Chapter 5 #2
“Oh-six-thirty hours,” he announced, though we could all see the clock.
He wore his investigation uniform: pressed khakis that could stand up by themselves, a crisp white oxford shirt, and his veterans cap positioned with mathematical precision.
“I brought my notes and the tactical timeline I’ve been working on. ”
“Coffee’s ready,” I said, gesturing to the industrial-sized carafe I’d prepared. “Fair warning—it’s strong enough to wake the dead, which seems appropriate given the circumstances.”
“Gallows humor,” Walt approved, pouring himself a cup. “Sign of a sound tactical mind.”
Dottie arrived next, her oversized tote bag slung over her shoulder, looking purposeful despite the early hour.
Today’s cat-eye glasses were purple, matching her silk blouse, and her jet-black bob was styled with the kind of precision that suggested she’d been to the salon recently.
The bag clinked slightly as she set it down—probably the tin of homemade cookies she inevitably brought to share.
“I called in a favor at Charleston Medical,” she announced, settling into her chair with the authority of someone who’d autopsied half the low country.
“Got the staff records from 1985. Every nurse who worked there that year is documented, along with their schedules and specialties.” She patted her bag.
“Cross-referencing them against our blond woman in white is going to be tedious, but I’ve performed worse miracles.
Once identified a body from a single molar and three inches of femur. ”
“Do we want to know the story behind that?” I asked, pouring her coffee.
“Absolutely not,” she said cheerfully. “But I’m happy to tell it if you’re interested. The decomposition patterns alone were fascinating—”
“Let’s save that for after breakfast,” I interrupted, knowing from experience that Dottie’s forensic anecdotes could curdle milk at thirty paces.
Bea swept in at 6:45, today’s caftan a swirl of emerald green and gold that shimmered like peacock feathers in motion.
Instead of her usual chandelier earrings, she wore elaborate jade drop earrings that swayed with each step, and her dyed red hair was swept up in a style that somehow managed to look both elegant and slightly chaotic—very Bea.
“I’ve been up since four,” she announced dramatically, accepting the coffee I offered like it was holy communion.
“Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about Ruby Bailey and that reverend.
” She settled into her chair with a rustle of silk.
“You know, I covered the story when it happened. I was still at the Gazette then, working the society beat, but murder trumps charity galas every time. The whole island was buzzing for months.”
Deidre arrived moments later, her canvas tote bag bulging with what I knew would be meticulously organized research materials. Her silver hair was pinned back in a neat bun, and she wore sensible khaki pants and a lavender cardigan—her research uniform.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” she said, though she was still seven minutes early.
“I was at the library since opening, pulling old newspaper articles from the microfiche. The Gazette’s archives from 1985 are fascinating.
” She pulled out a folder thick with photocopies.
“I’ve got every article they ran about the murders, plus society pages from the months leading up to it.
You’d be amazed what you can learn from who attended which garden parties. ”
“That’s why we keep you around,” Bea said with a wink. “Your obsessive organizational skills.”
“I prefer thorough,” Deidre corrected, but she was smiling as she settled into her chair.
Hank arrived last, at 6:52, apologizing for being late though he was still eight minutes early by normal human standards.
He wore his investigation vest—the fishing one with seventeen pockets, each containing something he’d deemed essential.
Today’s cargo shorts had been ironed to within an inch of their life, the creases sharp enough to cut paper.
“I brought my notes,” he explained, pulling out a leather notebook that looked like it had survived several wars and possibly the sinking of the Titanic. “Figured if I’m going to play detective at my age, I should at least document it properly.”
“How very Nancy Drew of you,” Bea said, but her tone was fond. Hank had always been thorough, the kind of man who organized his spice rack alphabetically and kept detailed records of everything from his blood pressure to his golf scores.
I hadn’t heard him arrive, but suddenly Dash stood in the doorway, looking every inch the professional lawman despite the early hour.
His sheriff’s uniform was pressed to perfection, the light blue shirt crisp and the dark pants showing their usual razor-sharp crease.
His hair was slightly damp, suggesting a recent shower, and I caught myself wondering what his morning routine looked like before forcing my attention back to the matter at hand.
“Morning,” he said. “Hope I’m not late.”
