Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday morning on Grimm Island possessed a quality of light that made even mundane objects appear blessed—as if God had finally found the correct Instagram filter and decided to leave it on permanently.
The May sunshine streamed through my bedroom curtains with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever, promising a day that would be hot enough to make everyone question their life choices by noon.
My house stood at the end of Harbor Street like a beautiful dowager who’d aged gracefully despite witnessing more than her share of drama.
The white Charleston single facade caught the morning light in a way that made it glow like the inside of an oyster shell—luminous and slightly mysterious.
Three stories of traditional architecture that had sheltered generations of island secrets, each room holding memories like pressed flowers in a book.
Patrick had given me this house as a wedding gift, this grand corner property where the camellias we’d planted had just finished their spring blooming.
The wraparound piazza faced the harbor, its columns wound with jasmine that was already beginning its summer campaign to seduce everyone within a three-block radius with its perfume.
But it was always the sycamore that caught my eye—the one Patrick had planted our first year here, promising shade that would cool our bedroom when we were old and gray, when we had grandchildren to push on the swing he’d planned to hang from its branches.
The tree towered over the house now, finally casting the shadows he’d promised, its leaves whispering secrets to the wind about all the futures that would never be.
Chowder emerged from the mudroom in his Saturday attire—a Hawaiian shirt featuring pineapples wearing sunglasses, because even fruit needed eye protection on Grimm Island.
He conducted his morning patrol with the solemnity of a palace guard, if palace guards were shaped like overstuffed sausages and occasionally got distracted by butterflies.
“You’re looking very festive today,” I told him. “Though you might need to lay off the treats if you want your shirt to button the next time you wear it.”
Chowder sniffed disapprovingly at my criticism and waited for me to open the door to the backyard.
His first stop was the hydrangea bush where Mr. Henderson’s tabby sometimes conducted surveillance operations.
Chowder sniffed thoroughly, gathering intelligence that only he could interpret.
His second stop was the sacred spot by the garden gate where he’d once discovered a ham sandwich, a miracle of such magnitude that he still checked daily for its second coming.
Finally, the ceremonial marking of the sycamore, because some traditions transcended fashion choices.
Back inside, I stood at my kitchen counter making coffee, humming “Blue Moon” as the morning light illuminated my collection of vintage tea canisters.
Dash’s tactical watch sat among them where he’d left it the night before—this aggressively practical thing amid my delicate porcelain, like finding a hammer in a jewelry box.
Its presence made me smile. It was such an obvious excuse to return, and yet somehow that made it more charming, not less.
The evidence box squatted beside it, managing to look both ominous and slightly embarrassed, as if it knew it didn’t belong in such a cheerful kitchen.
I decided to move it to the formal dining room only because the table was large enough to display all the photos and documents.
And maybe because it was one of the only rooms in the house that didn’t get a lot of use.
I usually ate at the kitchen island so I could look out at flowers I paid someone else to plant and tend to because I had a black thumb.
The doorbell rang at precisely nine o’clock.
Through the peephole, Walt Garrison stood on my porch, checking his watch with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
His Saturday uniform was pristine—khakis with creases that could slice bread, navy polo shirt that had never known the indignity of a wrinkle, veterans cap positioned at the exact angle that suggested he’d measured it with a protractor.
“Good morning, Walt,” I said. “It’s 9 in the morning.”
“Oh-nine-hundred hours.” He was already pushing past me, drawn to the evidence box like a moth to a flame. “Prime operational time. Only wastrels and vagabonds are still slothing about at this hour. I heard you had the Pickering–Bailey files.”
Before I could ask how he’d heard—though on Grimm Island, asking how anyone knew anything was like asking how fish learned to swim—he was already pulling latex gloves from his pocket.
Within twenty minutes, my dining room had been colonized by the Silver Sleuths.
They’d arrived with the inevitability of high tide, each bringing their expertise and breakfast contribution.
