Chapter 3 Lottie #3
“I should probably get back to my cakewalk,” I tell Gina. “But it’s so good to see you.”
“Absolutely! We’ll catch up more later,” she says, hugging me goodbye. “I want to hear all about your adventures.”
If only she knew how adventurous my life has become since she left Honey Hollow.
I return to my cakewalk duties, but the festival atmosphere has shifted somehow.
Maybe it’s the ghost of that lion that acted as a harbinger, or maybe it’s witnessing the Whitmore family circus, but something feels off.
The Easter decorations seem a little too bright, the laughter a little too forced.
And everything feels just a touch more dangerous.
Okay, fine. It’s just the ghost of the lion that has me rattled. And if everyone at this festival knew what that meant, they’d be rattled, too.
I’m about to continue with my hosting duties when a squeal from another microphone garners my attention and that of just about everyone here as we all turn toward the main stage set up on the lawn.
Duncan Whitmore stands at the makeshift stage, choking a microphone of his own.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice booms across the festival grounds, causing conversations to die and heads to turn. “Could everyone gather around? I have something I’d like to share with the community.”
People begin migrating toward the stage, drawn by the promise of free entertainment, and, let’s face it, the magnetic pull of wealth in action.
“First, I want to thank you all for showering Whitmore Chocolatiers with so much love today,” Duncan continues, his voice warming with what sounds like genuine appreciation. “We’ve moved more chocolate bunnies than should ever be legal!”
“That’s the truth,” I mutter.
Everyone laughs, and the crowd grows larger as more people drift over from various booths and activities before falling silent to hear what he might say next.
Millionaires can really get a crowd’s attention—I bet they’re all hoping he’ll start giving away hundred-dollar bills.
Or at the least a few hundred chocolate bunnies.
“Speaking of love,” Duncan’s voice takes on a different tone, “I’d like to call my wife, Muffin Whitmore, up to the stage with me.”
The crowd coos appreciatively as a clearly reluctant Muffin makes her way through the gathered people and climbs onto the makeshift stage, her face already flushed with what I’m beginning to suspect isn’t pleasure. Her cheeks are the same rosy hue as her luscious locks.
“The community of Honey Hollow knows you as a kind-hearted person,” Duncan says, wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist in what looks affectionate but feels possessive.
“Someone they can count on, someone who volunteers her time and talents for worthy causes.” His smile is cold and doesn’t reach his eyes.
“But I’d like to share another side of you today. ”
The tone in his voice makes my stomach drop. I have a feeling this isn’t going to be a chocolate promotion or a thank-you speech.
“My wife, Muffin, has been living a double life,” Duncan announces, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly silent crowd.
“Writing steamy romance novels under the pen name Scarlett Sin—you know, the kind of dirty books with shirtless men and chocolate-covered fantasies that would make a sailor blush.”
The collective gasp from the crowd is audible. I see Muffin’s face go white as she realizes what’s happening.
“What are you doing?” Muffin shouts as she pushes him away, her voice cracking with both shock and betrayal. “Duncan, stop this!”
“In fact, once Pastor Williams got wind of her literary talents, they gave her the boot from Honey Hollow Covenant Church faster than you can say fifty shades of frosting,” Duncan continues, ignoring her completely.
“Apparently, writing about passionate encounters in chocolate shops doesn’t align with their family values. ”
“Why are you saying these things?” Muffin demands, grabbing at his arm. “This is insane! You can’t just—”
Duncan shakes her off. “But that’s not your dirtiest little secret, is it, Scarlett?
” His voice turns razor-sharp with sarcasm.
“Because for the last solid year, my dear wife has been rekindling an old flame with her ex-boyfriend. Oh yes, I know everything—I’ve seen the texts, the love letters, and thanks to the private investigator I hired, I’ve even seen the dirty pictures they’ve been exchanging. ”
“You had me followed?” Muffin’s voice rises to near hysteria. “You hired someone to spy on me? What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Duncan laughs bitterly. “I’m not the one cheating on my spouse and writing trash for money!”
Muffin’s face crumples, and she turns to run, pushing through the crowd with tears streaming down her face. But before she disappears completely, she whips around one last time.
“I hate you!” she screams, her voice raw with pain and fury. “I could kill you for this, Duncan! I could absolutely kill you!”
The crowd collectively sucks in a breath at the threat, and suddenly Mayor Nash is rushing onto the stage, followed closely by Noah and Everett, who flank Duncan with the efficiency of seasoned bodyguards looking to hurt the man for what he just pulled.
“All right, folks, the show is over,” Noah says firmly, taking Duncan by one arm while Everett takes the other. They escort him off the stage with the kind of professional courtesy that doesn’t leave room for argument.