“Seven on the dot,” Walt confirmed, frowning with disapproval. In Walt’s book, on time was as good as being late.
“Coffee?” I offered, already reaching for a cup.
“Please,” he said, settling into the empty chair at the head of the table. “Black, two sugars.”
I poured his coffee, acutely aware of how domestic the gesture felt, how easily we’d fallen into these small rituals over the past few weeks.
When I set the cup in front of him, our fingers brushed, and I felt that familiar spark of electricity that made me want to both step closer and retreat to a safe distance.
“So,” Dash said, accepting the coffee with a nod of thanks. “Let’s see what Pickering was hiding.”
With everyone assembled, I distributed the copied pages from Pickering’s journal.
“Goodness gravy,” Bea breathed after a moment, her eyes wide behind her reading glasses. “I knew Margaret Calhoun had secrets, but an affair with her husband’s brother? And she’s still married to Harold after all these years?”
“Maybe she recommitted to her marriage,” I said.
“Or maybe Harold never found out,” Walt said grimly. “Some secrets stay buried because everyone involved works very hard at the burying.”
“Here’s one about the Rutledge family,” I said, reading aloud.
“‘Thomas Rutledge isn’t actually a Rutledge by blood. His mother, Catherine, had an affair with the family’s groundskeeper—a man named Samuel Price.
When she got pregnant in 1968, the family paid Samuel fifty thousand dollars to leave South Carolina and never come back.
They told everyone the baby was premature.
Thomas has his real father’s eyes, but nobody dares say it out loud.
Catherine keeps a photograph of Samuel hidden in her Bible. ’”
The room went silent. The Rutledges were one of the oldest families on Grimm Island—their ancestors had signed the state constitution.
“Thomas Rutledge is a judge now,” Hank said quietly. “Circuit court. Very respected.”
Bea had found another entry, her expression darkening as she read.
“Oh, this is ugly. ‘Dr. Laurens Middleton has been writing fraudulent prescriptions for opioids for five years. Sells them to a dealer in Charleston for cash. His wife, Marie, thinks the extra money comes from his investment portfolio. She has no idea her Lexus was bought with drug money.’”
“Middleton still practices,” Walt said, his jaw tightening. “Has an office on Harbor Street. My cardiologist refers patients to him.”
“Here’s the Prioleau scandal,” Deidre said.
“Judge Benjamin Prioleau took bribes from developers for favorable rulings. Twenty thousand per case, paid through his law partner’s consulting firm.
His son James knows—helped set up the shell company.
The Prioleau family legacy isn’t old money, it’s dirty money wrapped in a bow tie. ”
“Judge Prioleau retired in 1990,” Hank said, his expression grim. “But James Prioleau is the attorney who handles most of the island’s real estate closings. Everyone uses him.”
I flipped to another page, this one making my stomach turn.
“Listen to this: ‘Eleanor Ravenel’s daughter didn’t die in that car accident in 1974.
Eleanor was driving drunk, hit a tree on River Road.
The girl survived but was brain damaged.
Eleanor and her husband Phillip put her in a facility in Georgia, told everyone she’d died, even had a funeral with an empty casket.
They visit her twice a year and pay cash so there’s no paper trail.
The girl’s name is still Sarah, but she doesn’t know who she is anymore. ’”
“Dear God,” Dottie breathed. “I remember hearing about that funeral. Everyone on the island mourned that poor child.”
“Eleanor Ravenel is the garden club president,” Bea said, her voice hollow. “She gives out a scholarship every year in her daughter’s memory. Lord have mercy.”
“There’s more,” Dash said, holding up another page. “The Lowndes family—Pickering documented an affair and what looks like embezzlement from a family trust. And here’s one about the Pinckneys covering up their son’s involvement in a hit-and-run by paying off the victim’s family.”
We continued reading in horrified silence, each entry more damning than the last. The morning light streaming through the windows seemed to lose its warmth as we catalogued Grimm Island’s sins—adultery, embezzlement, blackmail, abuse.
Pickering had been thorough in his documentation through 1985, noting dates, amounts, specific details that could only have come from confession or careful observation.
“Some of these people are still alive,” Walt said grimly. “Living right here on the island. And some of them have children and grandchildren who’ve inherited their secrets along with their money.”
“I can attest to that,” Bea said.