Chapter 3
Lottie
The inside of the Sterling and Sons Circus tent is pure chaos wrapped in color and sawdust. And I mean that in the best possible way.
The tent soars overhead like a candy-striped wonderland and stretches out about as expansive as a football field, or close to it.
The lighting is dim, and an earthy scent mingles with something sweet and takes over our senses.
The place is packed, every bleacher filled with families clutching popcorn and cotton candy, kids bouncing in their seats, and the low hum of a thousand conversations competing with the pre-show music piping through unseen speakers.
The center ring sits empty for now, save for dramatic spotlights in red, blue, and purple that swirl across the sawdust like they’re auditioning for a job. The whole atmosphere is moody and theatrical, as if we’re about to witness something magical.
I’m hoping for magical, but the pink elephant ghost says otherwise.
The air smells like roasted peanuts, candy apples, and something vaguely animal-adjacent that I’m choosing not to investigate.
“All right,” Carlotta announces, scanning the crowd like a hawk eyeing her prey. “Where are all the hot men in tights I was promised?”
“I see one right there.” I point toward the bleachers where Mayor Nash is chatting with a cluster of town council members as he shakes their hands and makes his rounds. Okay, so he’s not wearing tights, but at least I’ve oriented Carlotta to the only man she should be sizing up.
Carlotta makes a face as if I just offered her decaf coffee. “That’s already in my cart, Lot Lot. A woman doesn’t window-shop her own groceries. Where’s the sport in that?”
Noah shifts his gaze around the vicinity before glancing at Everett. “Why don’t you stay with them? I’m going to call for backup. I’ll try to be seated before the show starts.”
Everett nods. “Let’s hope a little preemptive work goes a long way this time.”
This time.
I shudder and do my best not to think about my history of stumbling upon bodies with alarming regularity. At this point, stumbling over dead bodies should qualify as a marketable skill.
“Don’t worry, Lemon. I’m not leaving your side,” Everett adds, his hand finding the small of my back.
I should protest. I should tell him I’m perfectly capable of staying alive at a circus for two hours without supervision. Or of not finding a corpse, for that matter. But honestly? I’m not sure I believe either of those things anymore.
I scan the crowd, searching for anyone who might look nefarious, but all I see are eager families waiting for the show to start. My sisters Lainey and Meg are a few rows back to my right with their husbands and their little ones, waving once they spot me.
Lyla Nell is holding Eliza’s hand near the concession stand, and Haley and the twins are loading up on the giant animal cracker cookies my bakery is selling right here on site. I’m happy about it too. Those cookies are keeping my employees busy and my profit margins healthy.
And have I mentioned how adorable those cookies are? Each one is the size of my hand. Elephants with ribboned ears, bears with fuzzy brown sugar coats, monkeys with little banana accessories, and an entire zoo’s worth of other cute little creatures.
“Lottie! Carlotta! Everett!”
We turn toward the sound of Mayor Nash’s voice.
He’s migrated a bit and is now standing off to the side near a bright red curtain where performers keep emerging like rabbits from a hat, and beside him are two men I don’t recognize.
One is tall and elderly, dressed in a crisp white suit with a wreath of gray hair and a pleasantly plump build that says he enjoys dessert.
The other is taller, younger, dressed in a crimson tailcoat, gold waistcoat, and polished riding boots that belong in a different century.
We make our way over, me pushing the stroller and Everett clearing a path.
“I’ve got someone here you need to meet!” Mayor Nash says, beaming. He gestures to the man in white. “This is Graham Sterling, owner of the Sterling and Sons Circus.” He then motions to the man in the tailcoat. “And this is Jumping Barnaby Blaze. The ringmaster.”
“Hubba hubba,” Carlotta purrs and practically drools. Scratch that. She is drooling. “Now that’s what I call a ringmaster. Nice to meet you, Jump. I’d let you crack the whip my way, any day of the week.”
Mayor Nash gives her the side-eye. As he should. We all know Carlotta has a vast assortment of riding crops in her personal collection. Her bedroom is basically a den of depravity.
The ringmaster gives a rather jolly belly laugh.
“Please, call me Jump,” Barnaby says with a grin that’s all glittering white teeth and charm.
He’s got thick chestnut hair going gray at the temples, a trim goatee, and a voice that could probably be heard all the way in Hollyhock.
“Graham here likes to think he’s the star of the show, but we all know who really runs things.
” He winks, and I can already tell this man thrives on attention.
