Chapter 7 Everett
EVERETT
The late morning sunlight streams through the bakery windows, casting everything in a warm glow that should be peaceful but absolutely isn’t.
The Cutie Pie is in full Easter chaos mode—Suze is juggling three phone orders while frosting cupcakes and Lily is trying to restock the display case while dodging Effie, who’s wielding the coffee pot like a weapon against anyone who gets between her and the espresso machine.
“I’m just saying,” Carlotta announces loud enough for half of Vermont to hear, “a woman has needs. And my needs include both cinnamon rolls AND attractive men in various states of undress.”
“That’s your third cinnamon roll,” Lemon points out, looking remarkably put together for someone managing twins and a bakery during Easter week.
She’s got Lyla Nell on her hip, who’s systematically destroying a chocolate bunny with the focused intensity of a tiny demolition expert.
Somehow Lemon still manages to look drop-dead gorgeous—though I might be biased, given that I’m legally bound to her in holy matrimony and completely smitten.
“Your point?” Carlotta asks, already eyeing a fourth. “Some of us have healthy appetites. Speaking of which, when exactly is this calendar photo shoot? I need to clear my schedule for optimal ogling time.”
“Ogle!” Lyla Nell shouts, chocolate covering most of her face. “Ogle, ogle, ogle!”
“Great,” Lemon mutters. “Now she’s learned a new word.”
The twins are still sleeping in their stroller beside me—a minor miracle that defies all legal precedent and previous evidence.
Ozzy’s tiny fist is curled against his cheek while Corbin has somehow managed to twist himself into a position that looks physically impossible but seems to work for him.
I’m not moving a muscle until they wake up, because disturbing sleeping infants ranks somewhere between perjury and judicial misconduct in terms of crimes I’m not willing to commit.
“You’re not invited to the photo shoot,” Lemon tells Carlotta firmly, then turns to where Noah sits and she seems startled to see he’s now alone.
Muffin Whitmore just left after her interview with him—the one and only suspect in the town’s latest homicide case that Lemon will no doubt want to champion all on her own.
Little does she know that it will happen over my dead body.
We have a family to think of. I not only have the deep desire to protect Lemon, but I’m determined to protect them, too.
Noah comes over and plops back into his seat before taking Lyla Nell back into his arms. And she gets right to work, constructing what appears to be a miniature city out of donut holes and is providing detailed commentary about the structural integrity of her creation.
They share the same reddish hair, same green eyes, same dimples, same tendencies to destroy their meals before gobbling down every last bite.
“How did it go with Muffin?” Lemon asks Noah, wiping chocolate from Lyla Nell’s face with efficiency despite the fact that she claims she’s given up on keeping toddlers clean.
Noah’s expression shifts to his detective face—the one I’ve seen in court when he’s about to deliver crucial testimony. “She seemed honest. Innocent, even.” He pauses, frowning. “And decidedly vague about her whereabouts after Duncan’s announcement.”
“Vague how?” Lemon presses, leaning forward with that look that means she’s already mentally investigating.
“Lot.” Noah’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “You need to steer clear of this case. I mean it.”
The temperature in the bakery seems to drop several degrees. Even Carlotta stops mid-bite of her fourth cinnamon roll to watch this exchange.
“You can’t be serious,” Lemon says, her voice dangerously quiet.
“Dead serious,” Noah replies, matching her tone. “This isn’t some small-town drama. The Whitmores have money, connections, and someone just stuck a knife in Duncan’s chest. You have three kids to think about.”
For once, I agree with him. Actually, Noah and I often agree on this very point. Not that it means anything to anyone.
I clear my throat, recognizing the signs of an impending Lemon-Fox territorial dispute. In my professional opinion, Noah has approximately zero chance of keeping Lemon out of this investigation, but I admire his optimism.
“Never mind the dead.” Carlotta waves off Noah before turning to me. “So, Hot Stuff with a gavel,” she grins my way, “got something you want to confess? Are you ready to drop your drawers for a charity spread in the upcoming calendar?”
The question hits me with the force of a surprise motion from opposing counsel. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, please, don’t act so innocent,” Carlotta continues with unholy glee. “I overheard Muffin talking to Foxy here about the photo shoot. Something about seeing him in nothing but—what was it again, Foxy?”
