Chapter 9 Lottie
LOTTIE
Monday afternoon at Honey Lake smells like abandoned cotton candy and the faint scent of funnel cake clinging to the breeze.
The fairgrounds stretch out before us in all their post-festival glory—looking like the morning after a particularly enthusiastic sugar binge.
Everything sits exactly where it was left yesterday after the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Festival, because apparently, the cleanup crew decided not to stick around after a killer showed up.
The lake shimmers in the afternoon sun, loaded with boats and water toys of every variety.
Jet skis bob next to paddle boats, while inflatable Easter bunnies drift aimlessly between fishing boats.
The woods beyond the lake look verdant and glorious, standing watch over the water like leafy guard dogs with serious boundary issues.
But what really catches my eye are the mansions scattered along this side of the lake.
One in particular makes me do a double take—it’s the size of a small hotel and probably costs more than my bakery will hope to earn in revenue for its entire existence.
This just so happens to be where Gina mentioned she and Fairbanks purchased their new “home.” If you can call something the size of a resort hotel a home.
I suppose when you’re drowning in chocolate money, square footage becomes just another number on the tax bill.
It’s funny because I don’t remember seeing the mansion there before, but then if you have enough money, things like that can go up overnight.
The twins are squirming to life in their stroller, making noises that suggest they’re either hungry, uncomfortable, or plotting their next assault on my sleep schedule. Probably all three.
Lyla Nell turns around to get a better look at them. “Shh, shh,” she whispers, patting their tiny hands. “Be good little boys. Or I’m going to spank you!” she says that last part with a bite. And a bite she seems to relish.
“Atta girl, Little Yippy!” Carlotta announces with the satisfaction of a woman who has just successfully corrupted a minor.
For the life of me, I have no idea why Carlotta insists on referring to children as Little Yippies.
“From here on out, it’s your job to keep the rest of the Little Yippers in line. ”
I elbow her as we move along. “Carlotta, try not to do anything to draw unwanted attention to yourself, would you?”
“Me?” She blinks with exaggerated innocence. “When have I ever drawn unwanted attention?”
“Would you like the list alphabetically or chronologically?” I mutter, already regretting bringing her along. “Just... try to blend in with the wellness crowd. Pretend you care about chakras or something.”
“Oh, honey, I care deeply about certain chakras.” Carlotta unleashes a wicked grin. “Especially the ones located in the lower regions.”
I close my eyes and count to three, reminding myself that murder is wrong even when it’s justifiable.
Sometimes I wonder if nature or nurture is responsible for my talent for finding dead bodies. Looking at Carlotta—who could find trouble in a convent—I’m definitely leaning toward genetics.
“As I said,” I sigh hard at the lake, “try not to do anything to draw any attention to yourself.”
“You’re the one whipping out her boobs for all to see wherever you go. If I did that, you’d have me arrested.”
“You made a habit of that long before I ever started nursing,” I point out. “And you’re right—I so should have had you arrested.” Like the day she walked back into my life.
Lenny materializes beside us in his usual spray of blue sparkles, because evidently ghostly lions don’t believe in subtle entrances. Carlotta’s eyes immediately light up with the kind of interest that means trouble for everyone involved.
“Well, hello there, gorgeous,” she purrs at him. “You know, the way the sunlight hits your mane is making me want to—”
“Lottie?”
I’ve never been so glad to hear an interruption.
A familiar voice calls my name, and I turn to see my mother hopping our way with enough chipper energy that can only mean trouble. Yes, she and Carlotta have lots and lots of trouble in common.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” she purrs at us with the satisfaction of a cougar who just spotted potential prey.
I am definitely sensing a feline theme emerging.
“I just let your sisters know about the dissertation Bunny Whitmore is about to give. I’ve read every page of her book Nature’s Pharmacy: Healing Without Harm, and I’m completely obsessed with all of her homeopathic ways.
There isn’t anything kale or castor oil can’t cure, or just about. ”
“Good to know,” I say.
