by Erin Johnson
Joe shrugged. “Well, I couldn’t exactly tell you about the note without looking pretty guilty, right?” He shook his head. “And as for the Rachel thing, most of the guests are probably too scared of what little miss socialite will do to their standing if they speak out against her.”
Peter set his jaw. “We’ll see what the tests say about the food you prepared. In the meantime, don’t go anywhere.” He turned to go but stopped and pivoted on his heel. “Oh—and I’ll need that sack of merkles, too.”
Joe sighed, then waved his wand, and the sack appeared in Peter’s hand. He scooped up the note and the strawberries and stalked off into the night. I cast one last look at the dejected Joe, then jogged to catch up with Peter and Daisy.
“Guess I know who we’re going to be talking to next.” I waggled my brows at Peter.
He huffed and stomped down the wet cobblestones. “It’s shocking how many people will lie just because they can get away with it.” He glanced down at Daisy. “Everything's so much harder without her.”
I grinned. I couldn’t say I was shocked that people would lie, cheat, and steal and get away with as much as they could—but I liked that Peter had enough optimism to still be surprised by it.
I gulped as I trailed slightly behind. I still needed to talk to him about Ludolf and the bind I was in with him cursing me and now testing cures on me. If Peter thought Letty’s situation was shocking, how would he react to my news?
16
Animal Rights
Peter, Daisy, and I strode into the posh country club on one of the upper tiers of the island. We’d stopped by Rachel’s flat first and been informed by her butler (what twentysomething-year-old had a butler?) that we could find her at the club. The two-story entryway reminded me of the lobby of a fancy hotel, all gleaming marble floors, soft lighting, and lush potted plants.
“Ahem.”
We three stopped and glanced to the left. A tall, thin man in a trim blue suit raised a sharp brow. He shot us a simpering smile. “Are you members?” His tone implied he knew quite well that we weren’t.
We moved over to the tall desk, and Peter flashed his gold badge. “We’re here on police matters.”
The man’s nostrils flared as he looked Daisy and me up and down, a disdainful curl to his lip. “And these two are…?”
I crossed my arms and shot him a flat look. “She’s a canine officer”—I tipped my head toward Daisy who took that opportunity to cough, then gag—“and I’m a police consultant.”
“I see.” He scribbled something on a piece of parchment, then pointedly set down his quill and laced his fingers together on the countertop. “You, sir, may enter, but as for these two…” His gaze drifted back to Daisy and me. “We have a strict jacket policy.”
I smirked. “Yeah, okay.”
He simply blinked back at me, and I frowned up at Peter. “He can’t be serious.” I turned back to the concierge de snobbery and tugged at my quilted bomber jacket. “Looks like I’m wearing a jacket to me.”
He sniffed. “How droll. No, we require sports coats, madam.” He gestured at a wooden cupboard behind him and opened the door, revealing a rack of oversized blazers. “We have some for loan if you simply must enter; otherwise, you may wait outside.”
I raised my brows, anger flushing hot up my throat. Just who did this guy think he was? “Oh, I may wait outside, might I?” I scoffed, thinking of the thrashing winds and sideways rain. “How generous of you.”
He smirked.
Peter frowned. “Women have to wear sports coats too?”
The thin man arched a sharp brow. “Typically our female members opt for dresses and heels, but barring that, suit coats are also acceptable.’”
“Fine.” I made a grabby hand. “Give me the jacket. And one for the dog, too.”
He paled. “You’re not serious.”
Peter looked between the country club guy and me, his cheeks tight like he was fighting a grin.
I raised my brows. “Oh—deadly serious. If jackets are required, we’ll wear the shell out of them.”
Twin pink spots burned on the man’s cheeks, but he simply pressed his lips into a thin line. “Very well.”
I smirked. “Sure hope you’ve got a good dry cleaner.” I thumbed at Daisy, who watched me with eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna need it to get the dog smell out of that blazer.”
