Beneath the Silence: A Savannah Sleuthing Mystery (Savannah Sleuths Book 6), page 1
Copyright © 2025 by Veronica Mixon
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
BELOW THE CLUBHOUSE LIGHTS
Somewhere between the seating chart and the lemon squares, trouble RSVP’d.
By ten o’clock, my kitchen table looked like a wedding planner had sneezed on it. Invoices, itineraries, and color-coded folders were stacked like evidence—flowers, catering, candles, even the order of the procession printed in bold, as if anyone needed reminding that a wedding ends with I do. At this point, every decision had been made—twice. I couldn’t help wondering if Carrie Rose and Nadine were inventing busywork just to keep me out of the real choices, like the band’s playlist or whether those little chocolate mints I loved would make it onto the reception tables.
Across from me, Graham sat with his elbows on his knees, wearing that hopeful expression that said maybe—just maybe—today would be the day I stopped second-guessing the napkin rings and chair bows.
“You know,” he said, “we could skip the chair-bow debate and get married under the pecan tree with a string of lights and your gran’s old quilt.”
“You say that like Margaret wouldn’t stand on the porch with a bullhorn and redirect guests to a proper venue.” I debated napkin-ring choices—one called itself Seafoam Whisper and looked more like mint toothpaste. “She’s already moved your Uncle Ray three times.”
Graham craned his neck to study the chart. “Where’s he now?”
“Two tables over from the woman who swears he stole her fudge recipe in 1983. Some wars never end.”
He grinned—slow and loving, that look he saves for when he’s deciding whether to tease me or kiss me.
“That smile,” I warned, “better not mean you’re planning to disappear into some handyman project and skate free while the rest of us wrestle with programs and place cards. You voted with Margaret and Carrie Rose to hold this wedding at the Oglethorpe Club, and if I have to sit through the hours of planning an outdoor ceremony overlooking the river and a reception with food stations and a nine-piece band, you’re not slipping off easy.”
His brows rose, amused, but I pressed on. “I lived half my married life with Henry in that community, sat on the homeowners board for ten of those years, raised Carrie Rose there, and made friends I’ve kept for thirty years. If we’re doing this in front of them, Graham Boone, you’re in the trenches beside me.”
His smile softened. “Fair point.”
A breeze found its way through the kitchen window and fluttered the corner of our seating chart. Outside, the oaks moved like they were nodding along to my indecision. Somewhere down the lane a lawn crew coaxed a blower to life; the smell of cut grass drifted in, clean and green and a little too hopeful for my taste—or maybe my mood. My mood felt like it should be raining, or storming, or a good old-fashioned hurricane brewing over the Atlantic.
Planning a late-May wedding should’ve been as simple as love plus cake. But love is simple, and people are not, which is why I was knee-deep in guest lists capped at sixty while Margaret and Carrie Rose swore I had hurt half the city’s feelings by trying to keep it small.
Graham reached for my hand. “We’ll get there, Em. We always do.”
“We do,” I agreed, and squeezed back—just as the front door crashed open, as if that hurricane had traded its name for Wren Boone.
“Aunt Em?” she called. She’d come up with the new nickname last week and now used it at every opportunity. I kind of liked it.
“I bring caffeine and a big mystery,” she said. “Now, who’s your favorite niece?”
“You’re my only niece, and that’s why you know those are my favorite things in all the world,” I said, and stood.
“Hey,” Graham said.
“Things, sweetheart. Not people.”
Wren waltzed into the kitchen, sixteen and all angles, her dark hair crooked into a messy bun, a laptop tucked under one arm like a prized violin. In the other hand, she held a cardboard drink carrier that steamed with promise. She looked like she’d sprinted the last block.
“I got your almond-milk latte,” she announced, depositing the carrier beside the war map of our seating chart. “And a black coffee for Uncle Graham because he’s the only adult I know who drinks it like he’s in a Western sitting by the campfire.”
Graham tipped an imaginary hat. “Darlin’, I earned this cup on the range.”
She ignored him, but I laughed. Which won me a quick wink.
Wren snapped open her laptop, the machine chirping awake with a sound suspiciously like a bird she might’ve programmed herself. “Okay, don’t freak out, but something got stolen.”
“Is it my sanity?” I asked. “Because I set it down somewhere between page four and five of Perfect Wedding Songs of the ’70s and ’80s and haven’t seen it since.”
Wren’s eyes flashed. “A painting. At the Oglethorpe Club.”
My hand paused over the lid of my coffee. “One of the clubhouse paintings?”
“Yes. Supposedly, the club has only originals, and some of those are worthy of a museum. Figures, in a place with three golf courses and a members-only restaurant that charges extra if you ask for lemon.”
“And how did you hear about this stolen artwork?” I asked, knowing the board would bury anything unflattering as long as possible. Reputation was everything to those people—most of whom were the thirty-year friends I spoke of.
“Caleb texted me last night. We talked this morning and… he filled me in.”
