Page 6 of Skin and Bones

“We should invite him to join the book club,” Dottie suggested suddenly. “He seems interested in true crime.”

“Occupational hazard, I imagine,” I said dryly.

“No, it’s perfect,” Deidre agreed, warming to the idea. “We need fresh perspectives.”

“And it’d give him a chance to stare at Mabel more,” Bea added with a wink.

“He’s probably very busy with sheriff duties,” I said, adjusting my pearl pendant.

“Not too busy for tea, apparently,” Deidre pointed out, patting my hand.

“Mabel should consider courtship,” Hank announced to the table, as if I weren’t sitting right there. “A respectable widow of her standing would be quite eligible.”

Bea nodded sagely. “In my day, ten years was more than sufficient mourning period. I married my second husband six months after my first had been buried. Of course, Leonard and I had something of a past if you know what I mean.”

“If you mean you were having an affair with him while Earl was alive then we know what you mean,” Deidre said, shaking her head. “The whole island knew.”

Bea pursed her lips tightly, but she didn’t dispute it.

“Patrick would have wanted you to move on,” Dottie said softly, using the exact phrase she’d repeated at years two, five, and seven.

Walt cleared his throat. “Sheriff seems like a decent sort. Responsible. Reliable pension. Good posture.”

I glanced between them, fighting both amusement and exasperation. They’d decided my future with the same certainty they used to plan the church bake sale or determine who was stealing Mrs. Peterson’s newspaper.

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know what to say. I started singing.

“Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather…”

“Ethel Waters or Lena Horne?” Walt asked immediately.

“Lena,” I said. “Though Ethel did it first.”

“Good taste,” he approved. “My Margaret loved Lena Horne. Saw her perform in New York once, before we were married.”

And just like that, we were back on safe ground, with Walt launching into one of his stories about his late wife that somehow always involved either naval intelligence or jazz music, often both. The tension dissolved, and I found myself relaxing back into the familiar rhythm of their conversation.

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. I sipped my tea and half listened as Deidre started discussing the book, with frequent interruptions from the others. The storm was building, but in here, in this moment, everything felt comfortingly normal.

I’d spent ten years building this life—the tea shop, the routines, the careful distance I maintained from anything too emotional or complicated. Ten years as Mabel McCoy, young widow, tea shop owner, honorary senior citizen.

But as another rumble of thunder shook the building, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe, I was ready for a little storm in my life.

Not that I was thinking about Dash Beckett when that thought crossed my mind.

Not at all.

CHAPTER

TWO

Five minutes after I’d locked the door behind the Silver Sleuths, I was gathering my things and eyeing the roiling clouds nervously as I sang about Blue Skies under my breath. Chowder waited at the door, snuffling impatiently and glaring at me accusingly. He wasn’t a fan of the rain.

“Sorry, Chowder,” I told him, crossing to the hook where his yellow raincoat hung. “I know you’d prefer to drive, but we didn’t bring the car today. It’s only three blocks. Let’s get you suited up.”

Chowder’s expression shifted from impatience to outright resignation. Ten years together had taught me his entire emotional range. For someone who lived rent free and liked to pee on hydrangeas, he had a lot of opinions.

I knelt beside him, wrestling the yellow raincoat around his substantial girth. The coat was a tight squeeze these days, thanks to my inability to resist his “I’m starving” eyes at treat time. His legs poked through the armholes with surprising cooperation, though the sound he made was pure martyrdom.

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