Page 7 of Skin and Bones

As I fastened the snaps under his belly, I made a mental list of things I needed to do as soon as I got home—order groceries, do laundry, organize Chowder’s clothes closet. In all honesty, I didn’t have a lot to do, so my night would probably look like most of my nights—in bed with a good book and a glass of Moscato.

Pretty pathetic when you think about it. Ten years was a long time to be alone, but I involved myself in things in the community and I had the tea shop. It was just the nights when I felt myself start to go a little mad. Not that I could share that bit of information with anyone. If you asked the citizens of Grimm Island, I was always perfectly presentable and put together, married to the memory of Patrick and the huge house he left me. I was Widow McCoy, and like a zoo animal, people would watch and wave and whisper at me as I sat in my rocker on my piazza, watching the boats pass by.

I sang louder, trying to drown out my own thoughts as I pulled on the green raincoat with little pink flowers and gathered my enormous pink umbrella. Umbrella, keys, purse, dog. The standard checklist for leaving anywhere.

“Ready for home, handsome?” I asked Chowder, who responded with a snort.

Outside, a light drizzle had begun, but it was nothing that warranted opening the umbrella yet, though I did pull up my hood. The evening air hung heavy with that particular coastal dampness that makes everything feel closer, more immediate. Harbor Street was quiet, the storefronts already darkened for the night, save for the warm glow of Grimm Island Books where Howard Miller was undoubtedly lost in his inventory sheets.

We headed down the sidewalk, Chowder’s nails clicking against the concrete in a companionable rhythm. I let my mind drift back to The Graves of Walter County, excited to start the book for myself. Deidre had given me the extra copy she’d had in her bag. During their meeting, I’d learned more than I wanted to know about a body’s decomposition when buried in a shallow grave in the woods. Why Dottie would keep pictures of cadavers from the Body Farm on her phone was a mystery to me, and I knew I’d be picturing them as I read, macabre as it was.

A loud crack of thunder electrified the air around me, and Chowder and I both jumped in surprise. Then the rain started, the drops fat and determined, landing with purpose on my raincoat. I fumbled with the umbrella clasp, muttering under my breath as the sky seemed to open up all at once.

“Good grief,” I said, finally wrestling the umbrella open. But the wind immediately tried to turn it inside out. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

Chowder gave me a look that could only be described as accusatory, as if I had personally arranged the downpour to inconvenience him.

“Don’t give me that look,” I told him. “Just start walking.”

The rain intensified with Hollywood-level dramatic timing, sheets of it now slashing through the glow of the streetlights. My vintage sea-green dress was already soaked at the hem and my shoes were a disaster. The hair around my face hung in wet ropes and stuck to my skin.

A passing truck sent a wave of murky water over my already drenched legs, and I let loose with a string of words that would have given the Grimm Island Ladies’ Auxiliary collective heart failure. Growing up with a former merchant marine for a father had its linguistic advantages, even if I never deployed them in polite company.

“I think I mentioned that you’d be cutting it close,” a familiar voice yelled out through the noise of the storm. “But now doesn’t seem like the right time to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“Generous of you,” I said, gritting my teeth, but not turning to look at him. I blew out a slow breath. Of course Sheriff Beckett would be here now in time to see me looking like a drowned rat.

I finally turned to see his unmarked white Tahoe pulled up alongside us, window rolled down just enough to reveal his face.

“Sheriff,” I acknowledged, trying to maintain some dignity as water dripped from my hood and down my collar.

“Get in,” he said, nodding toward the passenger side. “I’ll drive you home.”

I hesitated, still thinking about his “I told you so” crack. Not to mention he was practically a stranger. Of course, stranger danger probably didn’t apply to police officers. But he did look rather ominous. He was no longer in uniform, but wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt so he looked like he’d just come from a heist. He definitely looked like a man you wouldn’t want to tangle with in a dark alley.

And then he smiled as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, and I shivered as another stream of water went down the neck of my coat.

Before I could give him my best Southern cold shoulder and continue walking, Chowder made the choice for both of us.

With surprising agility for a dog shaped like a loaf of sourdough, he waddled to the passenger door and sat expectantly, head tilted up toward the handle. The traitor.

“Your dog has more common sense than you do,” Beckett observed, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“He’s not known for his loyalty,” I said, squelching over to join my canine Judas. “Not when comfort’s at stake.”

I opened the door and gave Chowder a boost into the seat, and he scrambled toward Beckett with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, leaving muddy paw prints on the pristine seat.

“Oh, goodness gravy, I’m sorry about your upholstery,” I said, cringing as I slid in after him, dripping all over the floor mats.

“It’s a police vehicle,” Beckett said with a shrug. “It’s seen worse than a little rain and muddy paw prints.”

“Well, that’s terrifying,” I said, trying not to imagine the variations of fluids that had come before me.

Beckett put the Tahoe in drive and pulled away from the curb. “End of Harbor Street, right? The big white house with the piazza?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a good memory, Sheriff.”

“It’s my job to know the island,” he said simply.

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