Chapter 7 #2
I stare at the credit card as if it might blow up. Being trusted with business finances while simultaneously plotting to assassinate the contest judge feels like an irony that should disqualify me from the general population.
Before I can protest my obvious conflict of interest, another commotion draws our attention to the front door. Judge Essex Everett Baxter walks in like he’s starring in his own legal drama, and I swear half the female population of the bakery forgets how to breathe. Me included.
Everett, who Carlotta has dubbed Mr. Sexy for reasons that become immediately obvious upon visual contact, is a man who makes smart women do stupid things.
He has dark hair that never has a bad day, piercing blue eyes that could cross-examine a jury into submission, and a commanding presence that lets us know he’s used to getting his way both in courtrooms and bedrooms. He’s wearing a navy suit that was probably constructed by top Italian designers, and his mere presence seems to make several customers forget their own names.
“Morning, Lemon,” he says in that deep voice that makes civil proceedings sound like foreplay.
Lottie immediately zeroes in on him like he’s the only item on the menu that matters.
“Everett,” she purrs, her professional demeanor melting faster than a triple scoop of rocky road ice cream in July. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning.”
“I had to see my favorite baker before court,” he replies, pulling her into an embrace that’s probably illegal in several conservative states.
If I had a man who looked at me like Everett looks at Lottie, I’d abandon my responsibilities, too. Although in my case, abandoning responsibilities might mean someone doesn’t get assassinated, which is a net positive for society.
Come to think of it, Cooper sort of does look at me like that. I’m a lucky, lucky girl.
Lethal but lucky.
As Lottie and Everett disappear into what I assume is her office for a private consultation, Suze and Lily take over handling the crowd that’s decided witnessing romance is more entertaining than ordering baked goods.
The bakery door chimes again, and Aunt Cat and Carlotta traipse in like two sequined hurricanes with a very special cargo.
Watson bounds toward me like he just remembered life is one long, glorious parade of snacks and poor decisions—and he plans to be involved in all of it.
He’s rocking a flag bandana, and his tail is wagging hard enough to create a breeze. His golden fur catches the morning light, and his brown eyes sparkle with the kind of intelligence that says he knows exactly how cute he is—and fully intends to weaponize it.
“Morning, Effie!” Aunt Cat calls, adjusting her flag-themed outfit like she personally took on the responsibility of representing the entire country. “Since we’re on Watson duty today, we figured he’d rather spend the day with his favorite people than stuck at home.”
Watson immediately begins his inspection tour of the bakery, his nose working overtime to catalog every dropped crumb and potential treat source.
He pauses at each customer to offer his services as official bakery greeter, complete with tail wags and what I swear is his most charming smile. The boy knows how to work it.
“We heard about the competition.” Carlotta is wearing a flag-themed tracksuit, too, which looks as celebratory as it does offensive.
“This place looks fantabulous,” she beams. “Great job, Lot Lot. I bet your booth will be twice as tacky, too. Harry will be impressed, and you’ll kill your competitors. ”
“Speaking of death,” Niki says, popping out of the diner with flour in her hair and syrup on her apron, “when are we going to start investigating Rocket Man’s murder? Because I’ve been thinking about it all morning, and that whole death-by-pudding thing seems pretty delicious.”
“You mean suspicious,” I correct.
She shrugs. “I meant delicious.”
She would.
Watson barks like he’s agreeing with Niki, then returns to the serious business of charming a customer out of a piece of bacon from her breakfast sandwich. He’s good, I’ll give him that.
“We’ll start this afternoon,” I say, waving Lottie’s credit card. “I’ve got the rest of the day off to go decoration hunting, but that doesn’t mean we can’t hunt down a killer first.”
“Where should we start?” Niki asks, her eyes bright with the prospect of amateur detective work. Because let’s face it, she’s garnered a pretty hot date or two out of it before.
I glance toward the diner, where Watson has already secured hash browns through charm and light manipulation, then back at my investigation team—my usual suspects, none of whom should be trusted with anything resembling a plan.
“The man died clutching your friend’s corn pudding,” I say, stating the obvious because I’ve seen enough crime shows to be dangerous. “Julia Washington, here we come.”
Watson wags his tail in approval of this plan, probably because it involves visiting someone who works with food and might be convinced to share.
Some investigations start with evidence and witness statements. Others start with the realization that when someone dies eating your signature dish, you automatically become suspect number one.
Julia Washington better have some very good explanations, because my track record with finding dead bodies suggests this isn’t going to be your average corn pudding social call.