Chapter 11 #4
“Didn’t she remarry after her husband left her?” Dottie asked. “That was a scandal. She had those two boys barely a year apart and then he took off to parts unknown. Never came back to see his kids as far as I know.”
“She did get remarried,” Deidre said. “Not even a year after she was abandoned. I was glad for her. But I don’t remember who she married. He wasn’t an islander, and they moved off to the city. But she stayed connected to the church. As far as I know, the new husband never went with her.”
“We’ve got to find a reason she’d meet with Pickering the night he was killed,” I said. “Maybe he confronted her about her affair with a married man on her mother’s behalf.”
“I can look and see if there’s any connection between Mary Jane Goodall and Stephanie Crenshaw,” Dash said. “That shouldn’t be hard to find. Who else do we need to look for?”
I kept reading, looking for more. “March 1985—‘Doogie brought deposit slips for recreation center fund. Numbers look good on paper. Board pleased with progress.’”
“Who’s Doogie?” Dottie asked, reading over my shoulder.
“No idea,” I said. “Never heard anyone called that around here.”
“No,” Dottie said, her glasses slipping down her nose. “I haven’t either.”
“Keep reading,” Dash said. “See if there are more entries about this Doogie person or the recreation center fund.”
I kept flipping pages and skimming over Reverend Pickering’s words.
“Jordy Kerr had a gambling problem and lost his house payment at the racetrack. Asked for financial help from the church so his wife doesn’t kill him.
Amos Bledsoe lost his job and he and his wife Carla were struggling to put food on the table.
They asked for groceries to tide them over until he can find work.
Drew Watson’s wife found his stash of Playboy magazines and made him sleep on the couch. ”
“I always knew he was a perv,” Bea said. “It was in the eyes. He had shifty eyes.”
“Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he,” Dottie said. “So it hardly matters.”
“Here we go,” I said. “April 1985—‘Doogie said deposit records are missing. The board wants to move forward with breaking ground. Will have to go down to the bank and get copies.’”
I kept reading, but there were no more entries about Doogie or the recreation center fund. The later entries focused on other pastoral matters and concern about the gossip about him and Ruby.
“August 30, 1985—‘I’m going to have to make a decision soon. The children are grown, so I don’t have to worry about them.
But what do I do? My vows are with June and my heart is with Ruby.
I’m starting to question everything. I can leave the church.
I can leave my wife. But I don’t know if I can leave Ruby.
“‘I know June knows. I can tell by the way she looks at me. That’s my fault. Ruby and I haven’t been as careful as we should have been.
Elder Crenshaw continues to scold me like a child, but he can’t remove me from my position.
Not with what I know. But I do know things can’t stay the same.
I know there are whispers through the congregation, and many of the families Ruby cleaned for have quietly let her go.
She can’t afford to stay here any longer. She needs a fresh start. We both do.’”
The back room had gone very quiet except for the sound of Carly handling customers in the front and Chowder’s rhythmic snoring from his armchair.
“We’re missing something,” Walt said, studying the murder board with his arms crossed. “We know about the embezzlement, we know about the affair. But we still don’t know who actually pulled the trigger.”
“Jane Sutherland might know,” I said. “Bea, did you ever get anywhere with her after she hung up on you?”
Bea shook her head, frustration evident in the tight line of her mouth.
“I’ve tried three more times. She won’t answer my calls anymore.
I even sent her an email—very carefully worded, very professional—explaining that we’re officially reopening the case and that her testimony could help bring justice for two murder victims. Nothing. Complete silence.”
“Then we move forward without her,” Dash said. “At least for now.”
Dash stood, moving to the murder board with the restless energy of someone who needed to move to think. “All right. Let’s organize what we know. We’ve got too many threads—we need to see how they connect.”
He pulled down a blank section of the board and started writing, his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone who seemed to do everything with intensity.
VICTIMS:
Reverend George Pickering—shot execution style
Ruby Bailey—shot three times, tongue removed postmortem
Both positioned to look like lovers
MOTIVE—MONEY:
$200,000+ missing from church building fund
Forged deposit slips with Pickering’s signature
Multiple finance committee members made large purchases 1986–1987
Pickering’s notebook: “he can’t remove me from my position. Not with what I know”
MOTIVE—COVER-UP:
Affair was public knowledge—scandal but not murder-worthy
Embezzlement would ruin reputations, families, careers
Frame the dead lovers as thieves—who would question it?
