20. Lottie
LOTTIE
“ A ttention one and all,” a chipper voice bellows over an unseen speaker. “It’s time for the Win Her Heart challenge! Show your love, prove your strength, and sweep your sweetheart off her feet with a one-hundred-dollar prize! Step right up and see if you’ve got what it takes to be the ultimate romantic champion!”
Every last soul here at the Love-is-in-the-Air Valentine’s Festival lets out a wild cheer as the crowd pours in that direction.
“That’s where Everett and Noah are,” I say, grabbing Carlotta and leading us right over to the open field where the contestants are all lined up.
My mother pops up, pushing Lyla Nell in her stroller, looking as if she just stepped off of a runway with her hair curled to perfection, her makeup heavy and yet on point, and wrapped in a luscious pink fur—faux, of course.
“You’re just in time, Lottie,” she trills. “Oh, isn’t this great? Wiley is out there, too. He said he just had to prove his love for me one more time.” She chortles as if it were the sweetest thing.
And truthfully, it is. I’m glad he’s traded his playboy ways in order to be faithful and loyal to my mother. Had he not, he wouldn’t be breathing and both Noah and Everett would help me hide the body.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
The obstacle course looks like a fever dream filled with roadways covered in pink frosting, a table full of giant cupcakes just beyond that, and some sort of a maze that holds the promise of chaos, destruction, and perhaps a deliciously good time.
The microphone squeals. “ Ready, set …” The sound of a gun firing sends about two dozen men racing ahead, each holding a large red foam heart as if it were a shield.
There’s an inflatable heart archway that marks the starting line, festooned with oversized glittery cherubs that seem to watch every move while judging the competitors like snarky little Cupids.
The course is a winding mess of red-and-pink frosted heart cutouts scattered across a slippery field, creating a treacherous path that has more obstacles than should ever be allowed.
And then there are the hurdles—a row of giant faux cupcakes that stand tall, topped with oversized swirls of what looks to be real pink frosting, and it’s clear by the splattered remnants that some competitors have had less-than-graceful encounters with them.
Just past the hurdles, there’s a tunnel made of sparkling pink streamers that sways in the breeze almost hypnotically, and beyond that lies the frosting-coated balance beam—a narrow strip of wood caked with pink frosting, which I’m sure is as slick as ice.
Every last inch of this place looks like a recipe for disaster, and sure enough, the number of EMTs standing on the other side confirms my suspicions.
The field is lined with spectators, most of them laughing and cheering, while a few munch on cotton candy that’s shaped into adorable little hearts. And aside from the laughter, there’s the occasional ooh when someone takes a particularly ungraceful tumble. Sort of the way Wiley is now.
But he’s back on his feet again. In fact, Everett, Noah, and Wiley are all in the thick of it, dashing across the frosted cutouts, each one of them cradling that oversized foam heart as if it were their ticket to glory. The whole candy-colored battlefield is pure chaos and to think it’s all in the name of romance.
I watch in horror as Everett and Noah almost literally break a leg on the icing slicked balance beam. And breathe a sigh of relief when they land on the other side of it.
“They’re going to do it,” Mom marvels. “Everett, Noah, and Wiley are in the lead!”
Lyla Nell gives a quick whoop before returning to the cookie in her hand, which my mother seems to be doling her way in regular ten-minute intervals. At least now I know how my mother gets her to behave. Come to think of it, it’s the same tactics she used on me and my sisters. It’s no wonder I went on to be a baker.
“It’s just Everett and Noah now,” I marvel as the two of them pull ahead by a mile.
“They’re just a hair away from the finish line,” Mom shouts, jumping up and down. Better her than me. I’d hate to drop the twins here in the frozen tundra of Hollyhock with frosting flying everywhere. Although the frosting flying everywhere part does sound plausible for my birthing scenario regardless of where or when.
But then Noah sticks his foot out and Everett dives face-first into the icing slick below.
“Oh no,” I say and Lyla Nell parrots it with a laugh.
Everett reaches over and yanks Noah to the ground with him, and soon both foam hearts and fists are flying.
“Oh, for Valentine’s sake,” my mother grunts at the sight. But then, Wiley crosses the finish line first, followed by an entire gaggle of men. “He won! My Wiley won! That’s my Valentine!” Mom whoops and howls and Lyla Nell joins her in the noisy endeavor.
And yet, my Valentines are still duking it out on a slick of pink frosting.
Of all the things that sight should invoke in me, the only takeaway I have is that I’ve got a sudden craving for a six-foot-three man covered with creamy pink sugar.
We head home and Everett makes sure he satisfies every last sugar craving I could possibly have. And he is delicious.
All’s well that ends well with Judge Essex Everett Baxter in my bed.
But my craving for justice won’t be met until there’s a killer in handcuffs.
I have one last suspect to question.
Caudwell Belding.
You’re next.