Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Time to face the day,” I told Chowder, who opened one eye with the kind of skepticism that suggested facing the day was optional and he was choosing to opt out.
I slipped out of bed and into my silk peignoir—a pale blue number with ivory lace I’d found at one of the boutiques in town.
Even now, especially now, maintaining these small elegances felt like armor against chaos.
If I was going to face insurance adjusters and fire inspectors, I was going to do it properly dressed, starting from the foundation.
“Oh no, you don’t get to stay in bed,” I told Chowder. “We have work to do. Justice to pursue. Criminals to catch.”
He yawned, displaying an impressive array of teeth and general disinterest in justice, but followed me downstairs with the resignation of someone who knew breakfast was contingent on cooperation.
I let him out into the back garden for his morning constitutional while I made coffee strong enough to wake the dead—which, given recent events, might have been useful.
The morning light streaming through my kitchen windows had that peculiar quality of early summer, all golden promise and hidden threats, like honey laced with arsenic.
The melody came unbidden as I poured cream into my cup—“Black Coffee,” the Peggy Lee version that was all cigarette smoke and 3 a.m. regrets. I found myself singing softly while waiting for Chowder to finish his garden inspection.
“I’m feelin’ mighty lonesome, haven’t slept a wink…”
The song was supposedly about lost love but really it was about any kind of loss—the kind that kept you up at night, drinking coffee that had gone cold because even bitter comfort was better than none.
Chowder scratched at the door, ready for breakfast and fashion. I filled his bowl with the chicken and rice mixture that cost more than most people’s lunches, then studied the clothes in his closet.
I selected his navy blazer with brass buttons. If we were going to face insurance adjusters and fire inspectors and whatever fresh horror Thursday had planned, we were going to do it in style.
“Arms up,” I instructed after he’d finished eating and performed his post-breakfast face-cleaning ritual.
He lifted his paws with practiced ease, and I slipped the blazer onto him, adjusting the brass buttons until he looked ready to command a small yacht.
“Commodore Chowder at your service,” I said, patting him gently.
The drive to The Perfect Steep took six minutes with no traffic, Chowder riding shotgun in his special car seat, the morning air carrying salt and possibility through my cracked window.
Harbor Street was still mostly quiet at this hour—only Beaumont’s Bakery showed signs of life, Clarence already at work behind the lit windows, preparing the pastries that made locals flock to his counter.
The other shops remained dark, their owners still at home drinking coffee and preparing to face another day of tourist season on Grimm Island.
The Perfect Steep stood dark, crime-scene tape across the back entrance like a yellow accusation.
The fire inspector was already there—a woman in her fifties with competent hands and eyes that had seen too many deliberately set fires. She introduced herself as Captain Morse and led me around back to survey the damage by the harsh light of morning.
The back room where we’d held our murder investigation meetings, where Walt had created his tactical timeline and Dottie had spread her medical knowledge like tarot cards revealing death’s secrets—all of it was gone.
Charred beams reached up like blackened fingers, accusing the sky of witnessing and doing nothing.
“Definitely arson,” Inspector Morse said, making notes on her tablet with quick, efficient strokes.
“Someone jimmied the back door lock—crude but effective, probably a crowbar. Once inside, they doused everything with accelerant. Based on the pour patterns and smell, I’d say regular gasoline, about two gallons’ worth.
They wanted this room specifically destroyed—didn’t even try to spread it to the main shop.
The fire break between your back room and main shop is what saved the rest of the building.
Too bad there aren’t cameras in the back parking lot. ”
“Pretty bold to break in here when anyone could’ve seen them,” I said.
“Yeah,” Morse said. “Though it was dark outside and this area of town dies down pretty quickly in the evenings because most of the shops close by 6. He probably would’ve been in a car.
Pulled into the back lot, parked in the shadows, and then broke in.
Was probably in and out in ten minutes or less.
Tell your sheriff to check the local gas stations, see if anyone stopped and filled up a gas canister. ”
I nodded, thinking that was a good idea.
“How long before I can reopen?”
“Health department has to clear you after cleanup. Week minimum, probably two. The main shop has smoke damage—it’ll need professional cleaning, every surface sanitized. Can’t serve food or beverages until then.”
