Page 68 of Skin and Bones

Dash was already moving toward the door. “Let’s ask her.”

Mrs. Pembroke answered her door before we were on her porch, wearing a floral caftan and house slippers. Her hair was in tight rollers lined up like soldiers, and I could see the local news playing behind, the weatherman gesturing at a map while the Evening Report banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

“Well, well,” she said, eyes darting between us. “What brings Grimm Island’s finest to my door?”

“There’s been a break-in at Mrs. McCoy’s house,” Dash explained. “Did you happen to notice anyone unusual in the area today?”

“With all the comings and goings at your place today, it’s been like Grand Central Station over there. Looks like a retirement home with all the old people coming in and out, that delivery boy from the bakery, cops driving by, and those ladies from your church bringing enough casseroles to feed a small army.” She paused, leaning in conspiratorially. “But there was someone who caught my attention specifically.”

“Who?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

“A police officer,” she said, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “About an hour ago. I noticed because he parked at the side of Norma and George’s house and then walked to your side door bold as can be and let himself in.”

Dash went rigid beside me. “An officer? You’re certain?”

“I know a uniform when I see one,” she replied with a sniff. “Though I couldn’t see his face. Kept his head down. Given all the police activity around here lately, I didn’t think much of it at the time. He was in and out in just a minute or so. But it struck me as strange, especially when I called out a hello and he didn’t answer.”

“Can you describe him at all?” Dash pressed. “Height? Build?”

“Tall,” she said, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Broad shouldered. Moved quickly. Actually, now that you mention it I couldn’t see his hair color. He was wearing one of those police jackets and had the hood up.”

Dash handed her his card, instructing her to call him directly if she saw anyone else around my property. The muscle in his jaw worked overtime as we walked back across the street.

“Someone in uniform,” he said, voice deadly quiet. “Used their position to access your home. I can’t stand dirty cops.”

I shivered, but not from the evening breeze.

Deidre, Hank, and Walt were staring out the window, watching us walk back across the street, and Dottie was on the front porch, standing like a sentinel with her hands on her hips.

“What happened?” Dottie demanded as we approached. “Emma Jean Pembroke has the biggest mouth this side of the Mason-Dixon.”

“She saw someone in a police uniform sneaking around the house,” I explained as we moved inside. The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla wafted from the kitchen where Deidre had apparently decided stress-baking was the appropriate response to our situation. I spotted a fresh batch of snickerdoodles cooling on the counter.

“A police officer?” Walt’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I told you we should have taken more precautions with security around here.”

“Not now, Walt,” Dottie said, patting his arm. “Let’s hear what the sheriff has to say.”

Dash quickly brought them up to speed while I sank into a kitchen chair, the reality of the situation finally hitting me. Someone had been in my house—walking through rooms where I slept, ate, and lived—without invitation or warning. The violation of privacy made my skin crawl.

“Here,” Deidre said, putting a steaming cup of something that smelled suspiciously like alcohol and honey in front of me. “It’s a hot toddy. For your nerves. And it’s good for a sore throat. Just in case you have one.”

I took a sip and coughed as liquid fire blazed a trail down my throat. “Any word from Bea?” I asked, my eyes watering.

As if summoned by her name, the front door burst open and Bea’s voice echoed through the foyer. “You won’t believe what I’ve found.”

She swept into the kitchen moments later, bearing an enormous stack of file folders and trailing a cloud of Opium perfume that could knock a man unconscious at twenty paces. She wore a turquoise silk caftan and a matching turban on her head.

“These old bones may be slow, but my brain still works at full speed,” Bea announced, dropping her stack onto my kitchen table with a hefty thump.

“Did you just come from telling fortunes at the fair?” Deidre asked.

“Hush, Deidre,” Bea said. “My grandson?—”

“Which one?” Deidre interrupted.

“Steven,” Bea said. “He’s the computer genius. Dresses like those emaciated models in Vogue. Never wears socks.”

“Gotcha,” Deirdre said.

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