Greer belts out a laugh as she floats in close. “Controlyourself, Lottie. If you play your cards right, you’ll be the one laughing once you’ve caught the killer.”
I offer a mournful smile her way. Not once have I relished the fact that I helped send someone up the river. Although Midge here is changing my stance on that, too.
“Hurry, Lottie!” Percy bops up and down with his tail in full plumage, and it’s a regal sight. “The fruit salad needs its whipped cream! You can’t have ambrosia with pickles.”
I frown at him even though he’s totally correct.
Midge and I stand near the back of the garden, closer to the woods than the party. Most of the guests are clustered near the fountain and the dessert table. It’s relatively private here. And honestly, I couldn’t think of a better place to do what I’m about to.
“Midge, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course, dear.” She sets her tray on a nearby bench. “What’s on your mind?”
I step closer and lower my voice. “Midge, I know what you did.”
Her smile doesn’t waver, but something flickers in her eyes. “What did I do?” She gives a few forced blinks. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Lottie. I do quite a lot.” She gives a congratulatory chortle when she says it.
“Midge.” I wince a little. “You killed Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke.”
The smile freezes on her face. For just a second, and maybe less, her happy-go-lucky, rather obnoxious mask slips, and I see something dark and desperate underneath.
Then just like that, it’s back in full force. The dimples. The warmth. The perfect homemaker persona. Midge Thornbury really is a trifecta of deception.
“Lottie Lemon, that’s a terrible thing to say.” She laughs, and her voice is still syrupy sweet. “Especiallyon Mother’s Day.”
Percy ruffles his feathers. “She’s good. I’ll give her that. Now go in for the banana pudding.”
“I saw the financial records,” I tell her without breaking my gaze. “The embezzlement. The monthly withdrawals. The doctored invoices with your signature as secondary approver?”
“Those were Bernard’s doing,” Midge says quickly, her lashes batting twice as hard—so hard I can feel a breeze. “My husband handled all the finances. If there were discrepancies, he would have known about them, not me. And as we both know, he’s not here to answer for himself.”
“He doesn’t have to. It was Vivienne who was embezzling,” I counter. “And she was framingyoufor it. Making it look like you approved every withdrawal. Every fake receipt. Every doctored invoice.” I watch as Midge’s mouth rounds out.
“She was blackmailing you, too, wasn’t she?” I ask softly. “She stole from the club to frame you, and she stole from you as well. A thousand dollars a month. For six months. While you watched your savings disappear.”
Midge turns her cheek as if I struck her.
“She was sleeping with your husband, Midge. For over a year. Meeting at her estate when he was supposed to be reviewing the books. Taking weekend trips when you thought he was at accounting conferences.”
Midge’s jaw tightens. The color drains from her face. And that’s when I know I’m right.
“You confronted her privately, didn’t you?” I ask softly. “When you found out.”
“Yes!” Midge’s voice cracks. “And shelaughedat me. She told me Bernard was leaving me. Told me that if I made any trouble, if I told anyone about the affair, she’d ‘discover’ the embezzlement and turn me in. All those doctored invoices with my forged signature? All that evidence she’d been planting? She said she’d make sure I went to prison for stealing from the charity fund!” Her eyes swell with tears. “So, I had to pay her. A thousanddollars a month. To keep her quiet about Bernard, to keep her from framing me for theft. While I watched my savings evaporate and had to smile and pretend everything was fine.”
“And at that day at the garden party,” I continue, “she told you she was done playing nice. That she was going to announce her relationship with Bernard at her upcoming retrospective. That she was going to frame you for the embezzlement and walk away with your husband and the money. And there was nothing you could do about it.”
“You don’t know anything,” Midge whispers.
“I know Dolly mentioned you were with her in the kitchen before the murder,” I say. “Helping prepare refreshments. Chopping walnuts. That’s how the butcher knife ended up in the sunroom, isn’t it? You brought it with you.” I pause. “But then you saw the cast-iron skillet. The commemorative 1952 Griswold from the vintage kitchen display, Big Bertha. The one you helped set up. And you realized you could use that instead.”
Midge’s breath comes faster. Her hands tremble.
“She laughed at you then, too, didn’t she?” I ask gently. “When you confronted her one last time.”
Something breaks in Midge’s face, and in a moment her perfect mask shatters.
“Yes,” she hisses. “I killed her. I killed Vivienne. And you know what else?” Her voice rises. “I killed Bernard, too!”