My heart sank. Two weeks without The Perfect Steep. Two weeks of Mrs. Pinkerton without her morning English Breakfast. Two weeks of routine shattered, income stopped, life disrupted because someone wanted our investigation silenced.
Genevieve arrived as the insurance adjuster was documenting damage. She looked stricken, standing on the sidewalk clutching her purse like a life preserver.
“I’m so sorry,” I told her before she could speak. “I’ll pay you for the full two weeks, of course. This isn’t your fault.”
“It’s not about the money,” she said, though the relief in her eyes suggested it was at least partially about the money. “Will you be okay? The shop—can it be fixed?”
“Everything can be fixed with enough time and money,” I said. “We’ll come back better than before.”
She hugged me then, quick and fierce, and then left, probably to go look for another job. I stood watching the inspector and adjuster circle my wounded shop like vultures with clipboards.
“Mabel!”
I turned to find Walt’s pristine sedan pulling up to the curb, all four windows down despite the morning humidity.
Walt sat ramrod straight behind the wheel, his veterans cap positioned with mathematical precision.
Deidre occupied the passenger seat, clutching what appeared to be a cardboard box of files.
In the back, Bea’s burgundy silk caught the morning light while Dottie sat beside her, her purple cat-eye glasses glinting in the sun.
“Emergency Silver Sleuth meeting!” Walt called out the driver’s window. “Your house, oh-nine-hundred hours!”
“It’s 8:45,” I pointed out.
“Then you should hurry. Punctuality is the courtesy of kings.” He was already pulling away from the curb. “Follow us!”
Dottie leaned across Bea to call out, “Hank’s awake and quite cranky this morning, so I left his children with him. He’s wanting to come home, and everyone in the hospital knows it.”
Bea waved her ringed fingers out the window. “We’ll get your spare key from under the ceramic frog, dear!”
They drove off toward my house, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with Chowder, who looked up at me with an expression that suggested even he found this morning surreal.
There was nothing to do but follow them, Chowder trotting beside me with the dignity of a small diplomat navigating dangerous territories.
My dining room table was quickly becoming command central as Walt unpacked the box Deidre had been carrying. He spread Tommy Wheeler’s evidence across my grandmother’s mahogany table with military efficiency while the others settled into chairs around him.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” I said, gesturing toward the doorway. “I’ll make a fresh pot.”
“No time,” Walt said, already organizing documents into piles. “We need to move fast. Whoever killed Jane and torched your shop is escalating. Panic makes people sloppy, but it also makes them dangerous.”
“Speaking of dangerous,” Bea said, pouring coffee with the deliberate precision of someone defusing a bomb, her rings catching the morning light like tiny prisms, “I drove past the Methodist church this morning. 6 a.m and the parking lot had more cars than a Wednesday prayer meeting usually draws.”
The coffee’s bitter aroma mixed with her expensive perfume—something French and aggressive—creating an oddly comforting combination of luxury and necessity.
“Early for a Thursday,” Deidre observed, her reading glasses sliding down her nose as she consulted her ever-present notebook, the one where she recorded everything from grocery lists to murder suspects with equal dedication.
“Prayer meeting maybe,” Walt suggested, his fingers drumming against the mahogany table. “Some churches do those before work hours. Gets the faithful started right.”
“Or,” Bea said, setting down her coffee cup with deliberate precision, “they’re having emergency meetings about us reopening the investigation.
The scandal of George and Ruby was bad enough forty years ago.
Everyone accepted that George and Ruby stole that money and got killed for it—crime of passion mixed with righteous anger about theft.
Nice and neat. But if we prove they were innocent of the embezzlement… ”
“Then someone else was guilty,” Deidre finished quietly. “Someone who’s been letting a dead man take the blame for forty years.”
“The families of those board members are still prominent,” Walt added. “The Hammonds, the Forsythes, the Bakers—their children and grandchildren still live here, still attend that church. If it comes out their fathers knew the real thief and covered it up, took hush money to stay quiet…”
“That’s the kind of truth that would tear a congregation apart,” I said, understanding dawning like cold water down my spine. “People who’ve believed one version of history for four decades finding out it was all a lie. Maybe we’re on the wrong track. Maybe it’s not the same killer.”