Page 66 of Skin and Bones

“They’re calling it the Grimm Island Conspiracy now,” Hank reported, looking up from the Charleston paper. “Your name’s mentioned three times.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Just what I need.”

“Mabel!” Bea’s voice carried above Ella’s smooth contralto. “Get in here! I’ve got something juicy!”

I found her at my dining table, a half-empty sidecar beside her and an expression that meant somebody’s secrets were about to become public knowledge.

“My contact at First Island Bank just called,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper despite the fact that we were alone. “Vanessa Garfield deposited ten thousand dollars in cash the day before she died.”

“Blackmail money?” I asked, sliding into the chair opposite her.

“Or she sold information,” she replied, tapping red-tipped nails against her glass.

Dash appeared in the doorway. He’d changed out of his uniform and wore jeans and a navy-blue henley that had the top couple of buttons unbuttoned. My lungs started to ache and I realized I was holding my breath. I fought the urge to slap some sense into myself.

The doorbell chimed for what felt like the hundredth time today.

“It’s Meredith Johnson with a peach cobbler,” Deidre called from the hallway. “She’s asking if she can use the powder room—claims it’s an emergency.”

“Tell her the plumbing’s acting up,” I called back. “Last thing we need is the island rumor mill getting a firsthand look at our evidence board.”

“You’re learning,” Dash said with approval. “I might make a detective out of you yet.”

“Only if I can pick my uniform,” I said. “I’m not wearing those ugly pants.”

“We should check Vanessa’s phone records,” Dottie suggested, joining us with a steaming mug of what smelled like her special ginger tea. “See who she was talking to before she died.”

“I’ve already got the warrant and sent in a request,” Dash said. “Should have them at any time.”

The discussion continued as theories bounced around the room like pinballs, each one setting off new possibilities. My eyes grew heavier with each passing minute, the adrenaline that had kept me going finally ebbing away.

“I need to step away from this for a bit,” I announced, interrupting Hank’s detailed analysis of offshore banking laws. “My brain feels like it’s been through a blender.”

“Take all the time you need,” Deidre said kindly. “The others will get settled and things will quieten down. Don’t worry. I’m going to make myself comfortable in the living room with my tea and book.”

I knew better than to argue about my unwanted security detail. At least Deidre would be quiet company.

“Before you go,” I said to Dash.

“Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” he asked, smiling.

“Sorry,” I said. “My manners disappeared with the last casserole. I was just going to say that Clint Harrington admitted that there was impropriety with the development deal. And he named Milton, Cromwell, and his dad as being involved, along with a handful of other prominent citizens.”

“It’s motive,” Dash said. “Just because he confessed to his father’s crimes doesn’t mean he didn’t commit murder. That company was his legacy. He’d have as much of a reason for Elizabeth to be dead as anyone.” He gave me a long stare and then moved in closer, bringing his hand to the side of my face. “You’re asleep on your feet.”

“Don’t kiss my forehead,” I said, slightly dazed by his touch.

He grinned. “What should I kiss instead?”

The thought scrambled my brains and something incoherent came out of my mouth.

“A question for another night,” he said, taking a step back. “Go get some sleep, Mabel.”

I’d thought about taking a cold shower, but I couldn’t put myself through that kind of torture. I’d spent forty-five luxurious minutes under the hot spray, and I’d thanked my lucky stars for the invention of the tankless water heater.

By the time I emerged from the shower, the house had quieted considerably—Bea’s records replaced by the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Wrapped in my vintage silk robe, I padded downstairs to the kitchen in search of something to eat that wasn’t encased in cream-of-mushroom soup.

I flipped on the light, already mentally inventorying the contents of my refrigerator—and stopped dead in my tracks.

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