Chapter 12 Noah
NOAH
Tuesday morning at the Honey Hollow Police Department smells like stale coffee, old files, and the lingering sweetness of glazed donuts from Lottie’s bakery.
My desk looks like a paperwork explosion took place—case files spread across every available surface, witness statements stacked in precarious towers, and enough yellow legal pads to supply a small law firm.
I lean back in my chair and take a bite of one of Lottie’s Easter bunny cupcakes, the coconut and vanilla filling reminding me of exactly why I’ve been finding excuses to drop by the bakery every morning for the past few years.
The woman can work magic with sugar and flour, not to mention what she does to my blood pressure just by smiling at me.
The smile fades when Everett’s coffee mug comes into view on my desk—a reminder that my once-removed stepbrother married the woman I’m still crazy about, and somehow, we’re all supposed to pretend this is a perfectly normal arrangement.
Most days I can handle it. Most days I can be the supportive friend and uncle figure and pretend I don’t think about what might have been.
Today isn’t one of those days.
I shake my head and force myself to focus on the case files. And yet Everett’s comment about multiple causes of death keeps gnawing at me.
Why would he think that? I know he was teasing, but still. He said it. Truthfully, it hadn’t crossed my mind, but it probably should have. I’ve seen it all, twice already. Something like that isn’t all that far-fetched.
The guy had a knife through his heart—it seems pretty cut and dry to me. But Everett doesn’t say things like that without reason. His legal mind sees patterns and possibilities that most people miss. People like me.
I pick up the file and leaf through it. Duncan Whitmore. Chocolate empire heir. Stabbed with an antique pearl-handled knife that belonged to Lottie’s grandmother. Found at the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Festival, surrounded by hundreds of potential witnesses, and yet nobody saw anything useful.
The door to my office swings open without a knock, which means it’s either someone fleeing from Carlotta or—
“Fox.” Detective Ivy Fairbanks strides in with confidence as if she owns whatever room she enters. Her red hair is pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, and she’s got that look in her eyes that means she’s about to make my day more complicated.
“Ivy,” I acknowledge, not bothering to stand. “What can I do for you?”
She settles into the chair across from my desk and crosses her arms. “I want an update on the Whitmore investigation.”
I gesture to the chaos surrounding us. “What you see is what you get. Duncan Whitmore, age forty-two, heir to a chocolate fortune, was found dead at the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Festival with an antique knife buried in his chest.”
“Suspects?”
“His wife, Muffin, had a very public fight with him at the festival. Witnesses say she accused him of cheating, the word divorce was tossed around, the usual marital bliss. He publicly humiliated her. She claims she was alone in her car when he was killed, but her alibi’s got more holes than a screen door. ”
Ivy leans forward. “That’s it? The knife belonged to Lottie Lemon’s deceased grandmother. It went missing from her cakewalk supplies, and she’s the one who found the body. So your girlfriend is a suspect, too—in case you missed the obvious.”
I give her a wry look. “Technically, she’s not my girlfriend, and she’s certainly not a suspect. Wrong place, wrong time.” According to that Elvis impersonator who married us last month, Lottie is my wife, but I keep that little funny tidbit to myself.
“If you say so.” Ivy’s tone suggests she thinks I’m being deliberately obtuse. “I want in on this case.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Fox—”
“I’ve got this, Ivy. This is my investigation.”
She stands up with the kind of fluid motion that reminds me she’s trained in about six different martial arts. “You know Lottie Lemon is going to solve this before we can, anyway, right? She always does. Maybe we should just deputize her and save ourselves the paperwork.”
“Lottie is a baker, not a detective,” I reply, though we both know that’s not entirely true. “She just has a very concerning talent for being in the wrong place at the right time.”
“Or the right place at the wrong time, depending on how you look at it.” Ivy heads for the door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when she cracks this case while you’re still shuffling papers.”
The door closes behind her with more force than necessary, leaving me alone with my stale coffee and growing suspicion that Everett might be onto something.
I pick up the phone and dial forensics.
“It’s Detective Fox,” I say as soon as they answer.
“I need you to run a full toxicology panel on Duncan Whitmore... Yeah, I know you already did the standard workup, but I want everything. Every drug, every poison, every substance known to medical science... Because my gut says there’s more to this story.
” And my gut’s name happens to be Everett Baxter.
I hang up and dial the coroner’s office.
“I need you to re-examine the Whitmore body for any other potential causes of death... I know he was stabbed, but humor me... Thanks.”
I check my watch. Still early enough to make a few more stops before calling it a night. Time to track down Luke Lazzari and find out what the heck a mobster was doing at a family-friendly festival.
On second thought, maybe I should drop by the county courthouse first and pay Judge Baxter a visit.
If Everett’s got theories about multiple causes of death, I want to hear them before I go chasing down men who make people disappear for a living.
Then I may want to hear all of Lottie’s theories, too.
Besides, it’ll give me an excuse to stop by the bakery on the way home and grab a few more of those coconut cupcakes. For investigative purposes, of course.