Graham chuckles, unbothered. “Can’t say I disagree. Jump here is the one who keeps the magic alive.”
“And the chaos at bay.” Jump rocks back on his heels. “Most of the time.”
Noah reappears at my elbow, slightly out of breath. “Sorry,” he says. “Got backup on standby.” He whispers that last part to Everett and me, doing his best impersonation of a ventriloquist.
I gesture between the men. “This is Detective Noah Fox,” I tell them. “Noah, this is Graham Sterling and Jumping Barnaby Blaze. The owner of this circus and the ringmaster.”
Jump’s eyes light up like someone just handed him a microphone.
“A detective! Perfect timing. I was just telling the mayor here about our Local Legends Circus Benefit. We’re inviting Honey Hollow residents to join us in the ring next Saturday, our final night in town, for a charity performance.
All proceeds go to a cause of the town’s choosing. ”
Noah raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” Jump clasps his hands together. “We’ll need acts, of course. Jugglers, acrobats, clowns, whatever your fine citizens can manage. So, Detective, what charity should we support?”
Noah doesn’t miss a beat. “The Everett Baxter Memorial Gavel Fund.” He winks over at Everett. “For courtroom improvements.”
Everett scowls his way. “I’m alive, Noah.”
“I’m well aware.” Noah grins. “That’s what makes it funny.”
I bite back a laugh because it sort of does. These two never quit. Well, mostly Noah does the heavy lifting in that department. Everett just supplies the scowls. It’s a system, and somehow it works.
Mayor Nash clears his throat. “How about the Honey Hollow Youth Athletics Program? Wholesome, community-focused, and it has a broad appeal.”
Jump claps his hands. “Perfect! We’ll have sign-ups available at the door and all day tomorrow. Acts will need to begin rehearsing right away. After-hours accommodations are always available as well.”
“Graham!” someone calls from across the tent, waving urgently.
Graham raises a hand in acknowledgment and turns to us with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, fine people. Duty calls.”
He takes off, and I’m about to ask Jump about the logistics of the Local Legends Circus Benefit when Suze Fox appears out of nowhere with a box draped over her chest. The sign on the box reads: Giant Animal Cracker Cookies for Sale!
And beneath it in gold glitter letters, Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery.
I’ll admit, it makes me smile just seeing my humble bakery’s name here under the big top.
Suze is dressed in her usual no-nonsense outfit, tan slacks, a sensible blouse, and orthopedic shoes that look like they could survive a nuclear blast. Her short blonde hair is cut with heavy bangs that refuse to stay out of her eyes, and she huffs in annoyance as she pushes through the crowd.
She’s Noah’s mother and my employee, and she runs on a steady diet of sarcasm and mild resentment, which somehow makes her excellent at customer service and terrible at small talk.
I grab a couple of cookies from her box, an elephant and a pink poodle, and hand them to Barnaby, or Jump, as it were. “On the house.”
“Why, thank you—” Jump laughs, but Suze gasps, her eyes going wide.
“You!” she squawks, staring and pointing at Jump as if he just crawled out of a sewer.
“What are you doing here?” She gasps again.
“I was hoping I’d never see your sorry face again!
” Her gaze rakes over his crimson tailcoat and top hat with pure venom.
“Is that what you’ve done? Run off to join the circus?
Oh, I hope you fall off the highest trapeze this place has to offer.
And with no safety net!” she riots before turning on her heel and storming off, leaving the rest of us in stunned silence.
Jump chuckles, shaking his head. “Poor old woman. Probably doesn’t even know her own name.”
Now it’s my turn to gasp. “That poor old woman happens to be my employee,” I say quickly.
“And my mother,” Noah adds. “I’d better go make sure she’s okay.” And with that, he dives into the crowd and takes off after her.
Everett leans my way. “What the heck just happened?”
Before anyone can say anything else, the red curtain parts and two people emerge.
The first is a tall, dark-haired woman in a short silver dress that catches the light like a disco ball, and the second is a man in a black cape lined with red silk that billows behind him as if he’s auditioning for a vampire movie.
He’s got a handlebar mustache waxed to such perfection it could probably slice through a diamond, and pale blue eyes that are just a little too intense for comfort.
“Milo!” Jump calls out, waving them over. “Come meet Honey Hollow’s finest citizens.”
The man in the cape strides over like he owns the place, which, judging by the way he carries himself, he probably thinks he does.
“Victor Milo,” he says, his voice smooth as silk and twice as expensive. “Though most people call me Milo the Magnificent.”