Deidre Whitmore had brought apple fritters from Beaumont’s, the bakery that charged enough to make you reconsider your commitment to pastry.
Hank Hardeman wore cargo shorts that had been ironed within an inch of their life and a fishing vest with pockets organized according to a system only he understood.
Dottie carried her old medical bag, the leather worn soft as butter from decades of use.
And finally, Bea Livingston swept in wearing purple silk that moved like liquid money and earrings that could double as wind chimes in an emergency.
“Right,” Walt announced, assuming command with natural authority. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
The evidence box released its contents reluctantly, each document crackling with age and resentment.
“Case number 85-09-116,” Walt read from the official report, his voice taking on the measured cadence of military briefings.
“Double homicide. Victims—Ruby Theresa Bailey, age thirty-two, and George Norris Pickering, age forty-five. Date of discovery: Monday, September 16, 1985, approximately 6:15 a.m. Location: Turtle Point, eastern shore of Grimm Island.”
Turtle Point was one of those places on Grimm Island that tourists photographed for its wild beauty—a curved stretch of beach where the trees grew right down to the sand, their roots creating shadowy caves where teenagers went to do things their parents preferred not to know about.
At night, it transformed into something else entirely, a place where the sound of waves could mask almost anything.
“Discovered by Samuel Morrison during his morning jog,” Walt continued. “Bodies found positioned in embrace near tree line. Morrison reported the victims were unclothed and appeared to be sleeping together until he noticed the blood.”
“That’s Tommy Morrison’s father,” I said, recognizing the name. Tommy, who just last night had been ready to swim out to save a whale, came from a family that had its own tragic history with the island’s violence.
“I remember they were killed the weekend before the Seafood Festival,” Bea inserted, picking apart a fritter between crimson nails.
“Really put a whole damper on the thing. I tell you one thing, any man who had a sidepiece was thinking twice about paying her a visit. No one wanted to end up with their goods hanging out in the wind and a bullet in their head.”
The Seafood Festival—Grimm Island’s annual celebration of all things that could be caught, fried, and served with cocktail sauce. Even murder, apparently, worked around the island’s social calendar.
“So crass, Bea,” Deidre said, clucking her tongue.
“These are excellent fritters,” Hank piped in.
“Beaumont’s really has a light hand with their pastries.
Reminds me of the time Eleanor dragged me to Paris.
Stood in line for hours to see the Mona Lisa—I wasn’t impressed, let me tell you.
And then we shuffled through the halls and Eleanor assured me it was okay to look at the paintings of naked women because it was art. ”
“Maybe if we could focus on the mission,” Walt interrupted, before Hank could prolong his story.
Walt spread the crime-scene photos across the table.
They were in color, though faded to the peculiar sepia of 1980s photography.
Ruby Bailey lay on her side in the sand, her dark hair spread like seaweed around her face.
Three bullet wounds were visible on her chest. Reverend Pickering was positioned behind her, his arm draped over her body as if protecting her even in death.
“Same weapon,” Dottie said, consulting her notes from the original autopsy. “A .38 caliber for both victims. Three shots to Ruby’s chest, one to Pickering’s head. All close range.”
“So someone let them get close,” Hank said. “Maybe someone they knew.”
“The positioning,” Dottie continued, pointing to specific details in the photos.
“They were arranged immediately after death, while the bodies were still pliable. By the time they were found, rigor mortis had set in. The responding officers had difficulty separating them for transport. Someone wanted them found this way—embracing, like lovers.”
“A statement,” Hank said. “The killer was making a point.”
“But what point?” I asked, humming nervously—a few bars of “Blue Skies” escaping before I caught myself.
“That’s the question,” Walt said, creating a timeline on my dining room wall with index cards and string.
“Let’s trace their last day. We’ll put it on the murder board.
I must say, Mabel, the new computer and printer you bought is very helpful.
You just scan the papers and they print right out. Like magic.”