And just like that, Muffin has disappeared into the crowd, although her sobs are still audible over the uncomfortable murmur of festivalgoers.
“Well then!” Mayor Nash grabs the microphone, his mayoral smile working overtime.
He’s tall and stout, and has light hair that’s already mostly gray, if not bald, and a wily smile that I see in the mirror every now and again.
Even though he’s my biological father, I just found out a few years back, and I can’t seem to break the habit of calling him Mayor Nash.
“How about we get back to our bunny hop?” he continues with a nervous laugh.
“I believe the egg and spoon race is starting in five minutes, and there are prizes to be won! Easter is just a week away, and there’s still lots of celebrating to do.
Come on, everyone. Let’s focus on the joy of the season! ”
The festival atmosphere shifts from celebratory to uncomfortable faster than you can say public humiliation, but people slowly begin to disperse, though the whispered conversations and sideways glances suggest that little stunt Duncan pulled will be the talk of Honey Hollow for months to come.
Duncan steps down from the stage, looking pleased with himself, and the crowd slowly begins to disperse with the awkward energy of people who’ve witnessed something they wish they hadn’t.
Carlotta appears at my elbow, shaking her head. “Well, that was like watching someone set their own house on fire and then stand in the flames complaining about the heat.”
I nod. “I’ve seen you do it a time or two.”
“Darn tootin’,” she says with a touch of pride.
Lainey shakes her head. “Nothing says festive family fun quite like a public marital execution.”
Carlotta nods as she bites the ear off the chocolate bunny in her hand. “That man just nuked his own marriage in front of half of Vermont. I’ve seen some spectacular relationship explosions in my day, but that takes the cake.”
“Poor Muffin,” I mutter, still processing the nightmare that just unfolded for her. “Nobody deserves that kind of public humiliation.”
“Honey, if Harry ever pulled a stunt like that on me, he’d find himself sleeping in the doghouse until Christmas,” Carlotta declares. “And we don’t even have a dog. That is, if I let him live.”
“Agreed,” Lainey says, shaking her head. “If Forest tried something like that, he’d be living in his beloved woods permanently—as fertilizer for the maple trees.”
“You two are terrifying,” I say, though I can’t help but smile. “Though if Everett or Noah ever publicly humiliated me like that, I’d probably just bake them into a pie. Waste not, want not.”
The three of us share a wicked laugh.
The rest of the festival blooms back to life all around us as if what we just witnessed was forgotten like last night’s bad dream. My sweet nieces start to fuss, and Lainey takes off.
I finish up with the cakewalk, and Carlotta and I roam from booth to booth, her on the lookout for potential beefcakes to line that calendar with and me on the lookout for my mother and a stroller full of cutie pies that happen to belong to me.
Twenty minutes later, I see Bunny and Duncan in a heated argument near her wellness booth. Even from a distance, I can tell it’s not a friendly family discussion. Bunny’s gestures are sharp and angry, while Duncan’s posture radiates condescension. It seems to be his specialty.
“You destroy everything you touch!” Bunny’s voice carries across the space between us before she storms off.
Instead of storming off himself, Duncan makes his way to my booth, and I follow along to see what his next diabolical move might be.
But he simply approaches as if he hadn’t just publicly eviscerated his wife in front of half of Vermont.
“I’ll take one of those coconut cupcakes,” he says pleasantly, as if humiliating your spouse were just another festival activity. “It looks delicious.”
I hand him the cupcake with professional politeness, though every fiber of my being wants to suggest he use it as a peace offering to his wife. Either that or I can shove it into his face.
“Enjoy,” I manage, taking a twenty for it.
“Keep the change,” he says with a wink, and everyone manning my booth watches him walk away with his purchase.
If only every customer paid twenty bucks for one of my cupcakes. I’d be rich enough to move somewhere tropical where the only spirits are the kind you drink with little umbrellas. Not that Everett isn’t loaded, but still.
The festival winds down as the afternoon stretches toward evening. I’m packing up the cakewalk supplies when I realize I’m missing my good serving knife—the one with the pearl handle that belonged to my Grandma Nell.
I retrace my steps, checking behind booths and around tables, until I end up behind Bunny’s wellness display.
The area is secluded, hidden from the main festival crowd by strategically placed Easter banners.
I’m about to head toward the booth when my foot hitches on something hard, and I trip, tap dancing to my left, then to my right, before hovering over something horrific.
An all too familiar sandy-haired devil lies on his back on the grass, his eyes staring vacantly toward the sky while my Grandma Nell’s pearl-handled knife protrudes from his chest. And squished in his hand just so happens to be one of my coconut bunny cupcakes.
Duncan won’t have to worry about apologizing to his wife any time soon.
Duncan Whitmore is dead.