Page 57 of Skin and Bones

“And I’ve spent forty years analyzing evidence,” Dottie added, putting a teacup in front of me and pouring out from the pot. “People forget I used to get information out of bodies for a living. Living people are probably that much easier.”

Bea waved a bejeweled hand as Dottie poured her tea. “I hate chamomile,” she said, sniffing the cup. “Taste like weeds.” She pulled out a flask from her purse and poured in a generous amount. “You know I wrote that exposé on Milton’s hidden assets during his and Lucinda’s divorce?”

“Dottie mentioned it,” I nodded.

“What she probably didn’t tell you,” Bea continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, “is that Lucinda was my source.”

Dottie’s eyebrows shot up. “You never told me that!”

“Professional ethics, darling,” Bea replied with a smirk. “A journalist never reveals her sources. But given the circumstances, I think the statute of limitations has expired.” She took a sip of her tea and grimaced. “Still tastes like weeds.”

“Get to the point, Beatrice,” Dottie said.

“Anyway,” Bea said, giving Dottie a narrow-eyed glare, “Lucinda brought me photocopies of bank statements, property deeds, all filed under shell companies. Milton had millions tucked away that she never knew about until she started digging.”

“So Lucinda wasn’t just going to let Milton get away with it,” I said, thinking it through. “She fought back with the legal system.”

“Honey, that woman had put up with decades of bad behavior—multiple affairs, being degraded in public—she turned victimhood into a revenge masterclass,” Bea said admiringly. “Milton never knew what hit him. She didn’t just want her fair share—she wanted justice. And she got it.”

An hour later, armed with Bea’s insights, we drove to The Blue Crab—a Lowcountry institution housed in a pristine Colonial-style building at the end of the municipal pier. With its crisp white columns, wraparound veranda, and panoramic harbor views, it was the kind of place where reservations were made months in advance and the maître d’ knew which families had status. The interior featured polished heart pine floors, crystal chandeliers, and tables draped in starched white linens that were refreshed between courses. It was elegant without being stuffy, refined without being pretentious—exactly what you’d expect from one of the island’s oldest establishments.

“Perfect choice for meeting Lucinda,” Bea said as we were seated at a prime window table overlooking the water. “Public, but discreet. I have a standing reservation here. I did a little favor for the owner once upon a time.”

I scanned the dining room nervously.

“Relax,” Dottie advised. “No one’s going to try anything in broad daylight with two dozen witnesses around.”

“I’ve read enough murder mysteries to know that’s exactly when they try something,” I countered, adjusting the silverware that was already perfectly aligned. “Poison in the sweet tea, shellfish added to food when they know you’re allergic…”

“You’re starting to think like Walt,” Bea laughed, arranging her napkin across her lap with theatrical precision. “Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing a wire and speaking in code phrases. Bless him.”

“Walt’s paranoia is infectious,” Dottie agreed. “But in this case, a little caution isn’t the worst idea.”

Before I could respond, a woman entered the restaurant, and Dottie straightened in her seat. “There she is,” she murmured, raising a hand in greeting.

Lucinda Milton was nothing like I’d imagined. I’d expected a shriveled, bitter woman worn down by decades of Milton’s shenanigans. Instead, the woman gliding toward our table looked like she’d just stepped off a yacht in Monaco. Tall, slender, with silver hair swept into a perfect chignon that probably hadn’t moved since the Clinton administration. Her white linen pants and coral blouse screamed “I summer in Martha’s Vineyard,” and the chunky silver necklace around her neck could’ve doubled as a weapon in a pinch.

“Dorothy,” she greeted, air-kissing Dottie. “It’s been an age.”

“Lucinda, you look marvelous,” Dottie replied, gesturing to the empty chair.

“Beatrice,” Lucinda acknowledged with a glacial smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Still spilling secrets, I see.”

“Only the ones that deserve spilling,” Bea shot back. “Your divorce exposé is still taught in journalism classes at Charleston College.”

A smirk played at Lucinda’s lips. “We both came out ahead in the Roy Milton stupidity sweepstakes.”

“This is Mabel McCoy,” Dottie interjected. “She owns The Perfect Steep tea shop on Harbor Street.”

Lucinda’s sharp green eyes sized me up like I was a racehorse she was considering buying. “Patrick’s widow,” she stated, no question mark required. “I sent flowers. I knew his grandmother. Terrible tragedy.”

“Yes,” I said automatically, the response worn smooth from a decade of repetition.

She settled into her chair with the grace of someone who’d never worried about making ends meet. A waitress materialized instantly—money still commanded that kind of service, even in a place like The Blue Crab.

“So,” Lucinda said once drink orders were placed, “Dorothy tells me you’re digging into my ex-husband’s business. Can’t imagine voluntarily spending time on Roy, but color me intrigued.”

“The sheriff has reopened the Elizabeth Calvert case,” I said, cutting to the chase.

---