34. Lottie

LOTTIE

“ T his is bad,” I whisper to myself as Carlotta and I speed into the lobby of the Fletcher Hotel and we practically collide with a one-ton furry white teddy bear.

“Petey, I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, more than happy to see him.

“Of course.” The ghostly cutie floats a few inches off the ground while his massive white fur glistens like freshly fallen snow. “I wouldn’t miss this mac and crack festival for anything.”

“Good to know.” I make a face at the button-eyed poltergeist. “Carlotta, I’m glad you’re here, too,” I pant as I pull her back toward a dark corridor just past the elevators. “I think I know who the killer is.”

“Not now,” she hisses, waving me off. “The big guy and I were just about to plot a heist. Don’t ask, Lot.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I say, raising a brow. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Ooh, fish .” Petey swings his head my way, his ghostly eyes lighting up like someone just dangled a bucket of salmon in front of him. “Now you’re talking my language.”

“Oh, for Petey’s sake,” Carlotta grouses. “Do you have to steal the attention of every man in the room, Lot? There’s no species too big or too small. You just need all the attention for yourself, don’t you?”

“Funny,” Petey says as he tips his furry head. “That’s exactly what Ursula’s father used to say to her.”

“Sounds like he spoke the truth,” I muse. “And Carlotta, stealing the attention from the men in the room is your specialty, not mine.”

“Hey?” She straightens a moment. “You’re right. In fact, I bet you got that little blessing of a gift from me. You’re welcome.”

“Trust me, the last thing I want is the attention from every man in the room. That’s more of a curse than a blessing.”

I’m about to spill everything I’ve just gleaned as far as Ursula’s homicide is concerned when the elevator dings and the doors glide open. A couple steps out, each with an arm wrapped around the other’s waist, looking like they’ve just waltzed out of a romance movie—only less heartwarming and a little more suspicious.

Of course.

I suck in a quick breath as my brain clicks into overdrive.

“Orson, Agatha,” I call out, my voice laced with as much sugar as I can muster. “Leaving so soon?”

Their heads snap toward me in unison like two deer caught in headlights, and I catch the slightest flicker behind their cool exteriors—something that tells me they know they’ve just been caught red-handed.

Orson recovers quickly enough. “Ah, Lottie.” He manufactures a smile that looks as if it’s just for me. “We were just stepping out for some fresh air.”

“It’s about to snow.” I cock my head to the side, not buying it for a second. “I guess that’s about as fresh as it can be.”

Agatha’s mouth contorts as if she were about to say something and that crimson lipstick of hers sears itself into my mind.

“We were actually leaving,” she manages to say as if she were swallowing a laugh. “I wish you and your sisters much luck with the birth of your children. Your mother is just over the moon. You have such a lovely family.”

“Thank you,” I say as they take another step toward the door. “Oh, Agatha?” I call after her and the two of them turn our way once again. “My sister said she saw you at the library sale. She said you scooped up quite the number of magazines.”

She stiffens just a fraction, but it’s enough to confirm what I already know.

Of course, Lainey didn’t mention any of that to me, but that little white lie of mine gave me all the ammunition I’m going to need.

“Orson”—I continue—“the day your wife was killed, you were, well, understandably angry. But what I can’t wrap my head around is that when you walked into the library that day, you immediately asked who had done that to her. The scarf was already removed from her neck so you couldn’t have known that she had been strangled. You didn’t ask if she’d had a heart attack or a stroke, or if anything else might have happened naturally.” I narrow my gaze. “It’s almost as if you knew it was a homicide.”

Orson’s smile falters, and Agatha’s grip on his arm tightens. “I… well, I”—Orson stammers—“I was just shocked, that’s all. There’s no one way to react in those situations. There are no wrong answers, if that’s what you’re implying.”

I take a step closer, pinning him with a look. “Shocked? Or were you more concerned about losing your financial empire? You said yourself that trying to contain Ursula was like putting out a stick of dynamite on fire—that you could lose a body part. Or maybe you were afraid of losing a lot more than that?”

“Way to go, Lot.” Carlotta touches her elbow to my baby bump and one of the twins gives her a swift kick. “Ouch,” she calls out while rubbing her elbow.

Agatha’s eyes dart between us and her perfectly composed mask begins to slip ever so slightly. “Orson,” she hisses under her breath, taking a full step back as if to distance herself from the sinking ship. “You said that about Ursula?”

Orson’s jaw clenches, but before he can deny it, I turn my attention to her.

“And as for you, Agatha,” I say, sweetening my voice just a notch as if I were about to offer her a plate of freshly baked cookies. “You were there in the library the night Ursula was killed, weren’t you? In fact, you were there as she breathed her last breath. Those weren’t Ursula’s crepes spilled next to her body. She told me herself that she couldn’t stand the texture of them. But those crepes on the floor—they were half-eaten, with red lipstick smeared all over them.” I smile innocently. “You were the one wearing red lipstick that night, not Ursula.”

Agatha’s mouth opens, then snaps shut, her eyes darting left and right as if she’s searching for an escape route.

“I don’t eat them either,” she blurts out and the words spill from her mouth like a river of lies.

“Oh really?” I say, my amusement barely concealed. “Because just earlier, you mentioned how thrilled you were there wasn’t a line for them this evening since you never got the chance to finish them the night of the original shower.”

Orson opens his mouth to protest, but Carlotta jumps in before he can get a word out.

“You got her, Lot,” Carlotta whoops it up and claps. “Saggie Aggie, you should have quit while you were ahead. Nothing gets past my Lot Lot.”

“That’s right. Nothing gets past me,” I say to both Orson and Agatha. “Especially not a killer or two.”