“How do you know who Alistair was seeing, or when, or anything else?”
Helen Wills snapped back: “I’m a detective, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Then go do some detecting! Find the real killer!”
“I’m way ahead of you. I know every move Alistair Pope made last week. His New York trip, lunch at Leo’s, who he talked to on the phone, what drugstore he bought toothpaste. Also whose DNA was on the sheets in his bedroom.”
“Not mine!”
“No.” Again she pushed back a fallen strand of hair. “Your rival. Leo’s other kitchen help.”
“Dinah?” Lydia gasped.
“Please! What’s-her-name. Sue.”
It was the “what’s-her-name” that clinched it. Helen Wills took her vocation much too seriously to forget the name of a central figure in a murder case. Least of all one she’d just driven home from a revel in the rh
