. I’m playing it safe.”

“Out,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Who kisses someone on the forehead?” I muttered under my breath and then closed the door in his face. He’d looked amused and on the verge of laughter.

“Not a word from you,” I said to Chowder as I set the alarm. “You men are all the same. Do I look like a woman who wanted a kiss on the forehead?”

Chowder didn’t answer. He bolted up the stairs and when I finally got into bed I realized he was already under the covers and snoring on his side.

“Just like a man.”

Despite telling myself I was going to sleep late come hell or high water, I’d been staring at the ceiling and replaying the note in my mind since five o’clock. STOP DIGGING, OR YOU’LL END UP LIKE HER.

Chowder snorted in his sleep, completely unbothered by existential dread or death threats. I envied him his canine simplicity.

I gave up on sleep and dragged myself into the shower where I sang “Que Sera, Sera” until my fingers were pruny and my attitude was sunny. Forty-five minutes later, I’d channeled my inner Doris Day and transformed from frazzled insomniac to something resembling a functioning human.

I chose a navy fit-and-flare dress with yellow lemons printed on it, trimmed with delicate white lace around a slightly lower neckline than I normally wore. I rarely took it out of the closet—the neckline had always felt a bit too daring for daytime on Grimm Island—but today I was feeling bold. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe it was a little revenge for Dash’s patronizing forehead kiss. Conservative enough for lunch with a former sheriff’s wife, but with just enough va-va-voom to make a point.

By nine, I’d consumed enough coffee to give a hummingbird heart palpitations and was pacing my kitchen, rehearsing questions for Lucinda.

“So, when exactly did you realize your husband was taking bribes? And by the way, did he ever mention murdering anyone? Just curious.”

Chowder gave me a side-eye from his perch on the kitchen stool.

“What? Too direct?” I asked him. “Fine. You come up with something better.”

The doorbell rang. I froze, suddenly remembering every horror movie I’d ever seen where the heroine answers the door only to meet her grisly end.

The bell rang again, followed by a familiar voice. “Mabel? It’s Dottie. I’m early.”

I exhaled and shuffled to the door, peering through the peephole to confirm it was indeed Dottie standing on my porch, with Bea right behind her. Dottie was wearing white pants and a moss-green sweater set that matched her glasses, while Bea was resplendent in a turquoise caftan with bold golden jewelry that probably weighed more than she did.

“Sorry,” I said, opening the door. “After last night, I’m a bit jumpy.”

“Understandable,” Dottie replied, stepping inside with Bea close behind, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume in her wake. “I hope you don’t mind I invited Bea along. Lucinda owes her big time for that exposé on Milton’s hidden assets, and she might have looser lips with Bea there.”

“Plus,” Bea added with a sly smile, “Lucinda and I have what you might call a complicated relationship. She provided information for my stories, I helped destroy her ex-husband. The usual island dynamics.” She gave my outfit an appraising once-over. “Look at you with that neckline. Someone’s feeling frisky today.” She winked. “I approve.”

“Good Lord, Mabel,” Dottie said. “You’re wound tighter than a banjo string in a tornado. You need some chamomile. We’ve got time before lunch. Besides, Bea’s got some inside information that might help us with Lucinda.”

I followed them into the kitchen and watched as Dottie put on the kettle for tea. She pushed me down on a stool at the kitchen island and went about the business of getting things set up.

“I’m nervous,” I confessed. “I’m not exactly experienced in extracting information from potential murder witnesses. Between being followed and the note left for me last night, I’m not sure I’m the best choice for a posse member.”

“Nonsense,” Dottie said. “I know you’ve seen Tombstone at least a dozen times. You’re a perfect choice to be in this posse. You should get a gun. It’ll make you feel more authentic.”

“I’ve got one,” I said. “It was Patrick’s. I keep it in a shoebox in the hall closet.”

“Fat lot of good it does you there,” Dottie said, shaking her head.

“Relax,” Bea said. “Just follow our lead. You’ll be fine.” She settled onto the stool next to me. “You know I was married to three of the biggest pathological liars in South Carolina. Trust me, I know when someone’s hiding something.”

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