Peter glared at Joe. “Is that it? Because Chaz seemed to think your family could use the money.”
Joe’s nostrils flared. “Yeah, you know what, my family did need the money.” He pointed at Peter (thankfully with his knife-free hand). “But that guy’s a douche. I insisted we turn down the job, even despite the great pay—I mean, who wants to attend an ex’s wedding as ‘help,’ right?”
I raised my brows. “No kidding. If you turned it down, why are you and your parents here?”
He glanced behind him at the older folks, then turned back to us, slightly softened. “It was just like Letty to want to help out. You know she was going to school during the day and working nights at the country club?”
Peter and I exchanged surprised looks.
“She was going places—she didn’t need a hand up from these people.” Joe turned his head and spat on the lawn. “She was a good person—she wanted to help us out. Plus, Letty told me she wanted a familiar face there.” He scoffed. “Can you believe they didn’t let her invite any of her own people?”
Yeah, I’d thought that was pretty weird too, but decided to push Joe a little bit. “Chaz told us she understood.” I shrugged.
He scoffed and waved the knife around. Beside me, Peter’s hand twitched to the wand tucked in his belt.
“And you buy that? They pressured her into it!” He threw his tattooed arms up. “I’m sure it’d be unseemly for a bunch of Darkmoonies to crash this elite, highbrow shindig.” He shook his head and let his arms drop to his sides. “Poor Letty—I don’t think she had any idea what she was getting into with these people.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I’d had the same thought earlier.
Peter’s hand still hovered near his wand. “Were you aware of Letty’s strawberry allergy? Did any of your dishes contain them?” He cocked a brow. “We’ll be checking.”
Joe looked scandalized. “No way! And of course I knew about her allergy.”
“Then why didn’t you let Chaz check?” I flashed my eyes at him. “He said you wouldn’t let him look into certain pots.”
“That idiot tried to ‘examine’ everything we were cooking!” Joe’s mom paused, wand in hand, with a line of pots floating midair on their way to the cart. “He kept taking the lids off and ruining things.”
Joe’s dad threw a couple of crates into the back of the cart. “This stuff has to slow cook—he just about messed up the pork adobo!”
My mouth watered, and I rose on my toes to look past Joe at the pots of food. “Pork adobo?”
“Mm-hmm.” Joe’s mom waved me over. “Come see.”
“Jolene…”
I waved Peter off. “I’m just going to look—for investigative purposes.” My stomach let out a particularly loud growl and betrayed me. I gave Peter a sheepish grin and skipped over to the cart.
“See?” The older lady gestured at a cauldron that hovered midair. I bent my head over the steaming stew and inhaled the rich, fatty scent of slow-cooked pork and delicious spices.
I threw my head back. “Snakes, that smells good.”
“Mm-hmm.” The older man bustled over, spoon in hand. “I said he nearly messed it up, but my wife’s such a good cook, she salvaged it.”
I bit my lip. “I’d like to believe you, but only one way to find out.” I winked, and they chuckled and handed me the spoon. I reached into the pot and scooped up a bite, dripping with pork chunks and fatty sauce.
“Jolene!”
I jumped and spun around. Peter flashed his eyes at me. “That’s evidence and the possible means of murder.”
Joe’s mom scoffed. “We hadn’t even served it yet!”
Peter raised a brow. “Someone could have brought the victim a plate, or maybe she snuck a bite from the kitchen. We need to be thorough.”
I shrugged. “I’m not allergic to strawberries.” I bent back over the spoon to take a bite.
“Jolene!”
I spun back around, mouth watering. “What?”
Joe’s parents scowled at Peter.
He stood beside Daisy, eyes wide. “We don’t know for sure that Letty even died of her strawberry allergy. For all we know, she was poisoned.” He shot a pointed look at the spoonful of stew in my hand.
I took another whiff, and my stomach grumbled. I hesitated a moment, then grumbling, dumped the stew back into the pot and handed the spoon back to Joe’s dad. “Fine!” I threw my hands up at Peter and stomped back toward him. “You happy?”
He shook his head at me, then frowned back at Joe’s parents and the cart. “Wait—like I said, this is all evidence. Did no one talk to you about that?”
Joe and his parents exchanged looks, then all shook their heads.
Peter pointed at the cart and all its contents. “We’re going to have to confiscate all of that and have it sent up to the station for testing.”
“What? Are you serious?” Joe’s dad gestured at the cart. “We have to unpack all this?”
Peter nodded. “Apologies for the inconvenience, but I’ll send some officers around to assist.”
Joe’s mom huffed. “What a waste!”
I sighed wistfully at all the delicious-smelling food. No kidding. I’d have gladly devoured all of it.
She pointed at her husband. “We’d better get paid.”
“Oh!” He hauled a crate off the cart and dropped it to the ground. “You better believe it!”
Joe half turned toward his parents, then stopped and pointed at Peter. “I caught Chaz and his mommy having a big blowout this afternoon before the wedding.” He raised his brows. “Did Chaz tell you about that?”
“Nope.” I winked. “Thanks for the intel.”
He winked back, and Peter looked wide-eyed between us.
RACHEL WHITMORE
I had to jog to keep up with Peter as he stalked across the moonlit lawn back toward the wedding guests and other cops.
“I’m not a fan of that Joe guy.” He scowled. “We need to look into him more.”
I bit back a grin. “And this has nothing to do with the way he was talking to me?”
He shot me a wide-eyed look, then quickly turned away and hunched up
