Chapter 27 Lottie #2
“Someone whose husband was sleeping with Vivienne,” Percy adds, fluffing his feathers and sending stray stars shooting every which way. “Someone she could humiliate in one well-timed speech.”
A chill skates down my spine despite the warm sun.
I stand, smoothing my dress, and scan the lawn until I spot my mother near the conservatory doors, laughing with a pair of guests.
“Come on,” I say. “I think I need access to some files.”
Percy perks up. “Ah. The digital paper trail. My favorite recipe for disaster. It’s like leaving crumbs for the authorities to follow, except the crumbs are spreadsheets.
Rather like frosting a cake before it cools, dear—messy, premature, and everything slides right off to reveal the truth underneath. ”
Greer drifts alongside me as I weave through the crowd, dodging skirts and trays and one overzealous toddler wielding a balloon sword.
“Mom!” I call out.
She turns with a laugh caught in her throat. “Lottie! What can I get you? Are the babies here yet?”
“No, not yet,” I say, glancing at my watch and wincing. “I’m guessing he has to wrangle Lyla Nell into her petticoat. There may be negotiations.”
“That girl is going to run a small country one day,” Mom says proudly.
“Better than a prison,” I say, mostly to myself. “Mom, would you happen to have access to any of the Daughters’ financial records? The charity fund in particular.”
She hesitates, glancing around at the sea of women. “Lottie, I’m a trusted board member.”
“Please.” I touch her arm. “You know Vivienne was up to something. You loved her.”
She presses her lips tight. “She did start acting strange with the books.”
“See?” I nod. “If Dolly isn’t the embezzler—and I don’t think she is—then someone else is. And that same someone might be the one who killed Vivienne.”
Mom exhales, shoulders dropping. “You’re your father’s daughter, you know that?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.” She digs into the pocket of her cardigan and pulls out her phone. “The records are on the Daughters’ memory drive. As a board member, I’m privy to this information and most of all trusted with it. I’ll forward you the link.”
She taps for a moment, then my phone buzzes in my hand.
“Password is… Founders1954! with an exclamation point.” She winks. “Don’t tell the others. Half of them think a cloud drive is something that waters their plants.”
“I won’t breathe a word,” I promise.
She gives my arm a quick squeeze. “I’ve got to check on the catering. And pose for about a hundred pictures. Please do your best not to get me kicked out of the organization. And for Pete’s sake, do not find another body! Love you.” She lands a quick kiss to my cheek.
“Love you, too.”
Greer and Percy trail me as I step away from the main hubbub toward a quieter corner of the lawn. I duck behind a trellis dripping with lavender wisteria, where the air is thick with its sweet, heady perfume and open the email Mom sent.
One tap, and the Daughters’ shared drive opens. Folders labeled EVENTS, MEMBERSHIP, NEWSLETTERS, ARCHIVES.
And then I strike gold. FINANCIALS.
My heart starts thudding.
Percy leans over my shoulder like an extremely nosy feather boa. “Oh, this is intimate. I feel like we should light a candle.”
I tap FINANCIALS. A list of spreadsheets pops up, each neatly named.
CHARITY_FUND_2023, CHARITY_FUND_2024, CHARITY_FUND_2025, OPERATING_EXPENSES LEDGER_MASTER.
I open the most recent charity fund file—2025.
Rows of numbers fill the screen. Donations. Interest. Withdrawals. Notes.
My eyes catch on the header.
Accountant of Record: Bernard Thornbury, CPA.
“I knew he did their books,” I murmur. “I didn’t know he was still listed as the accountant.”
Still listed. Even though he’s been dead for over a year.
Everett mentioned once that Bernard handled accounting for half the organizations in town. I’d filed it under boring and moved on.
But here, in black and white, is his name. On files dated from this year.
Every quarter’s summary. Every transfer. Every adjustment. All signed off with the same initials.
BT.
I scroll down, my pulse picking up speed.
There, buried among normal expenses—donation transfers, event budgets, operating costs—are withdrawals that make my stomach drop.
Regular amounts. Clean thousand-dollar chunks. Starting about eight months ago, well after Bernard died.
Each labeled with a vague note.
CONSULTING.
TRAVEL—OUTREACH.
ADDITIONAL REVIEW.
Which means someone else has been using his login credentials to take money out of the Daughters’ accounts. Someone who had access to his passwords, his accounts, his identity.
Someone who could make it look like a dead man was still doing the bookkeeping.
Someone with access to the records. Someone who knew Bernard’s password, or watched him work, or had his login information saved somewhere. Someone with a burning need to take Vivienne down before Vivienne took her down.
My gaze lifts over the top of my phone to the crowd.
To Midge, stiff and smiling, fussing with the dessert table as if her life depends on keeping the banana pudding perfectly aligned.
To Gigi, serene and polished, laughing at some joke a board member just delivered.
To Dolly, hovering near the kitchen door, looking like she’d leap out of her skin if anyone raised their voice.
My brain pulls at threads, weaving everything together.
The affair Vivienne bragged about, the embezzlement, the hush money, the leverage, the speeches, the desperation.
Something clicks into place with a terrible, satisfying snap, and my blood runs cold.
“I think I know who it is,” I whisper.
Greer steps closer, eyes wide, the crimson at her chest glowing brighter. “Lottie?”
Percy’s feathers puff up, tail fanning in anticipation. “Well? Don’t leave us hanging, Lottie Lemon. Who killed Mother Vivi?”
I lock my phone, sliding it into my clutch.
The Mothers of Honey Hollow laugh and sip punch, completely oblivious to the terror among them. Meanwhile, I’ve just figured out who killed Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke.
She’s here.
In this garden.
And I’m about to confront her.