Chapter 14 Lottie
LOTTIE
The Easter decorations are still perky with bunnies grinning, pastel garlands draped just so, and enough chocolate eggs to put the entire town in a delicious sugar coma.
My coconut cupcakes have vanished with happy customers, leaving behind only crumbs and satisfied sighs. The coffee machine hums its steady rhythm while my regulars debate whether having a third cinnamon roll counts as dinner.
This is my favorite kind of afternoon—when the bakery feels less like work and more like hosting a party where everyone pays you for the privilege of eating your feelings in pastry form.
The whole place has that warm, buzzing energy that only comes from people deciding that calories don’t count if you eat them this close to a major holiday.
Even the plastic eggs scattered around look cheerful rather than like future victims of tiny toddlers, and for once, nobody’s discovered a dead body in my general vicinity.
Yet.
Or more to the point, I haven’t yet.
My mother graciously offered to scoop up all of her grandbabies today for what she called a “snuggle fest with Glam Glam”.
Yes, all of them, including Lyla Nell and the twins—and I said yes so fast I probably gave myself whiplash.
I drove the kids to her B&B before the woman could change her mind, leaving me with the rare luxury of working without simultaneously managing a mobile dairy operation, and preventing a toddler from recruiting supernatural entities for her personal entertainment committee.
Suze, Lily, and Effie are lined up at the counter, staring out at the street with the laser focus of researchers tracking a migrating herd of hotties. And they sort of are.
“Have you noticed how many ridiculously gorgeous people have been wandering through town today?” Suze asks, gesturing toward the window where a woman who looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine is examining our menu board. “I mean, seriously, where do they all come from?”
Her hair is sleek, her face is magazine-ready, and her clothes look like they’ve met a tailor or two. She’s examining our coconut bunny cupcakes with the kind of focus usually reserved for contracts or crime scenes.
“I hate having so many gorgeous women around Honey Hollow,” Lily announces with the vehemence of someone defending her territory. “I don’t want Alex to feel like he’s suddenly got a brand new set of options parading past our front door every five minutes.”
Alex would be Lily’s main squeeze and Noah’s younger brother. They share a little boy named Levi who’s almost one.
She gestures toward another group of women passing by—all legs, long, shiny hair, and designer everything.
“Plus, those kinds of women don’t care if a man is taken.
If they want him, they just take, take, take until some poor unsuspecting wife finds herself wondering why her husband suddenly needs to work late every night. ”
“And wondering why he’s suddenly interested in wearing cologne to the grocery store,” Effie adds with the kind of baked-in wisdom you only get from working retail long enough to witness three breakups, two reunions, and a marriage proposal before noon.
Carlotta is sitting at the counter, systematically working her way through what appears to be her own body weight in coconut cake as if it had an effect on human happiness. Spoiler alert: it does.
Lenny sits beside her, equally absorbed in what I assume is the ghostly equivalent of taste-testing, though I’m not entirely sure how supernatural digestion works.
“These women all look like they’ve been manufactured in the same factory,” I observe, watching another perfectly assembled female specimen glide past our window. “Same hair, same makeup, same I’m-too-beautiful-to-shop-at-places-that-don’t-require-a-membership-fee expression.”
It’s true. They’re so polished and perfect they almost don’t look real, as if someone took the concept of feminine beauty and ran it through a filter until all the interesting imperfections were buffed right out.
“Lottie, you don’t sound too worried,” Lily points out with a frown. “Aren’t you afraid Everett will wake up one day and decide he needs someone who looks like one of those women? Someone who doesn’t have stretch marks and baby weight and the lingering aroma of garlic in her hair?”
“Why would I have garlic in my hair?” I ask. “I’m a baker. Half the time I use vanilla extract as perfume.” It’s true, I’ve been known to dot it behind my ears before heading home. It drives Everett wild. And in truth, it’s cast a mean spell on Noah, too.
“Because you spend half the time across the street at Mangia’s getting a little bite to eat.” She says little in air quotes, but she’s right, so I don’t contest the fact.
I snort into my coffee. “Everett and I are family. We have kids. He’s stuck with me even if I start to look like a turnip with some serious wart issues. These women don’t worry me in the least.”
They all laugh, but Suze shakes her head with the expression of a woman who’s learned hard truths about marriage and male fidelity.
“Even women like me can find themselves on the curb, Lottie,” she says with a bitter edge to her voice.
Women like her?
Effie, Lily, and I exchange a quiet look at the thought.
“My life is basically a cautionary tale,” Suze goes on.
“Wiley traded me in for Eliza Baxter and about a dozen harlots in between, too. And I’m a prize—ask anyone.
” She gestures to herself with pride. “Former beauty queen, excellent mother, can make a soufflé that would make grown men beg for more. I’m a looker, and I still got dumped for newer models. ”
Wow.
I’m still stuck on the I’m a looker part. I guess it’s true. The older we get, the more we see our younger selves when we look in the mirror. Heck, I might already be a turnip with wart issues. Poor Everett. There may not be enough vanilla extract in the world to right this wrong.
