Chapter 4 Lottie
LOTTIE
The late afternoon sun slants through the colorful banners behind Bunny’s wellness booth, casting everything in a golden glow that would be peaceful if not for the dead body at my feet.
The air still carries the scent of funnel cake and chocolate, mixed now with something metallic that makes my stomach lurch.
Distant sounds of the festival continue—children laughing, periodic booms from the marching band, someone gleefully winning a stuffed rabbit at the ring toss—but here in this secluded corner, the only sound is my own ragged breathing.
I’m about to call Noah and Everett or scream when a spray of bright blue stars appears and the ghost of that lion materializes right next to Duncan Whitmore’s body.
The lion’s translucent form radiates a fury that makes the air shimmer with spectral wonder.
His golden eyes blaze so intensely it makes my hair stand on end.
He looks darn right angry, and considering he’s a supernatural being sent to help catch a killer, I’d say his mood is entirely justified.
The lion meets my gaze one last time, then explodes into a spray of bright blue stars that sparkle and fade like supernatural fireworks.
I open my mouth and let loose a scream that could wake the dead—which, given my recent track record with those who have had their breathing cards revoked, might not be entirely theoretical.
“Noah, Everett,” I roar, trying my best to do my own impersonation of the dead—the one with far more fur.
My voice carries across the festival grounds with the efficiency of a fire alarm, and suddenly the peaceful springtime celebration transforms into controlled chaos. Footsteps pound toward me from multiple directions, and I hear Carlotta’s voice before I see her.
“Well, I guess that ghost of a lion wasn’t just window shopping after all, and neither was the Grim Reaper,” she announces, arriving at the scene with the heavy breathing of someone who’s been speed-walking in heels, or doing other things I don’t want to know about.
She takes one look at Duncan’s prone body and belts out a whistle.
“Lot Lot, next time maybe use a less identifiable family heirloom when you do your dirty work.”
“I didn’t do this and you know it,” I hiss.
Noah and Everett arrive simultaneously, both moving with the efficiency of men who’ve learned that my screaming usually means coroner’s reports and court dates.
Noah drops to his knees and checks for a pulse. “Geez, Lottie,” he says firmly, already pulling out his phone. “Next time I need to have you followed or handcuffed.”
I suck in a breath and make wild eyes at him for even going there.
“Handcuffs?” Carlotta snorts with a wicked grin. “That’s the spirit, Foxy. Dream big when it comes to sexy time with my Lot Lot. But this time bring the key, too. Last thing we need is another awkward call to the fire department.”
“That was one time,” I growl. And over two years ago.
Not that I’ll ever forget that night for more than a few reasons.
Noah had me naked and hogtied like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.
Then I got a leg cramp and that’s when things got medical.
The fire department showed up. My brother-in-law Forest was one of the firefighters, so, of course, Lainey found out about the incident—which she still lords over me to this day.
Oddly, Everett had just got back from the courthouse and heard the commotion so he walked across the street to Noah’s cabin and saw me splayed out and howling as well.
If memory serves correct, he threatened to kill Noah if he ever pulled a stunt like that with me again, and well, punches were thrown.
That was back before I was married to Everett, and was still hot and heavy with Noah.
But now the tables have turned, and well, let’s just say, Everett never loses the key to anything.
Everett swoops in and wraps his arms around me. “Lemon, are you hurt? Did you touch anything?”
“Just my grandmother’s knife, apparently,” I say, pointing to the pearl handle protruding from Duncan’s body. “And that was before I found it planted in that poor man’s chest.”
Noah barks into his phone as he calls it in to the sheriff’s department, and I don’t miss the fact he tells them to bring the coroner as well.
I stare down at Duncan’s lifeless body and am about to say something when my sisters Meg and Lainey come barreling through the crowd as if they, too, were being chased down by the Grim Reaper.
“Seriously, Lot? Another one?” Meg demands.
Her breathing is labored from running. “What is this, number twelve? Or number twelve hundred?” Her dark hair is teased into a beehive and she’s clad in black despite the spike in the temperature or the fact it’s spring. Gothic Chic is sort of her go-to look.
“I’m starting to think you have a subscription service for corpses,” Lainey adds, slightly out of breath. “Do they come with free shipping?”
I shoot her a look. “It’s not like I order them from a catalog.” I protest. “They just keep showing up.”
