Chapter 8 #2
Elder Matthias Crenshaw sat in a wingback chair near the windows, a walker positioned within easy reach.
He was smaller than I’d expected—diminished by age in that way that makes former authority figures look almost harmless.
His white hair was neatly combed, his cardigan buttoned against the air-conditioning that hummed through the vents.
But his eyes were sharp when they fixed on us, intelligent and wary, and I revised my assessment of harmless immediately.
“Sheriff Beckett,” he said, his voice carrying the cultured accent of old Charleston families. “And you must be Mrs. McCoy. I’ve heard about you. The tea shop woman who fancies herself a detective.” It wasn’t quite an insult, but it wasn’t quite friendly either.
“Mr. Crenshaw,” Dash said, settling into the chair across from him with careful courtesy. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.”
“Did I have a choice?” Crenshaw’s mouth twitched. “When the sheriff calls requesting an interview about a cold case, one doesn’t exactly feel comfortable declining. Though I can’t imagine what you think I can tell you that hasn’t already been said.”
I took the remaining chair, arranging my skirt with deliberate care, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable. It was a technique I’d learned from years of running a tea shop—sometimes you learned more from what people said to fill silence than from any direct question.
Crenshaw’s fingers drummed against the arm of his chair.
“Ruby Bailey,” Dash said. “You knew her.”
“Everyone knew Ruby Bailey.” Crenshaw’s expression gave away nothing. “She cleaned houses for half the island, including mine. Twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. Always on time, always thorough. My wife was very pleased with her work.”
“And her relationship with Reverend Pickering?”
Something flickered across Crenshaw’s face—too quick to read, gone before I could identify it. “I was aware of it. Hard not to be, the way they carried on. Ruby had no shame, and George—” He paused. “George forgot that being a man of God required actual godliness, not just the appearance of it.”
“You confronted her,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
Crenshaw’s gaze shifted to me, assessing. “And what makes you think that?”
“There was a witness.”
The silence that followed had weight to it, pressing down on the cheerful solarium with its bright plants and false optimism. Somewhere in the building, someone was playing piano—badly, with the halting uncertainty of someone relearning forgotten skills.
“I did speak with her,” Crenshaw said finally.
“In my capacity as a church elder. It was my responsibility to address matters of moral impropriety within our congregation. Ruby was conducting an affair with our pastor—an affair that was becoming increasingly public and scandalous. It reflected poorly on the church, on George’s ministry, on all of us. ”
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her that her behavior was sinful and that she needed to end the relationship. I told her that she was jeopardizing George’s marriage, his position, the respect of the entire community.
I told her that if she had any decency, she would leave the island and give George the opportunity to repair his life and his relationship with God. ”
“And what did she say?” Dash asked.
Crenshaw’s jaw tightened. “She laughed at me. Said I was a hypocrite and a fool. Said that I had no idea what George was really like, what any of them were really like. She told me to mind my own business unless I wanted everyone to know what she knew.”
The air in the solarium suddenly felt thicker, harder to breathe. “What did she know?”
“I assumed she was bluffing,” Crenshaw said, but his voice had gone careful, measured.
“Ruby was clever—cleverer than most people gave her credit for. She cleaned houses, which meant she was in people’s homes when they thought they were alone.
She heard things, saw things. And she wasn’t above using that information when it suited her purposes. ”
“Was she blackmailing you?” I asked.
“No.” The word came quick and sharp. “She never asked me for money, never made any specific threats. It was all innuendo and suggestion. Letting me know she had ammunition without ever quite loading the gun.”
“But you were afraid of what she might know,” Dash said.
Crenshaw was quiet for a long moment, his fingers resuming their rhythmic tapping.
“I was concerned. There were…irregularities in the church finances that year. Nothing illegal, you understand. Just complicated. The building fund, the community center project—there were cost overruns, unexpected expenses. George and I were working to resolve the accounting, but it looked messy on paper. If Ruby had told people that money was missing, it could have caused problems.”
“How much money?” I asked.
“I don’t recall the exact figures.”
“Try,” Dash suggested, his voice pleasant but with steel underneath.
