Page 65 of Skin and Bones

“Of course he didn’t,” Harrington scoffed. “It wouldn’t fit his narrative of the jealous ex-boyfriend.”

I took a calculated risk. “Do you recall a watch that belonged to Elizabeth? It had tiny diamonds around the face, supposedly with an inscription on the back?”

Harrington’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The watch? Sure. She never took it off.”

“You know who gave it to her?” I asked.

He studied me for a moment and swallowed once. “No. I don’t. She called me the day she died you know. Wanted to meet at the docks that night at ten. Somewhere private we could talk. Said she needed to explain what Brooks had been doing at her apartment. She said she needed my help.”

He stopped abruptly, staring out at the distant silhouette of Grimm Island. “When I got to the docks, she wasn’t there. Her car wasn’t there either. I figured she’d changed her mind.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t know she was already dead.”

“Did you tell Sheriff Milton about your meeting at the docks?” Walt asked.

Harrington laughed—a harsh, empty sound. “I tried. He wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t support his accidental drowning theory.”

A chill ran down my spine. Brooks had said almost exactly the same thing.

“It’s been almost thirty years,” I said. “I’ve seen the ledgers and some of the paperwork. Her research didn’t come up with nothing. Something was going on between your dad, Milton and Paul Cromwell.”

He sighed, looking defeated. “I know. Dad left me with a heck of a mess when he died and I took over the company. It almost broke us for me to get everything back on the up-and-up. There were financial irregularities in the Harbor Development Corporation records. Money through shell companies, kickbacks to officials. She was particularly obsessed with environmental violations—protected wetlands being developed despite conservation laws.”

“Your father’s company was responsible for that development,” Walt pointed out.

“Along with Milton, Cromwell and most of the city council and other high-ranking officials. Even our state reps and a senator.” He turned back to the window. “The Harbor Development was clean compared to some of the other projects happening back then. Elizabeth wasn’t wrong. But she didn’t have the resources or the street smarts to stay out of the kind of trouble that story was bringing her. It was hundreds of millions of dollars on the line. People will do a lot of unscrupulous things for that kind of money.”

“You think someone in that circle killed her?” I asked.

“I think it’s more than possible,” he said. “And Milton would hold all the power to cover it up. It doesn’t matter much now. It’s ancient history. Elizabeth is dead. Milton is in jail. Dad and Cromwell are both gone. I don’t know what else I can tell you. I hope Gerald Calvert finds peace before he passes. I always liked him.”

“Just one more question,” I said as he was clearly preparing to usher us out. “There were very few statements in the case file. Where were you the night she died?”

His expression didn’t even flicker. “At a fundraiser for the Charleston Symphony with my parents until about nine. About two hundred witnesses can place me there. I left early, drove to the docks to meet Elizabeth as we planned, but she never showed. When I didn’t find her there, I went back to the fundraiser after-party. Plenty of people saw me there after eleven.” He glanced at his watch pointedly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in five minutes.”

“You realize that means you don’t have an alibi during the time the medical examiner said Elizabeth was murdered,” I pointed out.

“Not much else I can say,” he said. “All I can tell you is the truth.”

“What do you think?” I asked Walt as we rode the elevator down.

“He was telling the truth about loving her,” Walt said, checking his watch with military precision. “The anger was real too. But he didn’t tell us the whole truth. Now we just have to figure out what’s missing.”

As we walked to the car, I spotted Reynolds across the street in his cruiser, and I gave a quick wave.

“He’s not even trying,” Walt said, unlocking his Volvo and opening the door for me. “A good tail doesn’t let you spot them. That’s just sloppy work.”

I slid into the passenger seat, glancing back at Reynolds. “At least Dash is being thorough. I appreciate the extra eyes after that note.”

Walt harrumphed as he started the engine. “True. Can’t be too careful these days.”

I pondered this as we crossed back over the causeway to Grimm Island, the late afternoon sun glinting off the water. Reynolds maintained his distance behind us, a reassuring presence despite Walt’s critique of his surveillance technique.

My house had transformed into FBI headquarters—minus the efficiency but with a lot more bourbon. The Silver Sleuths had taken over every available surface, spreading evidence photos, timeline charts, and suspect lists across my once-pristine dining room.

“Mrs. Whitaker just dropped off her famous chicken and rice,” Dottie announced, emerging from the kitchen with a casserole dish that could have doubled as a small bathtub. “That makes four casseroles since we got here. Word’s spreading faster than kudzu that your house is the new crime-solving central.”

“At this rate, we could feed the entire sheriff’s department,” I said, navigating around Walt’s meticulously arranged floor files. My vintage heels clicked against the hardwood as I dodged case notes and color-coded index cards.

Every few minutes, blue and red lights swept across my front windows as another patrol car drove by, Dash’s security measures in full effect. In the living room, Bea had commandeered my record player for her Ella Fitzgerald collection, while the television in the den broadcast the local news covering developments in the Vanessa Garfield investigation.

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