Chapter 3 #2
Deidre rolled her eyes. Since she was the only one of the Silver Sleuths who actually knew how to work any kind of technology, she’d been designated with the task of getting the items from the evidence box scanned and printed so we could put them on the whiteboard that had somehow taken up permanent residence in my dining room over the last several weeks.
Walt had it delivered, and he was so excited about the possibility of our next cold case that I didn’t have the heart to tell him it didn’t match my décor.
Walt pulled out witness statements, yellowed with age.
“Ruby Bailey’s movements the day of her murder: She was seen singing in the choir at the Methodist church that morning, and she and her son left around 11:30 that morning.
Then she cleaned two houses that afternoon.
The Carver house, from noon to 3 p.m. And the Watson estate, from 3:30 to 6 p.m. Her son said she didn’t come home that night, but he was used to doing for himself since she worked so much. ”
“Old money, the Watsons,” Bea said, studying the timeline. “Cotton fortune from before the war—and when I say the war, I mean the one where we lost but still insist on calling it the War of Northern Aggression at garden club meetings.”
“Ruby was seen leaving the Watson property at 6 p.m. by the gardener, James Mitchell,” Walt continued. “That’s the last confirmed sighting.”
“Her car?” Hank asked.
“Found at her apartment complex. A 1972 Mercury Cougar.”
“Now on to Pickering,” Walt said. “Friday schedule: He arrived at the church at 7 to pray and do final preparations for the sermon. His wife said he had pot roast for lunch at home, and then he had a counseling session with a parishioner back at the church. There was a youth group meeting from 3 to 5 p.m.—twelve teenagers present, all later interviewed. He told his wife he had church business to attend to that evening. He left the parsonage at 7 p.m. and didn’t return. ”
“His car?”
“1983 Buick, found about a half a mile from where his body was found.” Walt produced pictures of the vehicle and where it had been located. “Wallet was in glove compartment, ninety-three dollars cash.”
“That was a lot of money back then,” Dottie said. “Especially for a preacher.”
I studied the photographs after Deidre scanned them and started printing the pictures. “He didn’t want anyone to see his car,” I said. “Parked behind some trees.”
“Yes, ahh, well,” Walt said, and then cleared his throat before shoving the report across the table to me. “You can see there…”
I arched a brow, wondering if Walt was actually blushing.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Walt,” Dottie said, shaking her head. “You’re eighty years old. You know what people do in the back seats of cars. You probably did it yourself.”
Bea snickered. “Not straightlaced Walt. Margaret probably had to schedule sex with his secretary to make sure it got on the calendar.”
Walt bristled, his posture straightening more than it already was. “I’ll have you know that I’ve always been a very creative partner in the bedroom. And sometimes out of the bedroom.”
“Oooh,” Bea, Dottie and Deidre said in unison.
“Do give details, Walt,” Bea added.
His lips pinched together and he said, “A gentleman never tells.”
“There was no DNA back then,” Dottie said, “But I remember they took samples from the back of the car. Who knows what happened to them. If I remember right there was a blanket laid out. You know how big those back seats are in a Buick. Might as well have been a bed. And there were obvious signs of dallying.”
“So Pickering picks up Ruby at her apartment,” Hank said. “They drive out to Turtle Point, get down to business, and then someone shows up. They were found without clothes on, so it makes sense they were interrupted. Or at least occupied to the point they didn’t see another car or person approach.”
“Not much you can do when you’re naked and someone pulls a gun on you,” Bea added.
“Why does that sound like a personal story?” Deidre asked.
“I’m going to write about it in my memoirs,” Bea said. “I don’t want to spoil it now.”
“You’ve been writing those memoirs for twenty years,” Dottie said. “We’ll all be dead by the time you finish them.”
Bea just smiled and said, “We’re talking about the reverend.
Let’s focus on their affair.” She settled into what was clearly her favorite subject—other people’s scandals.
“Everyone knew about Ruby and the reverend. It was the worst-kept secret on the island.” She paused for dramatic effect, her earrings tinkling like tiny silver bells.
“Betty Mae at the Flamingo Motel told me years later that they had a standing reservation. Room twelve, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. Always paid cash.”
“The Flamingo Motel,” Deidre said with the kind of delicate shudder that suggested she’d rather not think about what went on there.