“Nearly two hundred thousand dollars.” Crenshaw’s expression had gone carefully blank.
“The community center was supposed to cost one hundred and fifty thousand. We’d raised two hundred thousand in donations.
But the contractor—he’d estimated incorrectly, and the actual costs were significantly higher.
We had to cancel the project and reallocate the funds to other church expenses. ”
“That’s a very tidy explanation,” I observed.
“It’s the truth.”
“Is it?” Dash leaned forward slightly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like exactly the kind of story someone tells when a significant amount of money has gone missing and they need to account for it.
Two hundred thousand dollars raised for a specific project that never gets built, and the money just…
redistributes itself into vague church expenses? ”
“The church board reviewed and approved all expenditures,” Crenshaw said stiffly.
“A church board that you controlled,” I said. “That you and George Pickering controlled together.”
“There were six of us,” he said, though his face had gone red, the color rising from his collar like a thermometer measuring anger. “George, myself, Roger Hammond, Gene Forsythe, Douglas Sutton, and Craig Baker. All honorable men.”
“Except for George, who was cheating on his wife,” I said. “Surely you wouldn’t consider him honorable.”
His lips pinched in a thin line and his breathing grew shallow. “You know nothing,” he spat.
“It just seems to me,” I said as if I were making casual conversation. “That if George wasn’t so honorable, then maybe you could overlook other dishonorable behavior from the members of the board.”
“You’re making accusations based on speculation and the word of a woman who’s been dead for forty years.
” His voice elevated so that several heads turned our direction.
“Ruby Bailey was a liar and a manipulator. She had an affair with a married pastor, disrupted an entire congregation, and got herself killed because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about things that were none of her business. ”
The words hung in the air like smoke, revealing more than Crenshaw probably intended.
“Got herself killed,” Dash repeated softly. “Interesting choice of words.”
Crenshaw seemed to realize his mistake. “A figure of speech. Obviously someone killed her—killed both of them.”
“And did you tell George to stop his sinful ways and end the affair, or did you place the blame solely on Ruby’s shoulders?”
“I told him to stop,” he said. “But Ruby knew she was a temptress and reveled in it. Unfortunately, men are easily swayed by certain types of women and she could have put an end to things. Ruby’s behavior invited danger. She was reckless, provocative. She pushed people.”
“People like you?”
“I never touched her.” The denial came fast. “I had nothing to do with what happened at Turtle Point. I was home with my wife that evening. We had dinner, watched television, went to bed. My wife gave a statement to the police—you can check the records.”
“We have,” Dash said. “Your wife confirmed you were home. But wives have been known to lie for their husbands.”
“Martha would never—” He stopped himself, jaw working. “My wife was a godly woman. She wouldn’t have lied, not even for me.”
“What about Stephanie? Would she have lied for you?”
“Stephanie married my son two years after the murders,” Crenshaw said, each word measured and deliberate.
“So, no. She wouldn’t have. The marriage didn’t last, I’m afraid.
Stephanie had…ambitions that didn’t align with island life.
She wanted more than my son could provide.
” There was bitterness in his voice now, the kind that comes from watching a family alliance crumble. “Why are you asking about her?”
“A witness saw a blond woman in a nurse’s uniform at Turtle Point the night of the murders,” Dash said, leaning forward slightly. “Saw her with Reverend Pickering around nine o’clock.”
The color drained from Crenshaw’s face, then flooded back twice as red.
His hands gripped the arms of his chair until the leather creaked under the pressure.
“That’s impossible. Stephanie was at work that night.
She worked the evening shift at the hospital.
She couldn’t possibly have been at Turtle Point. ”
“You’re very certain of her whereabouts,” I said, watching his face carefully. “For something that happened so long ago.”
Crenshaw’s face had gone from red to purple.
“This interview is over. I’ve answered your questions, told you everything I know, which is nothing.
I was home with my wife the night of the murders.
Stephanie was at work. Neither of us had anything to do with what happened to Ruby Bailey and George Pickering.
If you want to harass me further, you can speak to my attorney. ”