Page 87 of Skin and Bones

Ten minutes later, Frank was settled in my living room, a steaming cup of Earl Grey in his weathered hands. He didn’t seem too shocked to be surrounded by the Silver Sleuths. I had to give him props for that.

“Start from the beginning,” Dash encouraged, his voice gentle but firm. “What did you see the night Elizabeth died?”

Frank took a sip of tea, his hands steadier now. The scent of bergamot filled the room, calming my nerves like it always did. “I was working the night shift at the marina. Security guard, walking the perimeter every hour or so. It was quiet that night—Tuesday, not many boats coming or going.”

He set the cup down carefully on its saucer, the porcelain clinking softly. “Around nine, I saw a young woman by the docks. Pretty girl, blond hair. She seemed agitated, kept checking her watch. Then a man showed up—not who she was expecting, I could tell that right away from her body language.”

“How so?” Hank asked.

“They immediately started arguing,” Frank explained. “You could tell they knew each other. I couldn’t hear everything, but their voices carried across the water.”

“What were they arguing about?” I asked, leaning forward despite myself.

Frank frowned, concentration furrowing his brow even deeper. “She kept saying something about telling the truth and going public. He was trying to convince her not to, said she didn’t understand what she was getting into.” Frank’s voice darkened. “When she turned to leave, he grabbed her by the wrists.” He demonstrated, his hands closing around invisible arms with enough force that I could almost feel the bruising pressure.

A chill ran through me, raising goose bumps on my bare arms as I remembered the autopsy report that mentioned bruising on Elizabeth’s wrists. Beside me, Dottie’s sharp intake of breath told me she’d made the same connection.

“I was about to intervene,” Frank continued, “But then my supervisor radioed. There was a boat emergency on the other side of the marina—a guy had been drinking and went overboard. Hit his head and knocked himself out. By the time I got back, maybe an hour later, they were both gone.” His voice dropped. “Never saw her alive again.”

“Can you describe the man?” Dash asked.

Frank nodded slowly, his eyes distant as if seeing the scene replay before him.

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Dash asked.

“Maybe,” Frank said. “It’s been thirty years, and it was dark. But I’ll never forget the way he grabbed her wrists, or how she looked at him. She was angry. Looked like she might throw a punch.”

“Would you be willing to come in tomorrow and give a formal statement and look at some photographs?” Dash asked.

Frank nodded firmly. “That’s why I’m here. Should’ve done it thirty years ago, no matter what Milton said.” He looked at me directly, his faded blue eyes suddenly intense. “When I heard what happened to you last night—that Reynolds tried to kidnap you—I knew I couldn’t stay silent anymore. History repeating itself, you know?”

Once Frank left, Dash spread out the timeline we’d constructed, his fingers tracing the connections we’d drawn. “Let’s look at what we know for certain. Elizabeth was researching corruption related to the Harbor Development. She stumbled across financial impropriety and documented dates and amounts in her ledger, along with the names of Roy Milton, Paul Cromwell, and Clinton Harrington Sr. Plus about half a dozen or so others. The information she had was enough to send a lot of people to prison for a long time. So there’s motive there.

“We already know from what Clint Harrington told us that he’d made plans to meet Elizabeth at the docks at ten o’clock the night she was murdered. His alibi is shaky since he can’t be accounted for from the time he left the Charleston Symphony fundraiser with the parents to when he returned.”

“We know from Frank that she was at the docks around nine and that she was arguing with a man there,” Hank said.

“Which means we can’t rule out that it was Clint Harrington,” Dash said, “because he doesn’t have an alibi for that time, even though he said he’d left Charleston around nine.”

“Except,” I said, looking at Dash. “The description the jeweler gave of the man who bought the watch does not match Clint Harrington or Reynolds.”

“That’s all the past,” Deidre said. “What about the present? Vanessa Garfield is dead, strangled just like Elizabeth.”

“And we know from her bank account that she made a large deposit in cash the day before her murder,” Walt said. “Someone paid her for something. The reason people get paid in cash or in an amount like that is if they have information to sell, or if they’re blackmailing someone.”

“And the reason she’s dead could be because of either of those things,” Dash said.

“What about her phone records?” I asked. “Did we ever get those?”

“Harris was supposed to get them and bring them by,” Dash said, pulling out his phone and dialing. His conversation was short before he hung up.

“He’s on the way over with them,” Dash said. “He said the woman at the phone company kept asking him questions about the case so she took forever printing out Vanessa’s phone records.”

“Darla Hedgeseth,” Bea said, shaking her head. “She’s worked at the phone company a long time. Knows everything about everyone.”

“Another one of your informants?” I asked Bea, grinning. She just grinned back, but didn’t confirm.

“So what’s our next move?” Dottie asked.