Noah takes a moment to glower at her. “She may have mentioned something about a deerstalker cap and a strategically placed magnifying glass.”
Lemon gasps so hard she nearly drops her donut. “A STRATEGICALLY PLACED WHAT?”
“For the detective theme,” Noah flexes a brief smile. “I’m sure it will be ‘artistically authentic.’“ He winks her way as if to egg her on, and my frown deepens as I take a moment to glare at him.
“Authentic to what?” Lemon demands. “Sherlock Holmes Gone Wild?”
I tip my head his way. “Well, that’s one way to solve the mystery of what you look like naked.”
“Your Honor,” Noah shoots back, clearly desperate to deflect. “What exactly is Muffin planning for your judicial theme? A gavel and good intentions?”
“I’m hoping I can keep my robe on.” Though given how this week has gone, I should probably just accept that my clothing is purely decorative at this point.
“On but open,” Carlotta adds with a hopeful gleam in her eye. “The contrast between formal and scandalous really sells calendars. Ask me how I know.”
Lemon grunts, “Carlotta, maybe we should discuss this later—”
“Why later? It’s for a good cause.” Carlotta waves dismissively once again. “Besides, we both know Sexy here has nothing to be ashamed of. Those shoulders, that jawline. With those steamy pictures, he’s going to sell calendars faster than hotcakes.”
“Daddy pictures!” Lyla Nell chimes, holding up a donut hole. “Pretty Daddy!”
I feel my composure slipping slightly. The idea of posing for photographs while the photographer is involved in a homicide strikes me as ethically questionable at best. But before I can formulate an appropriate response, the bakery door chimes and Evie bounces in, followed closely by her best friend Dash.
Evie has inherited my height and her mother’s energy, a combination that makes her formidable in ways I’m still learning to navigate.
Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing what appears to be beach attire—shorts, a tank top, and the kind of enthusiasm that only college students possess.
“Hey, guys!” she calls out before wrapping her arms around both Lemon and me for a quick hug. “We’re ready to hit the lake!”
Dash, a petite blonde with enough energy to caffeinate a city, nods enthusiastically. “It’s like the perfect day for it. Plus, the killer already got their victim, so we should, like, be totally safe.”
I frown at her without meaning to. I’m not buying that logic by a landslide. Whoever killed Duncan Whitmore might just be hungry for fresh blood this morning.
“Never underestimate a killer,” Lemon says.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say, toasting her with my coffee.
Carlotta harumphs. “Who cares about killers?” She nods to the girls.
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t hang out at Honey Lake.
The weather is warm enough to melt the mascara right off your eyelashes.
Just bring a radio, a tub of margarine to slather all over your bodies, your best boy toys, and you’re all set to go. ”
The mention of boy toys makes me growl. Evie has been dating Conner Saint for years—and the jury is still very much out on the saint part of that equation—while Dash has been seeing Conner’s best friend Kyle for approximately the same amount of time.
The idea of these young men spending the day at the lake with my daughter and her friend, all of them in bathing suits, makes my blood pressure spike.
I’m a man. I know exactly where a guy’s mind tends to wander when presented with young women in bikinis. All the time.
“Just be careful,” I manage, employing the same tone I use when instructing juries on reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt disappears faster than good sense when hormone-drunk teenage boys are involved.
Evie waves off my concern with the casual dismissal that only teenagers can master. “Dad, relax. We just drove past the lake. The place is crawling with sheriff’s deputies. We’ll be fine.” Her expression brightens even further. “Actually, we have great news!”
Lemon’s eyes widen a notch, her expression caught somewhere between fascination and terror. It’s the same look she gets when supernatural warnings appear.
“Great news?” she asks cautiously.
“I’m down for great news,” Noah says, taking a hasty bite of his chocolate-glazed donut.
“Good, Uncle Noah,” Evie beams. “Because I want you to hear this, too.” She takes a deep breath, clearly preparing for a dramatic announcement, and that alone gives me pause. “Dash and I are about to be related!”
