Chapter 9 Lottie #3
Several women nod sheepishly, and Bunny’s expression softens with compassion.
“That’s not a character flaw. That’s addiction.
Your brain has been chemically altered to crave something that’s slowly destroying your health.
But here’s the beautiful truth—you can heal.
Your taste buds can recover. Your body can remember how to function without constant sugar hits. ”
She moves closer to the audience. “When you eliminate refined sugar, inflammation drops, energy stabilizes, sleep improves, skin clears, mood balances, and cravings disappear. Your body remembers how to burn fat for fuel instead of constantly demanding quick sugar fixes. You become metabolically flexible again, the way humans were designed to be.”
Bunny pauses for effect. “I’m not talking about never eating anything sweet again.
Nature provides beautiful sweetness in fruits, raw honey, pure maple syrup, and coconuts—foods that come with fiber, minerals, and nutrients that help your body process them gently.
But the white crystalline powder we’ve been told is harmless?
It’s time to call it what it is—a drug that’s been disguised as food. ”
“It’s Satan’s cocaine!” Carlotta belts it out at top volume, and the audience nods in agreement with the fervor of people who’ve found their nutritional savior.
I kick Carlotta in the shin as discreetly as possible for throwing my bakery and me under the sugar-fueled bus—and possibly leading us straight to the hot place in an Easter basket. ’Tis the season.
The twins escalate to full wails, and I realize I only have two options and both of them happen to be leaking milk.
I quickly lift my blouse, and soon I’m nursing both boys simultaneously in what can only be described as a logistical miracle.
A few heads do double takes my way, but thankfully I’m surrounded by a sea of women who understand the reality of motherhood—and aren’t afraid of a couple of double D’s and oversized nipples staring them in the face.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Bunny continues. Her voice is gentle but unwavering. “But Bunny, what about my morning muffin? My afternoon cookie? My slice of birthday cake? Surely those can’t be all that bad?”
Or every single item in my bakery, I want to add, but don’t dare. I’ll have to run a flash sale on my cinnamon rolls to lure half the town back into my oven mitt clutches.
She shakes her head with the sad wisdom of someone who’s seen the truth.
“Beautiful souls, baked goods are sugar delivery systems wrapped in flour—which your body converts to sugar within minutes of eating it. That innocent-looking blueberry muffin? It contains more sugar than a can of soda, plus refined white flour that spikes your blood sugar faster than candy.”
Bunny moves across the stage. “Cookies, cakes, pastries, bagels, crackers, pasta, bread—these aren’t foods, they’re drug delivery devices.
They’re engineered to hit your pleasure centers and leave you craving more.
The food industry has spent billions of dollars figuring out the exact combination of sugar, salt, and fat that will override your brain’s satiety signals.
” She gestures toward the audience with compassion.
“I watch people grab a croissant and coffee for breakfast, crash by ten A.M., reach for a granola bar, crash again by lunch, grab a sandwich and chips, need a three P.M. cookie pick-me-up, then wonder why they’re exhausted, moody, and gaining weight.
You’re on a blood sugar roller coaster that’s destroying your metabolism. ”
Lyla Nell growls at the woman as if she, too, sensed our family baking empire crumbling like a sugar cookie right before our very eyes.
She pauses, scanning the crowd. “I’m not saying this to shame anyone.
I’m saying it because once you break free from this cycle, food becomes medicine again.
Your energy stabilizes, your skin glows, your mind clears, and yes—real food starts tasting incredible again.
That’s not deprivation. That’s liberation. ”
People murmur in agreement, several women nodding as they probably mentally inventory their pantries and consider dramatic kitchen cleanouts, not to mention the fact that these women will soon be turning their noses up at my innocent blueberry muffins.
This granola-crunching hippie is about to single-handedly put me out of business!
Bunny continues to elaborate on the dangers of a life with sugar, painting a picture of doom that would make a horror movie proud of her terror-infused speech.
I shrink in my seat, feeling like a drug dealer who’s just been confronted by a room full of recovering addicts. Satan’s drug dealer, no less.
I want the best for my children and my customers, but hearing how everything I bake is basically poison in pretty packaging, it’s bringing tears to my eyes.
Maybe I should switch to selling whatever those mysterious healthy desserts are on the refreshment table.
By the time this seminar is through, I’m pretty sure that’s all the women of Honey Hollow will eat.
“Let’s take a short break,” Bunny announces with a serene smile. “Please feel free to try our dandelion teas and desserts made with dates, honey, and nuts. Everything is sugar-free, gluten-free, and guilt-free!”
“Good,” I tell Carlotta quietly. “Your conscience has enough on its plate already without adding carbs to the list.”
Carlotta grins wickedly. “My conscience stopped showing up to meetings years ago, so it can handle whatever I throw at it. Besides, carbs are the least of my sins.”
Isn’t that the truth.
Bodies start swirling around the room, heading toward the refreshment table with the enthusiasm of people who’ve been given permission to eat dessert that won’t send them straight to nutritional hell.
I watch as Bunny goes back to writing something on her chalkboard, probably preparing to deliver more devastating news about how everything delicious is trying to kill us. But this is my chance—my window of opportunity to get some answers about Duncan’s murder.
Mom appears at my elbow as if on cue.
“Mom, would you mind watching Lyla Nell?” I ask, already planning my attack. “I’ll be right back.”
She says yes, and I waddle toward the front of the tent, still nursing both babies with my boobs on full display for the entire wellness community to witness.
My boobs have reached the size of overfed bowling balls—much to Everett’s and, let’s be honest, Noah’s complete delight—but modesty takes a backseat when you’re conducting a murder investigation while simultaneously feeding twin boys who think my chest is their personal all-you-can-eat buffet.
And it sort of is. Any modesty I may have had disappeared the day I pushed out twins, because here I am conducting a murder investigation while basically topless.
At least the twins are blocking the good parts. Sort of.
Suddenly, I’m getting more stares than someone who showed up to a funeral in a clown suit. Several women actually stop mid-sip of their dandelion tea to gape, probably wondering if I’m about to topple over while juggling babies and boobs or if there’s a specific meditation to unsee this.
But nothing—not the stares, not the whispers, not the fact that I’m basically conducting a mobile dairy operation while trying to solve a homicide—is going to stop me from talking to Bunny Whitmore about her brother’s death.
There’s a killer out there who thought it best to steal Nell’s knife and plunge it into another human being, and I’m going to track them down and teach them a lesson they won’t forget.
Lenny the lion slinks up beside me as I step onto the stage, his ghostly presence adding a surreal element to what’s already shaping up to be one of the strangest suspects I’ve ever had to deal with.
Here goes nothing.
Time to find out if the woman preaching peace, love, and herbal tea is secretly the type who’d stick a knife in her brother’s chest—organically and sustainably, of course.