“Right,” Meg says, and sadly I think she’s holding back a laugh. “I think we should intercept Mom before she brings any of the grandkids over here. The last thing we need is Lyla Nell adding murder weapon to her vocabulary.”
Carlotta shrugs. “It’s just a matter of time.”
And how I hate that she’s right.
My sisters disappear as quickly as they arrive and here’s hoping they can cut Mom off at the pass in time. The last thing I want any child to see is a man with a knife embedded in his chest.
Everett lands a kiss on my temple. “Lemon, what happened? Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, though fine is becoming an increasingly relative term in my vocabulary. “I didn’t see anything except the ghost of that lion sitting right here, and he looked darn right angry before disappearing in a pool of blue stars.”
Everett’s nod says everything. In this town, when the supernatural shows up, it’s never just for show. It’s a promise. A threat. A deadline.
“Dad! Mom! Uncle Noah!” an all too familiar voice shouts from behind and we turn to see Evie running toward us, her dark hair streaming behind her and her blue eyes bright with excitement.
She’s tall and gorgeous in that effortless college girl way that makes me remember when I once had energy for things other than finding dead bodies.
Behind her, a blonde with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever keeps pace, her bestie and roomie at Ashford University, Dash Johnson.
“Hey, Cray Cray.” Evie nods briefly to Carlotta as she lets her term of endearment fly. Cray Cray suits Carlotta much better than something as pedestrian as Grandma.
Evie is Everett’s biological daughter, and you can bet I adopted her as my own as soon as I could. We found her a few years back after discovering her psycho of a mother had hidden her existence from Everett and basically the world.
Evie catches a glimpse of the corpse and gasps. “Oh, wow. Another one?” Her eyes light up as she looks my way, and I can’t help but frown. “We can totally help solve this murder.”
“No way,” Everett, Noah, and I say in unison.
“Yes way,” Dash sings back, looking just as anxious to dive into the deep end of a homicide investigation as Evie does.
“We have nothing else to do on Spring Break anyway!” Dash adds with the kind of bubbly enthusiasm that suggests she thinks murder investigations are some sort of interactive entertainment.
And knowing these two, that’s exactly what they’d make it.
“CSI: Honey Hollow, here we come!” Evie grins.
“No!” Everett, Noah, and I say in perfect unison once again, our parental veto powers combining like some sort of supernatural force.
“Head back to whatever you were doing and enjoy your murder-free Spring Break,” I command, using my best mom voice that says there will be no arguments. I may not have pushed Evie out of my body, but I’m every bit her mother and she knows darn well that I mean what I say.
The girls exchange disappointed looks, but begrudgingly obey, probably heading back to whatever college students do when they’re not trying to insert themselves into homicide investigations.
They’ve both got boyfriends; certainly they can figure something out that doesn’t involve a cold body. I cringe a little at the thought.
Mayor Nash runs up next, slightly out of breath and looking like a man who’s just realized this hippity hop free-for-all has been upgraded to a crime scene.
“Geez,” he shouts once he spots the victim and then slaps his eyes with his hand as if he wishes he could take the visual back.
Don’t we all. “Okay, nobody panic,” he says with a shrill cry, and well, obvious panic in his voice.
“I’ll try to control the crowd and keep people back.
The last thing we need is half of Honey Hollow trampling evidence. ”
He heads off to manage the growing crowd of curious festivalgoers, and Carlotta shouts after him, “You know what they say, nothing spices up a spring festival like a little bloodshed. Gets the heart racing—and my libido going.”
“Carlotta.” I swat her over the arm for even going there.
“Okay, fine,” she grouses. “Don’t let anyone else get stabbed on your watch, Harry.” She shouts after him once again, “It’s bad for tourism!”
Noah dives right into his investigation by way of photographing the scene and inspecting for clues.
“Everett,” I all but whisper as I pull him closer. “You don’t think Muffin did this, do you?”
No sooner do I say the woman’s name than the new widow comes up on us, breathless and red-faced, and her auburn curls disheveled. Presumably from the public humiliation her husband caused her, but well, a good stabbing would probably tussle a curl or two as well.
She takes one look at Duncan’s body and cups her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
“Oh my word,” she whispers, her voice muffled behind her palm.