Graham’s eyebrows went up. “Caleb?”
“Parker,” Wren said too quickly, then tried to flatten it like it was no big deal. “We’re in chem together and study sometimes. His dad is—”
“Richard Parker,” I supplied. “Club president. I still get the newsletters, and when I can’t sleep, I read them. Better than melatonin. So Caleb is the boy who asked you to prom?”
Wren’s blush reached her ears. “Yeah, but—well—his dad told him to keep the theft quiet because of the optics. But Caleb’s not great at pretending, which I like, and he knows I—” She glanced at me. “He knows about the Savannah Sleuths. He talked to his dad who said it was okay to tell you, but no one else.”
“I’m flattered,” I said.
“The painting isn’t just gone,” she barreled on. “It was swapped. And nobody caught it until an appraiser came through last week—for the audited financials Oglethorpe needs for the bank.”
“The bank?” I asked. Odd. In my day, Oglethorpe kept over a hundred grand tucked away for emergencies. “Did Caleb mention why a bank’s involved?”
“He says the board’s planning to add new amenities. Anyway, the collection hasn’t been appraised in, like, ten years—maybe longer—but Caleb says some of those artists’ works have skyrocketed in value.”
“I imagine that’s accurate.” I thought back to the last time I walked the gallery. Many of the paintings were by respected artists who now commanded six figures. The board had grown selective about what they accepted, and it had become quite a badge of honor to have your name on the wall.
“Last week, the appraiser spent days authenticating and pricing the collection. That’s when he spotted the forgery—said the brushwork was wrong, the pigment too new, and something about the undercarriage being non-existent. And get this—no one knows exactly how long the real one’s been missing.”
Graham leaned back. “Why go to the trouble to swap out a fake for the real thing? Did they think no one would notice?”
“Might not go unnoticed forever, but it would likely buy time,” I said. “A near-twin keeps people calm until the thief is long gone. Probably sold already.”
“Not that long ago.” Wren tapped a few keys and spun the laptop toward us. A grainy photo filled the screen—club hallway, tasteful sconces, and a nineteenth-century landscape I knew well: storm-bellied clouds, a field of tulips, an old farmhouse in the distance. Beautiful in the way that makes your ribs ache.
“That’s the piece they stole?”
“That’s the one. This photo is from last month,” Wren said. “Public event—people posted selfies. And this—” she flicked to another photo “—is from last week on the club’s page. One of the staffers posted a notice about the upcoming gala. They caught the hallway in the background.”
Graham squinted. “Look
“That’s the idea,” I said.
“Right,” Wren leaned in to look closer at her screen. “The appraiser says the one from a month ago was the real deal—something about the farmhouse. But the one hanging now, the one in the staffer’s post, is fake.”
“And the club wants this theft kept quiet?”
“Extremely. Richard Parker’s exact words: no insurance, no headlines, no fuss before the gala.” Wren’s face twisted—pure Graham whenever he didn’t approve but knew better than to say so.
Graham scoffed a grunt. “That’s a terrible idea. The longer this goes, the less likely they’ll recover the original.”
Richard’s stance sounded like his wife Evelyn’s brand of logic—better a spotless façade than a recovered painting.
“There’s pretty tight security in the gallery at the club,” I said. “Was there any particular time in the last month that would’ve allowed a thief to steal the painting?”
“The working theory is last Tuesday. Skeleton crew. Security cameras conveniently ‘down for maintenance’ in that corridor.”
“Either someone outside got real lucky, or someone inside got real bold,” Graham said.
Before I could answer, Margaret called from the foyer, “I made it,” and swept in with a bakery box clutched like Savannah’s fate depended on it.
“I brought lemon squares,” she announced, as if that would absolve her for being an hour late. “Bridge club got out of hand, and if Eleanor Bratton uses the phrase ‘old Savannah’ one more time, I’ll start a new chapter out of spite.”
She set the box down, took in the exploded wedding on my table, Wren’s laptop, the landscape on the screen, and lifted one perfect eyebrow. “What did I miss—and how soon can we insert ourselves?”
“Painting stolen from the Oglethorpe Club,” I said. “Replaced with a forgery so good it took an art appraiser to catch it.”
Margaret’s expression landed squarely on interested. “Do tell.”
“Wren heard from a friend,” I added. “His father, Richard Parker, is club president.”
“I know Richard. Pompous asshat. No—wait—that’s his wife. Richard’s just a nervous twit.” Margaret turned to Wren, whose blush looked permanent. “Ah,” she said, pleased as a cat with cream. “Your private source—equals a bit of a crush.”
“Just a classmate,” Wren muttered. “We did a project on polymers.”
“Polymers,” Margaret echoed, storing the word like ammunition. “If Susan Wiggley, Bridge Club artist extraordinaire, gets wind of this, she’ll spread it faster than Eleanor Bratton’s bridge scores.”
She turned to me. “So, what’s our angle?”