“The affair was the perfect cover,” I said, watching the pattern emerge. “Everyone expected a crime of passion. A jealous spouse, an outraged congregation. But the real motive was money.”
“And Pickering figured it out,” Deidre added. “That’s what got him killed. He knew someone was stealing from the church, forging his signature.
“So now we know Frank lied to us.” Dash’s voice had gone hard, that lawman edge replacing the warmth I’d grown accustomed to.
“He positioned himself as an outsider who knew Tommy professionally. But he was in that church photograph—part of the congregation, sitting in those pews every Sunday. He knew these people personally, and he never said a word about it.”
“Why lie?” Deidre asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“Because he’s protecting someone,” Walt said, his pointer tapping against the board with sharp, staccato beats. “Or protecting himself.”
“We need to confront him,” Dash said. “Today. Before he has time to prepare another story or warning reaches him that we’ve found him in that photograph.”
“What about Crenshaw?” Bea asked, her rings clicking against her coffee cup. “Pickering wrote that Crenshaw couldn’t remove him from his position because of what he knew. That’s blackmail material. That’s motive.”
“And Stephanie,” I added, remembering the way she’d shut down at the hospital, that carefully controlled fear in her eyes. “We need to know if she’s Mary Jane Goodall’s daughter. That birth record search—how long will it take?”
Dash was already pulling out his phone. “An hour, maybe two. I can access the database from my laptop in the car.”
“Then that’s priority one,” Walt said, ever the tactician. “Run the search on the way to Beaufort. We need to know if there’s a family connection before we question anyone else.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said to Dash, and held up a hand before he could protest. “I was there the first time we interviewed him. I’ll know if his story changes, if he contradicts what he told us before. And you shouldn’t be going alone—not after what happened to Hank.
Something flickered in Dash’s expression—concern warring with the knowledge that I was right. “Fine. But we do this my way. Official interview, recorded, by the book.”
“Wouldn’t dream of interfering,” I said, echoing Bea’s earlier promise with a smile that probably looked more confident than I felt.
The truth was, my hands had started trembling the moment we’d identified Frank in that photograph.
He’d sat across from us in his meticulously organized office, his earnest face radiating honesty as he told us about Tommy’s crusade for justice, about Milton’s corruption, about how he’d quit because he couldn’t stomach what was happening.
And all of it—every word—had been built on a foundation of lies.
Walt stood, already gathering his tactical-planning materials.
“Dottie, you approach Stephanie at the hospital. Bea, keep trying Jane Sutherland—if we can get her to confirm anything about what she saw, it strengthens our case. Deidre, you’re on research.
I want everything you can find about Mary Jane Goodall—marriage records, employment history, anything that might connect her to Stephanie Donaldson. ”
“What about Elder Crenshaw?” Dottie asked.
“Tomorrow,” Dash said, checking his watch.
The late morning light slanting through the window caught the worry lines around his eyes, making him look older suddenly, or maybe just tired.
“Once we know what Frank has to say and whether Stephanie is connected to Mary Jane. We approach Crenshaw with all our evidence lined up, not half-formed theories that he can dismiss.”
It made sense. It was smart, strategic, the kind of methodical police work that solved cases. But every instinct I had screamed that we were running out of time, that whoever had put Hank in the hospital was watching us get closer, planning their next move while we planned ours.
“Everyone else goes home after we leave,” Dash continued, his voice carrying that note of command that suggested arguing would be futile. “Lock your doors. Don’t answer questions from anyone about the investigation. And text me when you’re home safe.”
“Very authoritarian,” Bea observed, but there was approval in her voice rather than criticism.
“Very practical,” Deidre said quietly. “Hank’s in the hospital with a cracked skull. We’d be fools to ignore the danger.”
The Silver Sleuths dispersed with less theatrical flair than usual, the weight of what we’d discovered settling over all of us like morning fog—heavy, obscuring, impossible to ignore.
Even Bea’s exit was subdued, her usual dramatic sweep reduced to a quick squeeze of my shoulder and a whispered, “Be careful.”
