Chapter 15 Lottie
LOTTIE
The Evergreen Manor ballroom holds the scent of spring blooms and chocolate decadence, layered with high-end perfume and the smug confidence of old money.
Across the room, scrumptious cocoa installations have caught my dessert-loving eye. The imported coffee that probably costs more per pound than gold smells like heaven, and chocolate sculptures the size of toddlers, are enough to make Willy Wonka jealous.
The grand ballroom stretches before us like something out of a chocolate-covered fairy tale, if fairy tales included crystal chandeliers the size of compact cars and enough gold leaf to fund the national debt.
Classical music drifts from a string quartet, occasionally punctuated by the gentle clink of champagne glasses and the rustle of designer clothing that probably made its way here straight from Milan.
I tried to ditch Carlotta before leaving the bakery, but she’s like head lice—persistent, annoying, and somehow always resurfaces when you think you’ve finally gotten rid of her.
She somehow managed to attach herself to this expedition with the determination of someone who’s never met an exclusive event she couldn’t crash or inevitably trash.
Carlotta and I are about to step into the ballroom, and the first person to greet us is Naomi Sawyer, Keelie’s twin sister and living proof that sometimes Mother Nature has a twisted sense of humor.
Where Keelie is sweet and sunshine, Naomi is all dark hair, darker soul, and a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush.
She also happens to be the manager here at the Evergreen Manor.
Naomi spots us approaching the entrance, and her expression immediately shifts to suggest she’s just discovered something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her designer shoe.
“Well, well, well,” she growls, positioning herself between us and the entry with the authority of an armed guard. “If it isn’t Aunt Carlotta and the human embodiment of a bad luck charm.”
“Naomi,” I say with forced politeness, because antagonizing the gatekeeper rarely ends well. “How nice to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she responds with a smile colder than a graveyard in January.
Suffice it to say, I’m not Naomi’s favorite person.
She clears her throat. “Unfortunately, I’ve been asked to vet the people coming to buy tickets.
Fairbanks and Regina were very specific about maintaining a certain.
.. exclusive vibe.” She looks us up and down with the critical eye of someone appraising a couple of pigs at the county fair and finding them severely lacking.
“Oh, come on, Naomi,” Carlotta harps. “You know darn well that Lot is here to catch a killer, and I’m here to catch a billionaire. If you let us in, I’ll give you first dibs on any rich fool with old money and low standards.”
She takes a moment to glare at her demented aunt.
“Sorry,” she continues with a touch too much satisfaction, “but I was told to say we’re sold out of tickets if I feel you don’t fit their social criteria.
And frankly, you two aren’t quite couth enough to be rubbing elbows with this caliber of clientele.
So just to be clear, I’m so sorry, but we’re all sold out of tickets.
” She gives a cheesy smile, and suddenly I’m moved to knock out her pearly white teeth with something heavy and preferably made of cast iron.
I can’t help it. I get ornery if there’s an obstacle between me and an entire table of exotic chocolate desserts.
I reach into my purse and pull out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, which I hold up between us with confidence. I know all too well that money talks louder than social snobbery, and Naomi is certainly not impervious to the siren call of cold, hard cash.
“Oh!” Naomi’s eyes light up with instant approval, the kind that only crisp bills and social climbing can buy. “Well then, by all means—enjoy the show.”
Money, it seems, is the magic spell that turns Naomi from ice queen to welcome committee.
Carlotta and I make our way into the ballroom, and I’m immediately struck by the sea of surgically enhanced faces surrounding us. It’s like walking into a convention for people who’ve had intimate relationships with Botox needles and plastic surgeons with artistic aspirations.
“Holy moly,” Carlotta breathes, stopping dead in her tracks to survey the ultra-glamorous crowd. “Everyone here looks stamped, polished, and rolled off the same assembly line.”
I nod. “They all look so flawless, I’m starting to feel like the before photo in a makeover ad.”
The crowd consists entirely of what I can only describe as plastic people—faces stretched so tight by surgical enhancement they look as if they’re permanently bracing themselves against hurricane-force winds.
Lips pumped full of enough filler to supply a balloon factory, cheekbones sharp as shards of porcelain, and foreheads so smooth they could double as ski slopes.
