“Oh.” I curled my lip. “Yeah. I mean, if we’re going off the theory that she found out about the affair, why Bim?” I shook my head. “And while I hate to give any credence to your dog, Daisy did say Millie was genuinely distraught last night.”
The pup perked her ears up at the sound of her name, then growled at me. Don’t talk about me behind my back, human.
I rolled my eyes. Come on—I was right in front of her.
Peter’s brow creased with confusion as he looked between the two of us.
I shrugged. “Who knows—maybe Millie had suspicions that her husband was cheating with someone at work, and got it wrong.”
Peter nodded, his eyes on the orange clay tiles beneath our feet, then lifted his face and looked at Turk. “We need to speak with your wife.”
The man paled. “Oh goddess. This is a disaster.”
20
HALF-TRUTHS
Peter and I sat on one side of the round table in the breakfast nook across from Millie. A half-eaten cranberry scone rested on a small plate beside a stack of magazines, a newspaper, and the latest tabloid.
Millie wrung her hands. “You’re—you’re sure I can’t offer you anything?” She raised her brows and plastered on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Coffee? Tea? A light—”
Peter shook his head, Daisy sitting on the floor beside him. “No, thanks, Mrs. Molino.”
I snapped my mouth shut. Snakes. I’d been about to say yes to all the above, thank you very much. I eyed the scone in front of me—so flaky and crumbly.
Woof.
I glanced to my right where Daisy watched me with an indolent expression. There’s probably a dumpster out back you can search.
I shot her a simpering smile. Grr, that dog.
Peter cleared his throat. “Did you go to the office last night? Did you confront Bim?”
Millie’s blue eyes widened, and she shifted in her seat. “No.”
Daisy let out a low snarl. Some truth, some lie.
Millie played with the stack of gold bracelets on her wrist as she edged away from the enormous dog.
Peter licked his lips. “Do you know what Bim was doing at the office last night?”
Her throat bobbed. “No.” It came out a squeak.
Daisy growled again.
I grinned and reached for a hunk of that scone. Somebody was a bad liar, and I didn’t need a mangy mutt to tell me that. I popped the buttery, flaky pastry into my mouth. A delicious mix of butter and tart cranberry. Yum.
“This isn’t looking good for you, Millie.” Peter lifted a thick brow. “My dog senses that you’re lying.”
Millie’s chin trembled, and tears welled in her eyes. “Bim and I were friends!” She looked to the side. “I would never want her dead.” She sniffled, then buried her face in her hands and let out a gulping sob.
Daisy looked up at Peter and whined, her tail swishing on the floor. Truth.
Turk marched in from the parlor, where he’d no doubt been listening. “What’s this all about?” He stood beside his wife and put his hands on her heaving shoulders. “I told you, she couldn’t have done it!”
I snorted. “Well, if you told us, it must be true.” I shot him a flat look as Peter and I rose to our feet.
Turk glared back at me.
“We may have more questions for the both of you.” Peter tipped his head as we took our leave. “So don’t leave the island.”
I cast one last, longing look back at that scone—could I steal another bite? But my eyes landed on the tabloid beside it. I frowned at the moving photograph of the woman on the page and then backtracked and turned my head so I could view it upright.
I pointed. “Can I have that?”
Millie lifted her face from her hands and glanced down at the table, then back at me, her eyes red and ringed in mascara. “My tabloid?”
I nodded. “Yeah—are you done with it?” I flashed her a big smile. “Please?”
“Uh….” She shook herself, yet her halo of teased blond hair didn’t bob or bounce an inch. She must’ve used a pretty heavy-duty hair setting spell to achieve this physics-defying ’do. “Sure?”
“Thanks!” I snatched up the tabloid and followed Peter through the house, out the front courtyard, and back onto the street. The gilded gate swung closed and clicked shut behind us.
Peter leaned closer and read over my shoulder. “Catching up on your gossip?”
The tabloid had been open to the Bijou Mer society page. The headline read: Lady Amelie LeBec graces the Summer Solstice Ball with Generous Art Donation for Charity Auction.
A magically moving photograph featured a middle-aged woman in a black suit with a white lace shirt and bow tie underneath. She kept her full lips pressed together as she posed for the paparazzi, her much older, bent husband on her arm. With her angular features, blunt-cut bangs, and eccentric outfit, the effect was… severe.
I grinned up at him and tapped the page. “I know her.”
Peter lifted a brow as he read her name from the headline. “Lady Amelie LeBec?”
I nodded, which sent my messy bun bobbing. “She’s this super rich, on-the-scene socialite. The trophy wife of some rich old guy.” I waggled my brows at him. “She goes to all the best parties and socializes with the kingdoms’ most elite. She’s always in the tabloids.”
Peter lifted a brow. “Alright…. Not sure I quite follow.”
I stepped closer to him, my pulse racing with excitement. “Which makes me wonder why I saw her last night—out in the street.”
He blinked. “You did?”
I nodded. “I knew, I knew her from somewhere. She looked up at the sign, saw the police signal, and took off.” I grinned. “Why would a high-falutin’ lady be sneaking around the Darkmoon streets outside a crime scene?”
Peter’s lips slid into a grin. “I think we’re about to find out.”
21
LADY AMELIE LEBEC
Peter’s chest puffed, then he blew out a breath. We sat on a white leather bench in the front parlor of Lady Amelie LeBec’s