A minute later, Peter, Daisy, and I walked into the dining room of the country club. I shrugged and tried to adjust the ridiculously large sports coat that jellyfish at the front had picked out for me. The wool tweed made my neck itch, and I’d had to roll the sleeves four times before my fingers even poked out the openings.
“I look ridiculous.”
Daisy, whose front legs stuck through the sleeves of a black blazer, glared at me and growled. I bet you think this is funny?
I let out a couple of quiet woofs. Not at all. In fact, we both look so good, I thought we might have some portraits taken? Maybe make it into a calendar? We’ll call it “Pets and Their Psychics in Sports Coats.” Who wouldn’t buy that?
Her ears flattened, and at that moment, two young women decked out in pearls and heels sauntered up to Peter.
“Is this your dog?”
“Oh my waves, she is soo cute.”
They bent forward, hands on thighs, and cooed at Daisy.
“Aren’t you just the cutest?”
“Uh.” Peter shifted on his feet, his cheeks burning pink. “She’s actually working and—”
Daisy, apparently unable to take it any longer, threw her head back and howled. I hate it! I hate wearing clothes! The indignity of it!
The women jumped back, eyes wide, and hurried off, clutching each other. The diners at the tables nearest us grew quiet and shot us worried looks.
I raised my brows at the dog and whined. Nice one, Daisy.
She bared her teeth and growled. I’ll rip that stupid jacket right off of you and—
I held out my arms, the sleeves drooping over my hands. Be my guest. You think I’m enjoying this?
Peter loudly cleared his throat, and Daisy and I turned to look up at him. “We’re, uh, creating a bit of a scene.” He lifted his chin. “I see Rachel in the back….”
I swept an arm forward, my hand hidden inside the tweed jacket. “Lead the way.”
As we threaded between tables draped in fine linens toward the wall of windows that looked out over the grassy grounds of the club, Daisy and I shot each other dirty looks behind Peter’s back. We passed an enormous stone fireplace, crackling with warmth, and on a low stage at the far wall, a lute player strummed his instrument, the soft melody creating a tranquil mood. One that Daisy and I had inadvertently been doing our best to disrupt.
Peter led the way to a small table near the windows with a view of the terrace and all its swaying lanterns. Rachel flipped her strawberry blond locks over her shoulder and laughed along with two other young ladies seated at the table. Her friends spotted us first and sobered up. Rachel turned frowning toward us, then glowered when she recognized us.
“Oh, hello, Officer and… company.” She raised a brow and blinked her buggy eyes, impatient. “Can I help you, or…?”
Peter squared his shoulders. “We need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Well, then.” She turned to her friends. “Ladies, why don’t you hit the sauna, and I’ll come and join you in a few.”
The women shot us concerned looks but rose and moved off. Peter and I took seats around the square table and Daisy lowered to her haunches so she practically sat on Peter’s shiny black shoes.
Rachel lounged back in her chair, knees crossed. “So what’s this about, hm?”
Peter watched her for a moment. “Why did Chaz blame you when Letty ran from the altar?”
She smirked and looked away. “Oh, that?” She flipped a hand. “It might have been a couple of things.”
Soft lute music floated over the murmur of the crowd in the dining room.
I leaned forward. “Such as?”
“Well…” She raised her brows and played with the hem of her skirt. “It might have been from my showing up at the wedding.”
I frowned. “Why? You said you’ve been friends with the family for ages.” I smirked. “Weren’t you invited?”
Her gummy smile faded, and her lips pinched together. “Chaz disinvited me the night before, if you must know.”
I scoffed. “Well, those two are the police, so yeah, they kind of must know.”
She glared at me.
“Why did he disinvite you?” That crease appeared between Peter’s brows.
She shrugged. “Who knows?”
Peter and I both reflexively glanced at Daisy, who just whined.
I don’t know… smells like… She sneezed, and Rachel recoiled.
“Ew. Is your dog sick?”
Peter cleared his throat. “If you had to guess?”
She sniffed and flipped her long hair. “I suspect his bride made him do it. She was such a fragile, insecure thing. She was probably jealous of the longstanding connection Chaz and I had.” She blinked at Peter, a smug smile on her face.