“No angle,” Graham said too fast. “We’re picking napkin rings and deciding our wedding dance song.”
Margaret gave him no notice. “If a painting was stolen, the club will want to keep it quiet—to preserve donations and dignity. A foolish little tap dance our kind knows well.” She lifted both hands, gave a small shuffle on the tile. “They’ll need someone sensible to find it while they polish the silver. And…” she paused mid-step, “we’re sensible.”
“We haven’t been asked to look into it,” I reminded them all with a raised brow. “And I gave up my membership six months ago. Pickleball and HOA meetings aren’t my idea of a good time.”
“I like pickleball,” Graham said.
I patted his hand. “We can play anytime you’re up to getting beat. The city courts are always available.”
He grinned. “I’ll take that challenge.”
“Umm. Aunt Em, you are being asked,” Wren said, sliding a folded note across the counter. “Mr. Parker asked me to give you this.”
Emma Lynn,
I hope this finds you well and that you’ll forgive the informality of this note. Under normal circumstances, I’d never impose, but these are not normal circumstances. A situation has arisen at the club which requires the utmost discretion. I’ve read about you recently in the paper, heard that you and your friends are discreet but also have a nose for solving mysteries.
Would you be willing to meet me quietly at the Oglethorpe clubhouse this afternoon? Please use the owners’ gate on Whitaker Road—I’ll meet you and let you in.
Your assistance would mean a great deal to me, and to the community you once called home.
With thanks,
Richard A. Parker
President, Oglethorpe Club
Richard Parker’s neat script looked like it had been written with a ruler. By the time I’d reached the end, Graham’s gaze resembled a heat-seeking missile more than casual interest.
I refolded the note and smiled to test the water.
He shook his head. “Napkin rings. Dance song. Wedding in three weeks.”
I blew a breath. “I know.”
Margaret pfft—her favorite response to anything she disagreed with. “Since when can’t you walk and chew gum? Carrie Rose and Nadine have this wedding well under control. And how long can it take to find a missing painting? We’ve found missing babies, missing teens, missing murderers—and all in under three weeks’ time.” She turned a glare on Graham. “This is an inanimate object. How long can it take? Surely we can offer our help.”
“All four of us have to be on board.” I was a bit surprised at her enthusiasm. Margaret was generally the one who grumbled about getting involved.
“Richard Parker may be a Nervous Nellie,” she said, “but he’s not careless. If he wants secrecy, it means the truth is likely worse than scandal. Maybe worse than the theft. We have to help.”
Graham studied me, his eyes that cool blue that could douse my temper and sharpen my sense. He sipped his coffee, then shrugged. “Your call,” he said. “I’ll back you either way. But remember—we’ve got a wedding in three weeks. Twenty days to be exact. Less than four hundred eighty hours, give or take. Subtract the ones you’ll spend asleep—or pacing—and you’re down to maybe three hundred twenty left. And I know exactly how fast you burn through hours when you’ve got a mystery under your nails.”
Leave it to Graham to break it down into hours. But he had a solid point. Lost sleep was practically my trademark.
I looked at the seating chart, the files, the fonts and flowers, and names I loved written in careful loops on the seating chart, and the tiniest weight pressed on my sternum. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to pick napkin rings or a first-dance song. Solving things—putting the world back where it belongs—made me feel like myself, and this wedding was already planned to within an inch of its life.
“You’re right. Three weeks will fly by. And with Carrie Rose arriving the day after tomorrow, she’ll be thrilled there’s something to keep me busy while she rides herd on the whole wedding shebang. So, let’s at least hear Richard out.”
Margaret’s smile could’ve lit Christmas-Eve candles. “I’ll wear white.”
I grinned and pointed a finger. “Not to my wedding, you won’t.”
I must look more worn down by wedding decisions than I realized if she tossed that in just to make me laugh. Margaret Duval would no more wear white to a wedding than red to a funeral. Just not done—at least not in Savannah.
I turned to Wren. “Tell Richard we’ll meet him.”
“Caleb texted and said his dad asked him to handle getting us through the gates,” she said, then winced at her own enthusiasm.
“Richard’s smarter than I gave him credit,” Margaret said. “Outsiders are exactly what’s required to solve this mystery quickly.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I think that’s why Richard is considering asking for our help. He doesn’t consider me an outsider. Not completely.”
We ate lemon squares because that’s what you do before trespassing delicately into other people’s messes: you fortify with citrus, sugar, and the illusion you are simply visiting.
By one o’clock, we were at the Oglethorpe back gate. Wren rode shotgun, calling out turns like she’d been born with a map of the neighborhood in her bones, not recognizing that I knew these roads well enough to drive them blindfolded.
The gate swung wide in a smooth, expensive glide. Caleb waited in a six-seater golf cart, waving us through. Inside, the streets bent around manicured flower islands and careful shade; golf carts hummed past like well-fed bees. Every azalea bed and three-story Charlestonian façade seemed to remind me of my old house.
