Chapter 10 Lottie #2
Bunny nods my way. “Funny you should mention it. Dad started that tradition thirty years ago,” Bunny explains.
“It was this huge celebration every summer where all the employees brought their families. Dad would rent carnival rides, hire a live band, and provide all the food. It was his way of saying thank you to the people who made our success possible.”
Her voice grows sad. “Duncan replaced it with a generic email thanking everyone for their ‘continued dedication to excellent chocolate.’ I was mortified.”
“I’m so sorry to hear it.”
The mention of chocolate gives me another opening. “Speaking of chocolate, I have to admit, I’m fascinated by your dessert display. As someone who bakes for a living, I’m curious about your approach to, well, making things that actually taste good while being healthy.”
Bunny practically bounces with excitement. “Oh, I’m a big believer in the power of cocoa! It’s loaded with antioxidants, magnesium, and compounds that actually improve brain function. The problem isn’t chocolate—it’s all the sugar that gets dumped into it.”
She gestures toward the refreshment table where mysterious brown lumps sit on doily-covered plates.
“I have lots of recipes and desserts on display that have cocoa mixed with monk fruit. You would never know they weren’t purchased at some fancy bakery where all the desserts are designed to send you to an early grave. ”
I wince, realizing I’m about to confess to being part of the grave-sending bakery industry. “Actually, that’s... kind of ironic. I own the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery here in Honey Hollow. So I’m basically part of the sugar-pushing establishment you’re trying to reform.”
Both of us burst into laughter, and I have to admit, there’s something refreshing about her sense of humor. Thankfully, the twins keep chugging on. I nearly unlatched them both with that hearty guffaw.
“Well, that’s perfect!” she exclaims. “You could add some desserts with monk fruit instead of sugar. I bet you’d be surprised at how well they sell. People are craving healthier options—they just don’t want to sacrifice taste.”
“She’s always been the nurturing one,” Lenny adds warmly. “Even tried to restore me to health when I was sick near the end. Brought me herbs and special teas.”
That is very sweet and kindhearted.
“Healthy sugar alternatives?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. There are so many. Where do I even start with sugar alternatives?” Bunny exclaims, her eyes lighting up with the fervor of someone who’s about to share some serious secrets.
“First, throw everything you think you know about baking out the window. The food industry has brainwashed us into thinking we need mountains of white death crystals to make anything taste good.”
She starts counting on her fingers. “Monk fruit sweetener is your best friend—it’s three hundred times sweeter than sugar, so a little goes a very long way.
I once made the mistake of using a full cup in a batch of brownies and nearly sent my neighbor’s blood sugar into orbit.
Poor woman thought she was having a spiritual experience. ”
I snort despite myself, already imagining my customers’ reactions to accidentally hallucinogenic baked goods.
“Then there’s stevia, but you have to be careful with that one,” Bunny continues. “Too much and everything tastes like you licked a packet of artificial sweetener. I’ve learned to blend it with a touch of raw honey or pure maple syrup to round out the flavor.”
She leans in a notch. “And here’s a secret—applesauce can replace sugar in most recipes. Your customers will never know their chocolate chip cookies are getting a fruit makeover. I’ve been sneaking pureed dates into my granddaughter’s birthday cake for years. She thinks I’m a baking genius.”
“What about flour substitutions?” I ask, genuinely curious despite my growing concern about customer revolt.
“Almond flour, coconut flour, even ground flaxseed are wonderful to bake with,” Bunny lists enthusiastically.
“Though I’ll warn you about coconut flour—it’s thirstier than a camel in the desert.
You need about four times the liquid, or you’ll end up with hockey pucks that could double as home security devices.
” She grins. “And don’t get me started on adding vegetables to desserts.
I’ve put zucchini in chocolate cake, sweet potato in muffins, and black beans in brownies.
The trick is not telling people until after they’ve cleaned their plates and asked for seconds. ”
“Black beans in brownies?” I ask, horrified and fascinated in equal measure. “I’m not sure my husband would forgive me if I did that to his favorite dessert.”
“Trust me, they add the most incredible fudgy texture,” Bunny insists.
