My boyfriend shot me a grin. “Now, why do I have a hard time believing that?”
I smirked, then glanced back at the branch the lemurs had crouched on. “I don’t know though, maybe she’s right. I’ve never spoken lemur before, so maybe my dialect was a little off.” I groaned and thunked my head against Peter’s chest. “I hope those potions Ludolf’s been testing on me aren’t stealing what few powers I have left.”
Peter stiffened, then wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer. Daisy stayed between our legs and let herself be right in the middle of it. “I hate that he’s doing that, and we’re going to put a stop to it.”
I nodded. I felt less confident of that but enjoyed being comforted.
“Plus, Daisy’s understanding you just fine, right?”
I nodded. “True.”
Peter gave me another hug, then held me out and squeezed my shoulders, his eyes intent on mine. “Maybe the lemurs witnessed the murders and are in shock.” He raised his brows, and I nodded.
“Maybe.” I curled my lip, thinking back to their creepy round eyes. “They certainly looked surprised.”
Peter grinned. “We’ll try again with them later, okay?”
I sighed and squared my shoulders. I squeezed Peter’s hand, then turned. “Sounds good. Apologies for the minor pity party. Now, let’s go see who’s sobbing.”
Peter’s grin deepened. “I’ll throw you a party, pity or otherwise, whenever you want one.”
“With balloons?” I cocked a brow.
He nodded. “Whatever you want—pony rides, clowns—”
I shook my head. “Never clowns.”
“Got it.” He took my hand, and we headed toward the sound of the gulps and cries. “Never clowns. Face painter?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Hand in hand, we walked through the jungle path with Daisy leading the way. As soon as we rounded the bend, Quincy in his green alligator suit came into view, hunched over and sobbing on a bench with his head in his hands. A uniformed cop stood beside him.
Daisy’s hackles rose, and she growled. The crying is somewhat insincere.
I pulled my lips to the side and glanced up at Peter. Looked like we were about to break up Quincy’s pity party.
QUINCY
Officer Jones stood behind our sobbing suspect, arms folded, one hip out. I didn’t need Daisy to tell me Quincy’s cries were false. He gulped and spluttered, dabbing at his eyes with a kerchief. Over the top much? The cop’s eyes slid our way, and she sighed, shoulders slumping no doubt with relief. How long had she had to witness his melodramatic display of grief?
She stepped toward us. “He’s been like this since Russo and I found him”—she glanced over her shoulder, mouth in a tight line—“standing next to the blow dart gun.”
I raised a brow. Surely he wouldn’t be dumb enough to drop the weapon he used to murder his wife and then just stand there? I eyed his alligator print tux. Then again, the man clearly had questionable taste. Maybe he wasn’t the brightest spell in the book.
Peter nodded. “Thanks. We’ll take it from here.”
Jones nodded and moved off the way we’d come. We tromped along the swaying rope bridge path until we landed on a broad wooden platform with a hole in the bottom for a tree wrapped in vines to grow through. We stopped in front of Quincy, who sat on a wooden bench with an iron dedication plaque on the backrest.
Daisy growled, and he jerked his blotchy red face up. He came face-to-face with her pointy white teeth and lurched back, clutching his kerchief to his chest. He blinked his small eyes up at us through his glasses, one knee hiked up as if to block the dog’s attack. “Wh-what is this?”
Peter gestured at his growling German shepherd. If I didn’t know she slept in a fluffy bed embroidered with her name and her favorite toy, a stuffed lobster, I’d have found her as terrifying as Quincy surely did. “I’m Officer Flint, and this is my partner, Daisy. She can smell lies, and her growls tell me you’re not being totally honest about your grief.”
Quincy’s sniffles immediately stopped.
Peter grinned at me, his hard gaze softening for a moment as he took me in. “And this is Jolene Hartgrave, a police consultant and pet psychic.”
Quincy scoffed, but when I leveled him a flat look, the lanky, big-eared man sobered. “Er—sorry.” He wrung the white kerchief between his long-fingered hands. “The truth is, Malorie and I didn’t have the perfect marriage, but I will miss her and was horrified to find her… like that.”
Daisy wagged her tail. True.
He shook his head and tucked the hankie in his breast pocket, then frowned and poked around in it. He withdrew a crumpled cocktail napkin with inky, illegible words scribbled on it. “Ah—the notes for my last-minute speech.” He let out another heavy sigh. “Couldn’t find them when I needed them. I’m always picking things up and misplacing others. Malorie always said my absentmindedness kept her constantly searching for things.” He shook his head. “Malorie was supposed to talk and introduce the phoenix.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Night didn’t exactly go as planned.”
I glanced at Daisy. If he’d killed his wife and planned it, that’d be an outright lie.
She blinked her big dark eyes up at me and whined. True.
I arched a brow at Peter. At least our suspect was being honest now that he knew Daisy would call him on his bluffs.
Peter shifted on his feet. “You said a moment ago that you and your wife didn’t have a perfect marriage—what did you mean?”
Quincy’s thin shoulders slumped. “Honestly, most of the time things were fine between us and, if not totally close, peaceful. But we’d been fighting more quite recently.”
Daisy wagged her tail. True.
Peter frowned. “I’m sorry for the personal questions, but what were you fighting about?”
“Oh, uh—” Quincy licked his thin lips and glanced at Daisy. “Old wounds. I believe the Night of the Phoenix party brought old memories back for Malorie about her first husband, who disappeared at the last one, fifty years ago.”
I nodded—Heidi had filled