I reach out to her instinctively, because despite the public humiliation she just endured, nobody deserves to see their husband with a knife in his chest.
“Muffin, I’m so sorry,” I start, but she’s shaking her head frantically.
“Who did this?” she shouts, her voice cracking with grief and shock. “Who would do this?”
Before I can answer, she breaks down completely, tears streaming down her face as she turns and runs back through the crowd, leaving me standing there feeling helpless.
A crowd quickly gathers as gasps and loose screams break out and the inevitable whispers begin, and I’m sure in the next ten seconds all of Vermont will be apprised of what’s happened.
Another set of footsteps approaches, and this time it’s the remaining Whitmore family members—Bunny, Gina, and her husband Fairbanks—moving as a group with expressions of appropriate shock and horror.
These poor people.
“Oh my goodness! Duncan! What happened?” Bunny gasps. That earth-mother serenity I witnessed earlier is nowhere to be found.
“This is horrible! Who would do such a thing?” Gina adds, her designer perfection momentarily forgotten in the face of family tragedy—or at least in the face of witnesses.
Fairbanks staggers forward as far as the deputies will allow and he pants out of breath at the sight, staring at his brother’s body with an expression I can’t quite read. He looks like a younger, far more polished version of his brother.
“I can’t believe someone would actually go through with it after all those threats,” he says quietly.
The comment hangs in the air for a moment.
Threats? As in plural?
The three of them huddle together in what seems to be an appropriate and horrific family grief, while Noah begins coordinating with law enforcement.
Sheriff’s deputies arrive in droves, followed by crime scene tape and the kind of organized chaos that always accompanies sudden death in small towns.
The corner of the festival that was supposed to be about seasonal joy has been transformed into an official crime scene, complete with photographers and evidence bags.
The coroner’s van pulls up near the lake, and I watch as the happy celebration officially becomes secondary to homicide investigation.
Festival music still plays in the distance, children still shriek with delight at the games, but here behind Bunny’s booth, spring has taken a decidedly darker turn.
And just as I didn’t think things could get any worse, a tall brooding redhead stomps on over with a bun so tight it pulls her entire face back in time ten years.
It’s Ivy Fairbanks, Noah’s equivalent at the homicide department.
She heads my way and frowns. “I can’t believe you found another one.”
Everett tips his head at her. “Are you new around here?”
I take a moment to shoot my handsome hubby a look.
“Honestly, Ivy, it’s more like they keep finding me,” I’m quick to correct her. “I’m starting to think I should come with a warning label.”
“I’m starting to agree with you,” she says dryly. “It looks pretty straightforward as to how you pulled it off this time. A single stab wound to the chest, appears to have hit something vital. Time of death probably within the last hour.”
Both Everett and I take a moment to glare at her. Ivy knows darn well I’m not responsible for the carnage. At least not the murder aspect of it.
She nods to the body. “The knife has a nice pearl handle. Someone has good taste in cutlery.”
I grunt at the thought. “That someone would be me. Or more to the point, my deceased grandmother Nell. She’s the one I got the bakery from,” I tell her, feeling more than slightly sick.
“It went missing from my cakewalk supplies. My coconut cake hasn’t been taken as a prize just yet.
And I was on the hunt for it when...” I gesture toward the poor man on the ground.
Ivy raises an eyebrow. “Your knife, your coconut cake, your crime scene discovery. You’re certainly thorough, Ms. Lemon.”
“I prefer to think of it as being in the wrong place at the right time,” I mutter.
“Or the right place at the wrong time,” Noah interjects as he waves Ivy his way, still coordinating with the deputies who are now photographing everything within a fifty-foot radius.
The festival continues around us, but the Easter magic has definitely been punctured. Nothing says resurrection celebration quite like a fresh corpse and a homicide investigation. Too bad Duncan Whitmore won’t be making a reappearance anytime soon.
As the spring breeze ripples across Honey Lake, carrying the scent of fried dough and chaos, I can’t help but think that somewhere in this crowd of bunny-eared festivalgoers, a killer is probably enjoying funnel cake and getting their picture taken with the Easter Bunny.
Looks like this holiday season, I’ll be hunting something a lot more dangerous than hidden eggs.
There’s a killer to be found, one who made the mistake of using my Grandma Nell’s antique pearl knife, and I’m going to make them pay in more ways than one.