Mom looks as if she’s been personally touched by the spirit of wellness itself, and her eyes are bright with the conviction that kale or castor oil can bring about world peace.
“Let’s not stand around in the hot sun with the kids,” she continues, already herding us toward an oversized red and white striped tent that takes over the grassy knoll looking over the shoreline. “Come on, let’s go get ourselves good seats. Your sisters are already inside.”
We’re ushered toward a big circus covering that’s set up near the lake’s edge.
Rows and rows of folding chairs are packed beneath the striped canvas, filled with women who look as if they get their nutritional advice from Pinterest and their fashion sense from farmers’ markets. That’s basically me on both counts.
Up on the makeshift stage stands Bunny Whitmore herself.
Her long sandy hair is braided neatly down her back, and she’s dressed rather plainly in a floral t-shirt and khaki pants that scream I’m too spiritually enlightened to care about fashion.
She’s writing things on a portable chalkboard with such intense concentration it almost assures she’s preparing to deliver life-changing information to the masses. And she just might be.
A refreshment table is set up to my right, but instead of coffee—the lifeblood of civilized society—there seems to be a good selection of iced teas that look as if they taste like grass clippings and good intentions.
A variety of desserts and fruits are laid out in an appetizing display—everything somehow manages to look both healthy and indulgent at the same time, which is quite the accomplishment.
I can’t wait to get my hands on those fresh figs and dates.
I always buy both at the grocery store and then gobble every last one down as soon as I get home.
I can’t help it. Dates are practically nature’s cookies, and suddenly I’m craving two or twelve of those sweet treats.
Not to mention that a date wrapped with bacon and stuffed with goat cheese is basically a gift to taste buds.
Charlie introduced me to the yummy morsels when she added them to the appetizer menu at the Honey Pot Diner, and I’ve never been the same since.
Oddly, even though I can identify most of the fruits, I can’t seem to identify a single one of the desserts.
Now that’s a first. They look like someone took perfectly good ingredients and decided to torture them with the power of positive thinking.
I’ll have to get a better look at them after the seminar, assuming I survive whatever nutritional enlightenment is about to be thrust upon us.
A bell goes off—probably made from recycled wind chimes and organic hemp—and everyone takes their seats with the kind of quiet devotion that makes me wonder what they put in the kombucha.
Bunny steps up to what passes for a podium and smiles at the crowd with the serene confidence of a fitness guru who’s never met a carbohydrate she couldn’t vilify.
“Good afternoon, beautiful souls,” she begins, her voice carrying the soothing cadence of someone who does yoga at sunrise and actually enjoys it.
“Welcome to Wellness and Wisdom from the Wild Side! I’m Bunny Whitmore, and I’m here to help you discover the healing power that’s been right in front of you all along. ”
I have to admit, I instantly love her. There’s something about her calm, centered energy that makes me want to confess my sugar addiction and ask for forgiveness.
“Let’s start with something everyone thinks they know about,” Bunny continues, gesturing toward the tent opening where afternoon sunlight streams in. “The sun! People think it’s the most dangerous thing in the world, but do you know what’s even more deadly?”
She pauses for dramatic effect, and I find myself leaning forward despite my better judgment.
“Sunscreen!”
A collective gasp ripples through the tent.
Several women clutch their purses, probably calculating how much SPF 50 they’ve been slathering on their children.
Heaven knows I’ve already slathered all three of my littles with a half-gallon, and that’s just in the last week alone.
No one is getting a sunburn under my watch.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Bunny says, her voice carrying the conviction of someone who’s done some serious scientific research.
“We’ve been told our entire lives to slather ourselves and our children in chemical sunscreen the moment we step outside.
But let me ask you this—what did humans do for thousands of years before SPF became a marketing goldmine?
” She points a finger at the sky. “Our bodies were brilliantly designed to absorb and utilize sunlight. When UV rays hit our skin, they trigger the production of vitamin D—a hormone so crucial to our health that deficiency has been linked to depression, anxiety, bone disease, autoimmune disorders, heart disease, and weakened immune systems.”