The Flamingo had been Grimm Island’s worst-kept secret—everyone knew what it was for, but everyone pretended they didn’t, like a shameful relative at a family reunion that nobody acknowledged but couldn’t quite ban from attending.
“But here’s what’s interesting,” Bea continued, leaning forward conspiratorially.
“Ruby wasn’t stupid. She knew Pickering would never leave his wife—June Pickering’s family had some money, and George liked being comfortable.
Ruby was practical about it. She was saving money, planned to move to Charleston with Michael once she had enough.
The affair with Pickering? He was helping her financially, slipping her extra cash. ”
“Transactional,” Dottie said without judgment.
“Survival,” Bea corrected. “Ruby had a ten-year-old son and an ex-husband who drank away every penny he ever earned. She was doing what she had to do.”
“Speaking of the ex-husband,” Walt said, pulling out another report. “Jimmy Thorne. Mean drunk who used to beat Ruby when he was in his cups. But he was in the county lockup that night—picked up for drunk and disorderly at 8 p.m., held until Monday morning.”
“Convenient alibi,” Hank noted.
“Or deliberately arranged,” Walt suggested. “Get yourself locked up the night your ex-wife is murdered?”
“Let’s look at the confessions,” Hank said, arranging three separate documents.
“This is what really makes this case unusual. Three different people confessed within a week of the murders.” Then he looked at me and asked, “Mabel, do you have anything besides coffee? You know I can’t drink it after ten o’clock or it messes with my digestive system. ”
“I have iced tea,” I said. “Or lemonade.”
“Iced tea is fine.”
I nodded and hurried into the kitchen, not wanting to miss the information about the confessions.
But my southern hospitality wouldn’t let me just get the tea pitcher and slap it on the table.
I got out my big wooden tray, set out the pitcher, goblets, and a plate of tea cookies, along with napkins, and I hurried back into the dining room and set the tray in the center of the table.
“Lovely, dear,” Deidre said. “What tea is that?”
“Hibiscus,” I said.
“Very refreshing. Just what we need after those fritters.”
“Did I miss anything?” I asked.
“No,” Walt said. “Hank was just about to read the statements, but he couldn’t find his glasses. They were on top of his head.”
“They’re very light,” Hank said. “Just like the optometrist said. Featherweight.”
Hank adjusted his glasses and then read the document in front of him. “Samuel Ricker, age forty-one, transient laborer. Confessed September 18. Claimed he killed both victims after Ruby refused his advances. Knew about the positioning of bodies and the weapon used.”
“Perfect patsy,” Bea said. “A drifter no one would miss or believe.”
“Recanted September 25,” Hank continued, “Claiming Sheriff Roy Milton coerced him with threats of worse charges.”
“Good old Milton,” Dottie said. “His sins are likely to follow us into every investigation we look into. May he rot in prison.”
“Hear, hear,” Walt said, raising his goblet in a mock toast.
“Moving on,” Hank said. “Betty Mae Hutchins, age twenty-eight, worked at the Flamingo Motel. Confessed September 20. Claimed she killed them in a jealous rage after discovering Pickering had been cheating on her with multiple women, including Ruby. A classic case of jealous lover scorned.”
“Was Pickering seeing other women?” I asked.
“Not according to Betty Mae when she recanted,” Bea said. “She later told me Milton threatened to charge her with prostitution if she didn’t confess. She was scared, alone, and did what he said.”
“Prison really isn’t good enough for that man,” I said, thinking of all the lives Roy ruined in his quest for money and power.
The third confession was the most elaborate. “Tommy Garrett, age nineteen. Son of Councilman William Garrett. Confessed September 19. Claimed the murders were drug related, that he was Pickering’s dealer.”
“There were no signs of drugs or alcohol in Pickering’s system,” Dottie said.
“Recanted September 21 after Daddy hired a Charleston lawyer,” Walt finished.
“Three false confessions,” Hank summarized. “Each designed to muddy the waters, each easily discredited. Someone was managing this investigation from the start.”
“Roy Milton?” I asked.
Bea shrugged. “We certainly know Roy could be bought for the right price. But it could have just as easily been he was getting pressure to solve the case, and Roy being Roy, went about it however he saw fit. It wouldn’t matter to him if whoever he arrested was guilty or innocent.”
Walt pulled out a manila envelope marked Confidential. “This was sealed. Never opened.”
“Why would Milton seal something and never open it?” I asked. “What good would that do?”