“Look at that woman over there,” Carlotta whispers, though her version of whispering can be heard on the moon. “Her face is pulled so tight, if she sneezes, her ears might pop off. And those lips! She looks like she tried to kiss a vacuum cleaner and lost the battle.”
I try to shush her, but I have a feeling she’s just getting warmed up.
“And that gentleman by the chocolate fountain,” she continues with far too much vigor. “His forehead is so smooth and shiny I could use it as a mirror. Do you think they polish it daily, or is that just a natural glow from all the chemicals?”
A woman nearby turns to stare at us, her face so perfectly sculpted it looks like it was carved from expensive marble by someone with questionable artistic judgment.
“Oh, honey,” Carlotta croons her way, “your surgeon deserves a medal. You look exactly twenty-five… from across the street… at dusk—without my glasses.”
The woman’s mouth opens slightly, though whether in shock or because her facial muscles have a limited range of motion is anyone’s guess.
“Carlotta,” I hiss under my breath. “Please stop commenting on people’s surgical choices.”
“I’m being complimentary!” she protests. “That man over there has ice blue vampire eyes that only money can buy. And the lady in the blue dress—her nose is so perfect I’m tempted to ask if it’s seeing anyone.”
“Good grief.” I grab her arm and try to steer her toward some empty seats. “Maybe we should focus on the chocolate instead of the crowd.”
“But this is way better than anything on cable,” Carlotta says. “One good laugh and somebody’s face is going to snap like a breadstick.”
Speaking of food, on the upside, it smells absolutely delightful in here, and there’s a dessert spread that looks like it was designed by angels with advanced degrees in chocolate architecture.
As a professional baker, I can appreciate the sheer artistry laid out before us.
This isn’t just a dessert table, it’s a masterclass in confectionery perfection.
“Well, would you look at that,” Carlotta breathes, practically drooling as she surveys the display. “It’s like someone took my wildest dessert fantasies and made them real. I’m getting aroused just looking at those éclairs.”
“Please don’t get aroused by pastry in public,” I mutter, though I have to admit the dessert spread is impressive and even I’m starting to perk up in places that haven’t perked up in a good long while. More than six weeks to be exact.
Table after table displays chocolate pastries in every possible iteration—éclairs filled with ganache that gleams like velvet, their choux pastry so perfectly piped it looks like it was extruded by Swiss engineers.
Petit fours decorated with edible gold leaf sit in perfect rows, each one identical with a precision that makes my decorating attempts look like finger painting.
“Geez, Lot, those little gold squares look expensive,” Carlotta says. “I’m talking designer handbag expensive. Think they beat your goodies?”
“They better,” I say, studying the flawless fondant work. “I’m pretty sure the chocolate alone has a higher credit score than I do.”
Truffles are arranged in patterns so intricate they belong in an art museum, each one hand-rolled to mathematical perfection.
There are chocolate sculptures that defy gravity, marzipan fruits painted with photographic detail, and macarons in flavors I’ve never even heard of.
Beyond those are the classics—rich chocolate cakes, fudgy brownies, chocolate muffins, chocolate cheesecake, and creamy mousse cups.
“I’m going to try one of everything,” Carlotta announces. “For charitable purposes.”
“How is eating expensive desserts charitable?”
“Someone has to make sure none of these are poisoned. I’m basically a hero.”
A poisoning? In this town? She might be onto something.
We make our way along the dessert tables, where the mousse cakes have layers stacked so neatly they could double as tiny chocolate quilts, and the chocolate shavings are curled with such gentle precision I can practically hear the baker humming while they worked.
Even the coffee service feels enchanted—silver urns holding coffee that smells like it was grown on a mountainside tended by poets, and cream so thick it could happily curl up on a scone.
“Lot Lot, you’re drooling,” Carlotta points out while shoving her elbow into my ribcage.
“I am not drooling. I’m appreciating professional technique, and maybe their budget for this snooty shindig, too.”
“Right. And I’m here for the intellectual stimulation.”
This is the kind of dessert spread that makes a small-town baker either deeply inspired or thoroughly intimidated, and right now I’m feeling both emotions in equal measure.
I can’t believe how wonderful it all looks, how wonderful everything and everyone in this room looks. And right about now, that whole turnip with warts thing is starting to make a comeback in my brain.