“The alternative is too terrible to contemplate.” She stared down her patrician nose. “Although your husband has no problem making us all seem guilty.”

Apparently, Anarchy had asked her uncomfortable questions. What did Willa have to hide? “He’s just doing his job.”

“Ellison, we’re your friends, not suspects.”

Right now, they were both. “Anarchy will clear everyone as soon as possible.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

“By asking where we slept? And with whom?” She sounded scandalized.

“Thatch is your alibi, and you are his.”

“I shouldn’t need an alibi.”

But Thatch did? “That’s one of the inconvenient things about a murder investigation. Everyone needs to account for their whereabouts.”

She sniffed her displeasure. “I notice you didn’t hang around for questioning this morning. You disappeared.”

“I went riding.”

“The perks of being a detective’s wife.” Her tone was almost snide.

“The perks of having an airtight alibi.”

She raised her brows.

“I was with Anarchy until five-fifty. I walked directly to the clubhouse, where I talked to Misty. When I left, I was with Sumner. I didn’t have time to kill Graham. Or motive.” Unlike her husband.

We stared at each other. Her expression was chilly. Mine was stubborn.

Willa looked away first. “I’m sorry. This whole thing has been so upsetting. I know you had nothing to do with Graham’s death. And I know you’re not responsible for your husband’s questions.”

“Graham was murdered.” I had doubts and reservations about Anarchy questioning our friends, but I’d never, ever let anyone outside my closest circle know that. To the world, I stood by my man. “If it weren’t Anarchy asking those questions, it would be the county sheriff.”

Willa huffed as if the whole situation was designed to ruin her weekend.

“I have a question for you.”

She checked her watch. “I should check on Misty.”

“It’s a quick one.”

“Well, what is it?”

“You and Liz put this weekend together?”

“That’s your question?”

“There’s a follow-up.”

She lifted a single brow.

“Why did you include Sumner and Graham?”

She stiffened, and her willowy posture looked suddenly brittle. “What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t Graham attempting to take over as managing partner?”

She waved at the air as if she’d sensed an annoying mosquito. “Yes. But Graham and Thatch were colleagues. Friends. Thatch would never put office politics over friendship.”

I’d been at the shooting range with Thatch and Graham. I’d observed them. Whatever relationship the two men had had, they weren’t friends. I smiled at the woman willing to lie for her husband. “Of course not.”

Then, reluctantly, I added Willa to my list of possible suspects.

With a tight smile, she turned on her heel and left me.

I lingered on the path.