“Why would he be a low-down dirty snake in the grass?” Dottie said. “These are all questions we ask ourselves.”
We watched as Walt carefully slit the aged envelope. Inside was a single witness statement.
“Statement of Elsie Crawford, September 20, 1985,” Walt read. “‘I was walking my dog at Turtle Point around 9 p.m. on September 15. I saw Reverend Pickering near the tree line. He was with a woman, but it wasn’t Ruby Bailey. The woman was white, blond hair, wearing a white nurse’s uniform.”
The room went silent.
“A witness at the actual murder scene,” Dottie breathed. “And Milton buried it.”
“Look at his note,” Walt said, pointing to scrawled handwriting at the bottom. “‘Witness unreliable. History of mental illness. Statement disregarded.’”
“Elsie Crawford,” Bea said slowly, searching her memory. “She had what they called nervous episodes. Today we’d call it anxiety. But she wasn’t crazy. Wonder why she was out there so late at night. Sounds like a busy area. Maybe George should’ve picked another place for his trysts.”
“A blond woman in a nurse’s uniform,” I said. “At the murder scene.”
“If Elsie saw this woman with Pickering at 9,” Hank said, working through the timeline, “And the murders happened between 10 and 2…”
“The blond woman could be our killer,” Walt finished.
“Or a witness who never came forward,” Dottie suggested.
“In 1985, who would have been wearing a nurse’s uniform?” I asked.
“Someone from the medical center,” Dottie said. “Or someone pretending to be a nurse. Uniforms aren’t hard to acquire.”
“I’ve done it myself when I needed to go undercover for a story,” Bea said, referring to her days as a reporter.
Walt added this to our murder board, which was beginning to look like the fever dream of someone who’d watched too much true crime television. Colored strings connected victims to witnesses to suspects, creating a web that somehow made the case both clearer and more confusing.
“June Pickering picked up and left town a few weeks after the murder,” Bea said.
“Took the kids and moved to Charleston with her sister. The parsonage belonged to the church and whoever they hired to replace George, so she was out on her keister. I heard through the grapevine that there were a couple of members of the church board who blamed June because if she was fulfilling her wifely duties then George wouldn’t have strayed elsewhere. ”
“What a bunch of hooey,” Deidre said. “June could’ve presented herself like a Thanksgiving turkey and George still would’ve gone somewhere else for dinner. He had a wandering eye from the start.”
“That talk of turkey is making me hungry,” Hank said.
“You’re always hungry, dear,” Dottie said and patted him on the shoulder.
I raised my brow at the ease of the show of affection. I’d had an inkling that something had been going on between Hank and Dottie for a few weeks now, but they’d always been very discreet.
Outside, Grimm Island was waking to its Saturday routines—tourists heading for beach rentals, locals walking dogs, the eternal rhythm of a place that had learned to carry its secrets as easily as the tide carried shells.
“We need to find Elsie Crawford,” Walt declared, breaking the spell. “If she’s still alive.”
“And identify the blond woman,” Hank added.
“And talk to Michael Bailey,” I said. “Ruby’s son.”
“He’s a strange one,” Deidre said.
“He stayed, though,” Dottie observed. “That takes either courage or…” She trailed off.
“Or what?” I asked.
“Or a reason,” she finished quietly.
Chowder wandered in then, his Hawaiian shirt slightly askew from his morning adventures. He surveyed our work with the patience of a dog who recognized the signs of human obsession, then settled at Bea’s feet with a dramatic sigh that suggested we were all making things unnecessarily complicated.
“Monday,” Walt announced, as if declaring war. “We start interviews Monday. Everyone takes the weekend to review their assignments.”
As they prepared to leave, carefully packing their notes and evidence copies, I stood before our murder board.
Ruby Bailey and George Pickering stared back from their photographs—two people who’d found each other in a place that didn’t approve, who’d carved out their small rebellion in room twelve of the Flamingo Motel, who’d died together on a beach while someone watched, someone who might still be walking these streets, sitting in these churches, shopping at the Piggly Wiggly like any other resident of Grimm Island.
“We’ll find out what happened,” I told their photos, then found myself humming “Amazing Grace”—for Ruby who’d sung in the choir, for Pickering who’d preached redemption but couldn’t find it for himself, for all the secrets Grimm Island held like pearls in tightly closed oysters, waiting for someone brave enough to pry them open.