“So.” I drummed my fingers on the white tablecloth. “If he disinvited you, why were you there?”
She licked her lips. “Chaz’s mother, Marcy, heard about that and insisted I come. She adores me.”
I looked at Peter and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I suppose a wedding crasher could be pretty annoying.”
Peter leaned toward her. “What’s the other reason you can think of?”
She pinched her lips together but looked like she was fighting a smirk. “Letty might have been a bit upset at my fashion choices.”
I frowned and thought back to her outfit the other night. She’d been wearing that insane hat—which might have driven anyone to run quickly in the other direction. She’d had on a dress and—
I shot her a flat look. “The mink stole?”
Rachel gave a sly smile and shrugged in a way that told me it was exactly why Chaz had gotten upset with her. I gave the thin socialite a harder look. Was Letty a mink shifter? If so, did that mean Rachel knew?
Peter looked from me, back to Rachel. “Was Letty into animal rights?”
Her lip curled. “You could say that.”
When we didn’t say anything, she rolled her eyes. “You haven’t seen it yet, have you?” She dug around in her large, designer bag and pulled out a thick, glossy magazine—La Mer, one of the top magazines in the Kingdoms for fashion and politics.
17
La Mer Magazine
Rachel tossed the magazine onto the table in front of Peter, and I leaned over to get a better look. Several people adorned the cover in a magically moving photograph. I recognized a few—there was Chaz and Letty, hand in hand, and beside them, Sam Snakeman, the prominent shifter and monster rights activist.
A headline read:
Attitudes in the Kingdoms are Shifting.
I rolled my eyes at the pun but reached across Peter and pulled the magazine closer. I flipped through until I found the relevant article. It appeared to be profiling several prominent people fighting for shifter rights, including Chaz and Letty. I scanned the article—she was coming out publicly as a shifter. Wow.
I glanced up at Peter, then read a line.
“Candidate for Bijou Mer Councilor, Chaz Harrington, says he’s proud to be marrying bride-to-be Letty Jones and even prouder to help serve the shifter community. Says Harrington, ‘Even though I come from an upper tier, Letty helps ground me. She’s taught me so much about the struggle of those on the lower tiers and knows firsthand the hardships shifters face. I hope to serve all of Bijou Mer and level the odds.’”
I looked up from the page at Peter. He frowned and turned to Rachel. “You purposefully antagonized her by wearing that fur.”
She shrugged. “So what? I may have wanted to ruffle her feathers—” She smirked. “Or fur, more like it. But I didn’t kill her. She took care of that herself.”
I glared at her. I couldn’t imagine if someone showed up to my wedding wearing an owl hat or something. It’d be disturbing at best, but considering Letty didn’t have any friends or family there to support her, it could have driven her to extreme measures. “If you drove her to it though, you’ll be guilty of manslaughter.” I raised my brows at her, and she paled.
Peter nodded. “No more questions for you tonight, but don’t leave the island. We’re still waiting on testing the food, and we’ll also need to get a writing sample from you.”
She blanched. “A writing sample? For what?”
“We need to test it against a letter delivered to Joe Santos, the caterer.”
She shoved back from the table and lurched to her feet. “You’ll have to speak to my lawyer.”
Peter lifted his chin. “Gladly. We’ll do that.”
She dug around in her purse, handed him her lawyer’s card, then huffed and stomped off.
“Wow. She’s a real piece of driftwood.” I shook my head as my gaze slid back down to the magazine. With all the high-level changes in governments around the kingdoms lately, there’d been murmurings of a shift towards more transparency and inclusiveness.
I ran a finger over the glossy page—I’d never seen shifters coming out in such a public way. I bit my lip—maybe the winds were changing. Maybe there was hope that life could get better for shifters—that maybe we could come out from underground.
The profile of Chaz and Letty occupied the left-hand page, while on the right side of the spread, a photograph of Sam Snakeman hung his head, his chin disappearing, and pushed his glasses up his nose. I scanned the text. It described Sam as an ambassador to the island of Kusuri for the new administration and a public advocate for shifter, animal, and monster rights.
