Chapter 27 Lottie
LOTTIE
Mother’s Day at my mother’s B&B looks like a vintage postcard come to life—if the magazine specialized in vintage dresses, unresolved grudges, and the occasional ghost.
Francine Dundee is laughing a touch too loud near the punch bowl. Midge Thornbury is holding court by the buffet, smiling like a woman who never once imagined what life might be like if she didn’t win a banana pudding championship.
Gigi Wentworth-Crane glides through the crowd in a pale blue vintage number, looking every inch the polished matriarch she is.
And Dolly Hatchett?
She’s sitting alone at a tiny wrought-iron table near the edge of the garden with her hands clasped around a glass of lemonade, staring at absolutely nothing.
Bingo.
“Target acquired,” Percy murmurs from my shoulder, his feathery tail brushing my cheek. “Suspect number… I’ve lost count. But she’s my favorite so far. Tragic posture, but she has excellent potential for melodrama. The marshmallows are in the yams with this one.”
As if there’s another way to eat yams.
“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 reads CELEbrATING THE MOTHERS & FOUNDERS OF HONEY HOLLOW in 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, ominous presence.
“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 just ran 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.”
“Percy,” Greer hisses as she swats his tail.
“What?” he swats her right back with his feathers, and a few plumes dissipate in a spray of light blue stars. “I’m providing commentary. And culinary tips. What more can you ask for?”
Dolly swallows hard. “I don’t know what Gigi is talking about.”
“She also said,” I continue softly so as not to cause a scene, “that five years ago you took forty thousand dollars from the fund. That you’ve been paying it back. That Vivienne found out and was planning to expose you.”
Dolly’s fingers tremble around her lemonade. Her lipstick has feathered at the corners, and I suddenly realize how tired she looks. How pale and stretched thin she looks, too, like a woman who’s been walking on a tightrope for years.
“Lottie,” she grits my name out with a rough voice. “I don’t know what Gigi is trying to pull, but that’s not true.”
“Not true?” I echo.
“Not like that.”
Percy tilts his head. “Here comes the remix.”
Dolly looks me dead in the eye. “I never embezzled money from the Daughters. Not a single penny. I was never that desperate.”
Her words hang between us.
“I…” I blink. “But she said the records—”
“I know what the records say.” Dolly’s jaw tightens.
“I know what Vivienne hinted at. I know what people whisper about me when they think I’m not listening.
But I didn’t steal that money. I might be na?ve.
I might be stupid. And I might have trusted the wrong person.
” Her gaze flickers toward the crowd, then back. “But I certainly didn’t do that.”
“So why would Gigi—” I stop. It’s time to rewind. “Why would Vivienne say she had proof?”
Dolly gives a humorless laugh. “Vivi loved proof. She loved leverage. She especially loved watching people squirm. But if you’re asking why she’d choose me as a scapegoat?
” Her lips press into a thin line. “It’s because I was convenient.
Because I was loyal. But mostly because I would never dare contradict her—at least, not where anyone could hear me. ”
Greer floats over to Dolly and examines the woman at close range. “I don’t know, Lottie. I think she’s telling the truth,” she murmurs. “In fact, I’d put money on it. That is, if I still had any money.”
Percy nods. “I don’t detect murder vibes. Panic, yes. Guilt, some. But not that kind of guilt.”
That doesn’t mean a thing, or at least I don’t think it does.
I take a quick breath. “Dolly, I have to ask. I know you were at the estate that night, but where exactly were you around the time she died?”
“In the kitchen,” she says without hesitation.
“With Midge. We were prepping desserts and arguing about whipped cream versus meringue. Midge was looking to chop some walnuts. Half the caterers saw us. So did Suze. You can ask them.” Her expression crumples for a moment.
“I cared for Vivienne. Even when she decided she didn’t care for me all that much.
I would never… I’m not that desperate.” She trails off and swallows hard.
If she’s lying, she’s very, very good at it. And from what I hear, Dolly Hatchett is not good at much besides deviled eggs.
“Someone out there was very desperate,” I add, glancing around the garden.
Dolly follows my gaze—over to Midge, who happens to be laughing near the dessert table, over to Gigi who’s chatting with a cluster of board members, then over to Francine Dundee, holding up a banana pudding cup like it’s a holy relic. Not my relic.
“Of course, someone was.” Dolly laughs. “Do you think Vivienne got killed over nothing? She knew everyone’s secrets, Lottie.
And she was about to start using them. Publicly.
She said herself that this week would be transformational.
” Her mouth twists. “For someone out there, that meant prison. Or divorce court. Or worse.”
“Do you know who she meant?” I ask.
Dolly hesitates. And just like that, the shutters slam down behind her eyes.
“No,” she says. “I know there was someone else she had leverage on. Some serious leverage. But I don’t know who.” She stands, smoothing her floral skirt with trembling hands. “I should go see if they need help in the kitchen. Happy Mother’s Day, Lottie.”
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I echo without any heart.
She moves off into the crowd, swallowed by petticoats and chatter and the clink of champagne flutes.
I sit there for a moment and let her words sink in.
I never embezzled money from the organization. I was never that desperate.
So who was?
I look around again.
At Midge Thornbury, laughing a little too brightly at something Suze just said, her posture stiff despite the easy smile.
At Gigi Wentworth-Crane, poised and composed, the queen bee without her queen.
At the rest of the Daughters, twirling in their 1950s finery, their hair sprayed into oblivion, their secrets held tight behind red lipstick and polite conversation.
“Someone was desperate, all right,” Greer says, taking in the crowd right along with me. “Someone whose life was about to go up in flames.”