“Be nice,” I whisper.
“I am being nice. I haven’t accused her of anything.You,my lovely, are about to do that.”
He’s got me there.
Greer drifts up on my other side in her glowing white gown and sparkling dark hair. The crimson stain on her chest looks extra bright under the midday sun, more like a carnation than anything that led to a lethal amount of blood loss. “Lottie, are you sure you want to do this here?” she asks gently. “On Mother’s Day? In the middle of a garden party?”
“No better time to prod a killer than when she’s full of carbs and peer pressure,” Percy says. “It’s time to get the casserole cooking! And don’t forget to add the cheese.”
“Sanity is what I would love to add,” I say. “But then, I’m never given the choice.”
The garden is humming with life—birds trilling in the trees, bees flirting with the rosebushes, women in petticoats and pearls chattering as they drift from table to table, and nary a cell phone in sight.
The banner strung across the back lawn readsCELEBRATING THE MOTHERS & FOUNDERS OF HONEY HOLLOWin swirling pink letters that my mother absolutely made someone redo three times. She’s a perfectionist that way.
Suze, Lily, and Effie are busy ferrying trays of my desserts from the house, and my sisters are clustered near the fountain, laughing at something Lainey just said. Mom is in her element, bouncing between groups, hugging people, accepting Mother’s Day wishes like the benevolent monarch she is.
And here I am, in a red and white polka-dotted dress, a pillbox hat pinned to my curls, kitten heels sinking into the grass, on my way to lightly accuse someone of murder.
So just your average Sunday in Honey Hollow.
I cross the lawn, my skirt swishing around my knees. The air smells like lemon cookies, cut grass, coffee, and enough Chanel No. 5 to knock out a small horse. The Daughters really commit to their signature scent.
Dolly doesn’t notice me until I’m almost at her table.
She startles, then forces a smile. “Lottie. Happy Mother’s Day.”
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I echo, sliding into the chair opposite hers. Percy hops down onto the back of her empty seat, and his feathers shimmer in the sun. Greer hovers just behind me like a quiet, luminous—or more accurately,ominouspresence.
“How’s the party?” I ask, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. “Enjoying yourself?”
She glances around at the sea of poodle skirts and pin curls. “It’s lovely. Your mother really outdid herself.” Her fingers tighten around her glass. “Vivienne would have loved this. She’d be furious to miss it.”
“I suppose she would,” I say softly.
For a second, the real Dolly peeks out, the woman who adored Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke, who drank in her approval like oxygen. Then it vanishes, replaced by the careful pleasantness she’s been wearing since Vivi died.
Greer leans toward me. “Would you look at that?” she whispers. “The woman suddenly looks terrified.”
I give a subtle nod because I happen to think so, too.
I clear my throat. “Dolly, I was hoping we could talk for a minute about Vivienne.”
Her shoulders stiffen. “Of course.” She plasters on another smile. “What about her? Her work with the Daughters? Her legacy? Her?—”
“Her murder,” Percy supplies helpfully.
I shoot him a look. Dolly shivers and rubs her arms as if a cold breeze justran through her.
“About what happened at her estate that day,” I say gently. “And about the rumors.”
Her eyes enlarge a notch. “What rumors?”
“Gigi mentioned something to me the other day.” I lean in. “She said there was some talk going around. About the charity fund. About money going missing. About Vivienne planning to make an example of someone.”
Dolly’s face drains of color.
“Oh, excellent,” Percy whispers. “A classic guilt response. It’s rather like watching meringue collapse in real time.”
