Page 8 of Skin and Bones

“It’s your job to know where everyone on the island lives?” I asked, trying to wring some water from my hair without dripping all over his console.

“I’m doing my best to learn as many as I can,” he said. “But with an island of more than ten thousand residents, it’s a daunting task. But it just so happens you’re the nerve center of the island gossip network. I was told by fifteen different people where you live my first day on the job.”

I laughed despite myself. “I’m Switzerland in the gossip wars. Neutral territory. And it’s unfortunate that my tea shop is literally right in the middle of the island. But the island gossips are amateurs. If you want the real scoop you’ll ask the Silver Sleuths.”

“Noted,” he said, and he smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes.

It was a nice smile—disarming—and I almost relaxed.

Chowder had made himself completely at home, climbing over the center console to inspect the back seat before returning to sit directly between us, his bulging eyes fixed on Beckett with what appeared to be canine fascination.

“Your dog is staring at me,” Beckett observed as we stopped at the island’s only traffic light.

“He’s assessing you,” I explained. “Chowder’s an excellent judge of character.”

Beckett reached over and scratched behind Chowder’s ears, earning a snort of pleasure from the little dog. “And what’s the verdict, Chowder?”

“Jury’s still out,” I said, noticing the tattoo that was barely visible beneath his shirtsleeve.

“Maybe I should deputize him.”

I scratched Chowder behind the ears and sighed. “He’d like that more than you could imagine. He loves to play dress-up. He’s got a closet filled with more clothes than I have. I’m sure he’d love to add a badge to his collection. Though I should warn you, he’s easily bribed.”

Beckett was still smiling when he said, “It seems to be par for the course. I think that’s one of the things that landed my predecessor and a few of his deputies in prison.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or wince. The recent scandal our former sheriff had brought on the community was still fresh.

“Too soon?” he asked.

“Depends on the company,” I said, shrugging. “People have long memories on Grimm Island. And they know how to hold a grudge.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said.

The inside of the Tahoe was warm and dry, smelling faintly of coffee and something woodsy—cologne, maybe, or just Beckett himself. The rain hammered against the roof with increasing intensity, and I silently thanked whatever impulse had led the sheriff to drive by at that precise moment.

Despite my initial irritation with his appearance, good manners insisted I thank him for his hospitality.

“I’m grateful you came by when you did. That weather warning you mentioned was right on the money,” I said, watching lightning flash over the harbor to our right. “I should have listened to you and left earlier.”

“Forecasters occasionally get lucky,” Beckett said with that dry tone I was beginning to suspect as his version of humor. “Though around here, I’m learning the locals are more reliable than any meteorologist.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Someone told you their knee was acting up, so you knew to take the weather warning seriously?”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that I hadn’t heard from him before. “Something like that.”

“How are you finding island life?” I asked, curious to know just one piece of information about the mysterious sheriff all the locals were clamoring to find out about.

“Different,” he said after a moment. “Quieter, in some ways. Louder in others.”

“The gossip, you mean.”

He nodded. “I sneezed while in a meeting yesterday, and by the time I went to lunch, the waitress asked if I needed recommendations for allergy medicine.”

I laughed. “That’s Grimm Island for you. We lack privacy but make up for it in unsolicited advice.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said, slowing as we approached my house at the end of Harbor Street.

My home stood proudly against the stormy backdrop, a classic three-story Charleston single painted a pristine white that glowed softly even in the darkness. Black shutters framed each of the tall windows, their simple elegance a hallmark of Lowcountry architecture. The raised foundation elevated the main floor above potential floodwaters, with a set of white steps leading to the glossy black front door crowned by a fanlight window.

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