After they’d gone, the back room felt strangely empty despite being full of evidence and murder boards and the lingering scent of coffee gone cold in forgotten cups. Dash stood at the board, studying the church photograph with an intensity that made the muscles in his jaw jump.
“He never mentioned being part of the congregation,” I said, the realization still stinging.
Dottie and I had sat across from Frank in that small office while he told us about Tommy’s investigation, about Milton’s corruption, about how hard it had been to be an honest cop on Grimm Island.
And not once had he said, “I knew these people. I sat in those pews every Sunday. I was there.”
“It’s a significant omission,” Dash said, his tone more analytical than angry. “He positioned himself as an outside observer when he was actually part of the community. That changes the nature of his testimony.”
“Do you think he knows who killed them?” I asked.
Dash was quiet for a moment, considering. “Maybe. Or maybe he knows something that would point us in the right direction, and he’s been sitting on it for forty years.” He glanced at me. “Either way, we need to ask him directly. See how he responds when confronted with the photograph.”
“We should go,” I said, because standing here speculating wouldn’t get us answers, and the drive to Beaufort was long enough that we needed to leave soon if we wanted to catch Frank before his store closed. “Let me tell Carly she’s closing up tonight.”
Dash caught my wrist as I moved past him. “If Frank gets hostile, you let me handle it. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said. “Though I doubt he’s going to attack us in broad daylight in his own hardware store.”
“Probably not. But people do surprising things when they’re cornered.” He released my wrist. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Holloway about his church attendance.”
Twenty minutes later, we were on Highway 17 heading toward Beaufort, the midday sun painting the marsh grasses in shades of gold and amber. Dash drove with one hand on the wheel, the other typing commands on the mobile data terminal.
“Got it,” he said finally. “Stephanie Michelle Chester, born January 12, 1963, in Charleston. Mother listed as Ruth Arceneaux Chester. Father listed as Raymond Chester.”
“So not connected to Mary Jane Goodall,” I said, disappointed.
“Keep digging,” he said, turning the laptop toward me. “Do a search on her father and see what comes up.”
I clicked on Raymond Chester’s name and watched the screen fill with information. “Born August 1930. Died April 2013. Married to Ruth Arceneaux in May of 1957 until her death in 1973… Well, well, well,” I said, my attention perking up. “Married Mary Jane Goodall in 1974.”
“That’s why you always keep digging,” he said, grinning. “Good work.”
My heart started beating faster. “So Stephanie Chester is Mary Jane’s stepdaughter.”
“Looks like it.”
“So when Pickering counseled Mary Jane about her daughter’s affair with a married man in 1984, he was talking about Stephanie.
” The pieces clicked together with the satisfying finality of a lock turning.
“Stephanie was having an affair, her mother went to Pickering for guidance, and then Pickering ended up dead.”
“Along with his own mistress,” Dash added. “Which makes Stephanie either a suspect or a witness. Either way, she lied to us when she said she barely knew Pickering.”
The highway stretched ahead of us, cutting through the low country like a promise or a threat—I couldn’t decide which.
The marshes on either side shimmered in the noon sun, their tall grasses swaying in rhythms older than memory.
Every few miles, a weathered church steeple punctured the horizon, white paint peeling like old secrets coming loose.
Somewhere ahead, Frank Holloway was probably ringing up a customer’s deck stain or explaining the difference between Phillips and flathead screws, thinking his careful omissions would hold for another day.
Thinking we wouldn’t find the photograph.
Thinking the past would stay buried where he’d helped plant it.
But the past had a way of resurfacing—not dramatically, not all at once, but in small revelations that accumulated like water behind a dam. One photograph. One inconsistency. One lie by omission. And suddenly the whole structure was trembling, ready to break.
“What if he runs?” I asked. “Frank, I mean. What if we spook him and he disappears?”
“Then we know he’s guilty of something,” Dash replied. “And we put out a BOLO and find him. But I don’t think he’ll run. He’s been here since 1986, built a life, a business. People who run don’t put down roots like that.”
“Unless the roots are the disguise,” I said. “What better way to look innocent than to stay in one place, be respectable, never draw attention?”
Dash’s hands remained steady on the wheel. “Then we’re about to find out which Frank Holloway is real—the honest ex-cop, or the man who’s been hiding a murder.”