“Plus fiber, protein, and antioxidants. Your digestive system will thank you, even if your taste buds are confused at first. I call them my identity crisis brownies. They don’t know what they are, but they know they’re delicious. ”
“Thank you for that.” I pause for a second. “And what about the rest of your family?” I ask, steering the conversation toward more investigative territory. “I heard your brother Fairbanks just bought a mansion on the lake.”
“Oh yes, Fairbanks and Gina.” Bunny’s expression sours a bit. “We were all excited when they bought that place. I guess Fairbanks is finally living up to the family name, making investments that would last generations.” She shrugs with a sigh.
From across the tent, I hear Carlotta’s voice rising above the general murmur. “This date ball tastes like someone chewed up cardboard and rolled it in false hope!”
Bunny glances over with mild concern, but thankfully continues our conversation. “Duncan was always driven. Sometimes I worried he was too focused on business and not enough on family relationships.”
“Speaking of relationships,” I say, deciding to dive into murkier waters, “I understand Duncan’s wife Muffin writes romance novels? I witnessed that whole spectacle yesterday. I really felt bad for your sister-in-law, but I could hear the hurt in your brother’s voice, too.”
Bunny’s expression shifts to something I can only describe as scandalized amusement mixed with the guilty pleasure of someone who’s discovered a particularly juicy secret.
“Oh, that woman and her books! I have to admit, I’ve read every single one of them—all twelve novels, plus the three novellas she published under yet another pseudonym.
I read them purely for research purposes, you understand.
” She leans in closer, once again. “At first, I thought I should read them to make sure she wasn’t writing anything too scandalous about our family.
But then I got completely hooked! The woman writes like she’s documenting her own personal experiences, and she is.
Those affairs in her books? They’re not fiction.
She’s writing what she knows.” She nods assuredly.
“I’ll be the first to tell you, she has some very creative ideas about what constitutes marital fidelity. ”
Bunny glances around to make sure no one’s listening.
“Her latest series, Passion in the Provinces, features a chocolate heiress who has affairs with her tennis instructor, her personal trainer, and her husband’s business partner.
Sound familiar? Because I recognized the country club where she sets most of the steamy scenes, and that business partner character drives the exact same car as her ex-boyfriend Marcus.
” She shakes her head with a mixture of admiration and horror.
“The woman has turned her extramarital adventures into a profitable literary career. I have to respect the entrepreneurial spirit, even if I question the moral compass.”
Lenny’s ears perk up. “Muffin was trouble from day one. Even Richard warned Duncan about her, but he was too smitten to listen.”
“The current boyfriend situation is particularly interesting,” Bunny continues. “She’s been carrying on with her ex-boyfriend for months. Duncan knew, of course. And you said yourself you heard him confront her about it yesterday at the festival.”
“Do you think Muffin did this?” I ask, watching her reaction for any clues.
Bunny considers this for a moment. “Maybe. She certainly had motive—Duncan was threatening divorce, which would have cost her millions. I’d say her boyfriend did it, but he’s on a cruise for his brother’s bachelor party.”
I make a mental note to double-check that cruise alibi. In my experience, convenient alibis usually aren’t what they seem.
“That woman has secrets darker than midnight,” Lenny adds ominously. “Don’t trust her tears when you question her.”
A loud crash interrupts our conversation, followed by Carlotta’s voice booming across the tent. “Poop on a poop cracker!” she honks. “It’s raining dandelion tea!”
“What?” I practically shout as I turn that way and nearly unlatch both the twins from their milk guzzling posts, and sure enough, brown rain is coming down on a majority of the crowd huddled near what was the refreshment table.
Women start screaming about their clothes and purses getting soaked. And Bunny looks torn between maintaining our conversation or managing the crisis unfolding before us.
“That’s my... uh, friend,” I explain with the resignation of someone who’s learned to accept chaos as a constant companion—one named Carlotta Sawyer.
There’s no way I’m claiming Carlotta as a family relation right now.
“She means well, but she has a talent for turning peaceful situations into disaster zones.”
“Your so-called friend is causing quite the stir,” Lenny growls. “I can hear her from here, and I’m dead.”
Bunny excuses herself briefly to check on the commotion, and I strain to hear the disaster management unfolding across the tent.
“Ladies, please remain calm.” Bunny’s soothing voice carries over the chaos. “Dandelion tea is completely organic and actually quite beneficial when absorbed through the skin—”