Carlotta looks up from her coconut cake consumption, pausing to contribute her questionable wisdom, no doubt.
“Men are like shopping carts, Suzie Q.” And here we go.
“They all seem fine when you first get them, but sooner or later you realize the wheels are crooked and they pull to one side—usually toward younger women in yoga pants.”
“That’s surprisingly philosophical,” Effie laughs.
“I have my moments,” Carlotta grunts while taking another bite of coconut cake. “Usually between breakfast and my first shot of whiskey.”
I nod. “And that’s a one-hour spread as of late.” Less than fifteen minutes on days that end in Y.
She turns to me with a grin that suggests some serious mischief is brewing. “Lot Lot, you just keep finding killers everywhere you go. At least when Everett trades you in, you’ll know who to call to do the deed on Sexy and his Pretty Young Thing.”
Suze nods as if she’s made peace with moral flexibility. “Noah will cover for you. He’d probably volunteer to help dispose of the evidence and the body.”
Poor Everett has already been dumped in a metaphoric landfill.
Lily grunts as her eyes cut to the street. “As if he hasn’t already been covering for her in a dozen different ways already.”
I’m about to protest this casual discussion of murdering my husband when another group of glamorous women glides past our window. They move in perfect synchronization, all flowing hair and designer handbags, chattering in voices that probably sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
“What are all these glossy people doing in Honey Hollow anyway?” I ask because our little town doesn’t usually attract this level of high-maintenance tourism. “Did someone accidentally list us as a luxury destination in some fancy travel magazine?”
“Oh, that’s right!” Lily snaps her fingers with sudden understanding. “Fairbanks and Gina Whitmore are hosting the Annual Elite Chocolate Symposium over at the Evergreen Manor. I forgot all about it.” She checks her watch. “And it starts in about ten minutes.”
My ears perk up at this information. A chocolate symposium hosted by Duncan’s brother and sister-in-law, filled with people who would have known the deceased and his business dealings.
This is exactly the kind of event where secrets get spilled along with champagne, and someone might accidentally reveal a motive for murder.
“The Elite Chocolate Symposium?” I repeat, already calculating how quickly I can get across town.
“It’s some kind of high-end industry conference,” Effie explains.
“Chocolate makers, distributors, food critics, and people with too much money and not a care about a calorie in the world. Very exclusive, very expensive, very much the kind of thing that attracts people who think regular chocolate isn’t good enough for their sophisticated palates. ”
“The kind of people who use words like melt factor when talking about candy bars,” Suze adds with clear disdain.
I start untying my apron with determination because I’ve just discovered the perfect excuse to leave work early.
“Where are you going?” Suze calls after me as I hang my apron on its hook behind the counter.
“I just remembered I have a very important engagement at the Evergreen Manor,” I announce, grabbing my purse and checking my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator door.
“Lottie,” Lily warns in a tone that suggests she’s seen this movie before, “you’re not seriously thinking about crashing an exclusive chocolate conference to interrogate potential murder suspects, are you?”
“Of course not,” I reply with a wink. “I’m thinking about expanding my professional network and learning about artisanal chocolate techniques that might benefit the bakery.”
“And if you happen to solve a murder while you’re there?” Effie asks dryly.
“Well, that would just be a chocolate-dipped bonus.”
Carlotta looks up from her cake with obvious interest. “Can I come? I’ve always wanted to see how the other half lives. Plus, rich chocolate people probably have excellent security, and I could use some tips for protecting my toy collection.”
“Absolutely not,” I tell her firmly. “I need you to steer clear of these people.” And my investigation, but I leave that part out.
“But Lot Lot—”
“No buts. These are serious chocolate industry people, not your usual collection of dive bar conquests and questionable life choices. Besides, someone needs to make sure Lenny doesn’t eat all the inventory while I’m gone.”
It’s true. That supernatural feline has quite the affinity for every last one of my sweet treats. My kitchen staff thinks they’ve been working overtime due to the upcoming holiday, but the truth is, Lenny is a holiday all unto himself.
Lenny perks up at the mention of his name. “I resent that implication. I’m a sophisticated spirit with refined tastes.”
“You’ve been working on that coconut bunny cake for twenty minutes,” I point out.
“It’s research,” he replies with a sly smile. “I’m conducting a thorough investigation of your baking techniques.”
“See?” I tell Carlotta. “Someone needs to supervise his research.”
I head toward the door, already mentally rehearsing my excuse for showing up uninvited to an exclusive industry event.
Something about professional development and networking opportunities should work, assuming I can pull off looking like someone who belongs at a high-end chocolate symposium instead of someone who spends her days covered in flour and dealing with supernatural crime-solving assistants.
“Lottie!” Suze calls after me. “Try not to find any bodies at this one!”
“I make no promises,” I call back, because let’s be honest—at this point, discovering corpses has become something of a professional hazard.
Besides, someone at that symposium might just know why Duncan Whitmore ended up with Nell’s knife in his chest. And I fully intend to corner them—preferably before they take a stab at removing any inconvenient witnesses.
If they’re hiding chocolate-dipped secrets, well… they just messed with the wrong dessert-loving detective.