The statement hangs in the air like an unresolved legal motion. Lemon’s eyes widen twice their size, and I can practically hear her mental gears grinding as she tries to process this information.
“Related?” I ask, tipping my ear her way as if prompting her to go on.
“How exactly?” Lemon asks with a similar tone because we happen to be in sync when it comes to sniffing out potential trouble.
Dash bounces on her toes with excitement.
“Well, you know my mom is recently divorced, and she’s, like, totally on this crusade to take back her life and stuff.
Basically, my mom is looking to get knocked up again, and she’s short one man.
” She turns to look directly at me. “So she needs to find one ASAP, and Evie totally volunteered you for the effort!”
“What effort?” I ask, tilting my head at the two of them, trying to decipher a better picture of what’s transpiring here.
“You know,” Evie shoots me a look. “In the baby-making department.”
“No way,” Lemon squawks, her voice rising to a pitch that could probably be heard in the next county. “Your daddy is taken.”
A dull laugh rides through my chest. They can’t be serious.
Evie and Dash exchange the kind of look that passes between co-conspirators who’ve clearly thought this through extensively.
“It’s not like that,” Dash explains with the patience of someone addressing a particularly slow jury. And suddenly I don’t like being on the receiving end. “She just wants to borrow his, you know, swimmers. It’s all totally clinical and stuff.”
“My swimmers?” I blink at her, and Noah howls out a laugh.
Evie nods earnestly. “After her divorce, she decided she wanted to expand her family, but now she needs to resort to—”
“Using someone else’s husband?” Carlotta cuts in with a laugh. “Honey, I can relate. I’ve had to resort to that a time or two myself.”
Lemon takes a moment to glare at Carlotta, and the look she’s giving could freeze water at forty paces. Carlotta isn’t lying. That’s exactly how Lemon and her sister Charlie came to be. “I’m sorry, girls,” she’s quick to tell them. “But the answer is no.”
Both Evie and Dash look affronted.
“We’re not giving up so easily.” Evie shakes her head with the determination of a defense attorney who’s found a loophole.
“This is our big chance! Dash and I are destined to be related. We’re like sisters with a missing link!
” She turns to me with complete confidence.
“Don’t worry, Dad. You are so going to knock this out of the park. ”
Noah nearly chokes on his coffee. “Well, that’s one way to make a family connection.”
“You know what?” Evie continues with a sly grin rising on her lips. “I think you should put your hat in the ring, too, Uncle Noah.” She turns to Dash with growing excitement. “I mean, how cool would that be if your mom ended up with twins?”
Dash squeals with delight. “Like, totally! One that belongs to your dad and one that belongs to your Uncle Noah!”
Carlotta barks out a laugh. “Now that would give Dash’s mama something in common with our Lot Lot, wouldn’t it?”
“No, it wouldn’t,” I tell her. “The twins are one hundred percent mine.”
“Says you,” Noah taunts while holding back a laugh.
“Very funny.” I shake my head his way.
The girls head toward the counter, still chattering excitedly about their grand plan, undeterred by the unanimous lack of enthusiasm from owners of those swimmers, and Lemon, of course.
“Well,” Noah says dryly, “that’s certainly an interesting proposition.”
I growl his way. “Interesting is not the word I would use.”
“Oh, come on, Sexy.” Carlotta grins. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Your sense of civic duty?”
I consider my response as if weighing evidence in a complex case.
“My daughter wants to orchestrate a situation that would involve me donating genetic material to her best friend’s mother.
Not happening. Not in this life, not in the next.
” I shake my head at the thought. “In my courtroom,” I say finally, “we have a term for propositions that sound reasonable on the surface but are actually fraught with unforeseen complications.”
“What’s that?” Lemon asks.
I watch my daughter and her friend debating the merits of various coconut cupcakes, their excitement undimmed by our lack of cooperation.
“We call them appeals that are destined to be overturned on review. And this one is dead in the water.” I look directly at Lemon. “Which brings me to my next futile attempt at being the voice of reason—stay out of this investigation, Lemon. That’s not a request—it’s a direct ruling from the bench.”
She meets my gaze with a look that says I’ve already lost this case, but I haven’t admitted it yet.