What sets Sam apart is his unique origins. Born a snake, Sam developed the ability to shift to human form later in life. All other known shifters are exactly the opposite—born human, they can shift into other creatures. Sam has adopted the surname Snakeman, since, as a born snake, he didn’t have one. He’s using his connections to royalty to push for equal rights for all and an end to discrimination against shifters.
“Now there’s the way to do it.”
Startled, I looked up and found Peter reading Sam’s profile over my shoulder. I shot him a puzzled look, and he blushed. He lifted a palm. “I just mean, this Snakeman fellow is abiding by the rule of law and working with the system to change things.”
I frowned. “Versus?”
His throat bobbed. “Versus…” He squared his shoulders. “Versus being subversive and operating outside the law and outside society. How are shifters supposed to integrate if they all want to do things their own way, have their own code and hierarchy?”
My neck and chest grew hot and I bit back a retort, willing myself to take a few deep breaths. “It’s different for Sam. He’s not like other shifters.”
It said right there in the article. He hadn’t been raised with Ludolf lording over him—he hadn’t even been raised human at all, unlike the rest of us. Which maybe gave him a chance now to speak out in a way most of us couldn’t. I huffed. “It’s unfair to assume we should, or could, all be doing that.” I raised my brows at Peter. “You don’t have all the information.”
He huffed. “Yeah… because no one will give it to me.”
We sat in tense silence, the lute music floating through the elegant space. I bit the inside of my cheek. I hated this—just when Peter and I seemed to be settling back into our playful dynamic, this issue around what I was came between us.
Daisy turned and laid her huge head on Peter’s thigh and whined. Fighting again? What’s new with you two.
Peter sighed and patted the table. “In any case, if Rachel knew Letty was a shifter, the private investigator the Harringtons hired had to have discovered this.”
I nodded. “True. Which makes me wonder what he and Mr. Harrington were really arguing about the other day.”
> Peter rose. “We need to go talk to the Harringtons again.”
Daisy’s tail wagged as we headed for the exit. Finally—I can get out of this ridiculous jacket.
I whined back at her. The jacket was covered in tawny hairs. You can take the jacket off the dog, but can you get the dog off the jacket?
She glared up at me.
18
Cybil
Peter, Daisy, and I made our way back into the country club’s lobby, and freedom from my oversized tweed cage was in sight, when a petite woman suddenly stepped out from behind a potted tree and I ran right into her. She stumbled back and I grimaced. “Sorry!”
She huffed, smoothed her button-up shirt and pencil skirt, then looked up.
Surprise washed over me. “Cybil?”
Her pert expression turned to shock as she took in Peter, Daisy, and me. “Oh. What are you all doing here?”
I arched a brow. “We could ask you the same thing.”
She frowned at my enormous borrowed sports coat. “And what are you wearing?”
I waved a hand. “Off topic.” We weren’t planning on seeing her here, but now that we’d literally run into her, I figured we should question her about the piece in La Mer. I pointed at the magazine in Peter’s hand. “Did you know Letty was a shifter?”
He held it up, Chaz and his now deceased wife on the cover.
Her throat bobbed, and she lifted her pointed chin. “Not initially, but Chaz told me recently.”
Peter crossed his arms, and Daisy watched her, head tilted. “That didn’t bother you? You didn’t think it’d hurt Chaz’s chances of winning the election?”
I grinned—good thinking, Peter. Maybe the campaign manager had seen Letty as a threat and tried to take her out. I glanced at the magazine—the lobster was out of the cage on that secret, though.
She huffed and looked around the crowded lobby, then inched closer and lowered her voice. “Look, when Chaz hired me, I told him that initial polls showed changing attitudes on the island.” She lifted a palm. “With the old king convicted of crimes in the monster wars, the public is now favoring more people of the people types.” She shrugged. “Normal voters found Chaz stuffy, unrelatable, and off-putting. So I encouraged him to court Letty—to boost his ranking in the polls. It’d show he could relate to the lower tiers, to working-class folk.”