Chapter 18 Lottie
LOTTIE
Wednesday morning arrives with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, because nobody who resides under my roof slept last night.
The twins still think that nighttime is for amateur sleepers, and they spent the dark hours tag-teaming their assault on my sanity and Everett’s with the precision of tiny torturers who’ve been studying advanced interrogation techniques.
Lyla Nell joined their nocturnal rebellion by wandering into our bedroom at three A.M., asking if we could make pancakes “for the ghost kitty” because apparently our supernatural visitor has developed opinions about breakfast service.
Then, around five in the morning, Carlotta started shouting something in her sleep about those leashes being too tight and someone moving too fast—at least I hope it was a dream.
I don’t really want to know what happens behind closed doors in her bedroom.
And on top of all that, the bakery was absolutely bonkers busy today.
I couldn’t keep my coconut bunny cupcakes in stock no matter how fast I baked them.
Part of it is my mother’s fault. She owns and runs the Honey Hollow Bed and Breakfast, which just so happens to be haunted.
And you can bet your betting britches that Miranda Lemon has capitalized on that haunted fact with a capital C.
So once she finishes with tourists for the Haunted Honey Hollow B&B Tour, she sends them my way for what she calls The Last Thing They Ate Tour.
Suffice it to say, whatever baked good unwittingly participated in a recent homicide sells like hotcakes—or in this case, adorable little Easter bunny cupcakes with their coconut fur and chocolate chip eyes.
Yes, that whole murder-victim-found-noshing-on-one-of my-sweet-treats thing has happened before, and for some reason, I can’t seem to stop it from happening again and again. And again.
Suze has spent the entire day razzing me about my “murder pastries” and suggesting I add a crime scene section to my display case.
“You could call it Death by Chocolate,” she says with a cackle. “Or Killer Cupcakes. Think of the marketing potential!”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Who cares about dessert,” Lily says. “I want to know who you met up with in a dark alley.”
I glance at my reflection in the stainless steel pastry refrigerator next to the counter and grunt. No amount of foundation could hide this purple welt. In fact, it somehow made it look worse.
Effie sniffs my way while putting together a tray of sugar cookies decorated to look like Easter eggs. “Who do I have to kill, Lottie?”
“Did Noah and Everett finally duke it out over you?” Suze asks. “Because that’s a serious shiner.”
“Did you step into the middle of their love triangle brawl?” Lily adds with a sigh as if it was the height of romance.
“I got kicked in the face by Carlotta swinging from a chandelier,” I’m quick to tell them.
All three women blink at me.
“That’s actually worse than stepping in the middle of two men duking it out for you,” Effie says.
“Way worse,” Lily agrees. “Getting punched breaking up a love triangle sounds heroic. Getting kicked by your own mother during aerial stunts just sounds like your life.”
“Pretty much,” I mutter.
The afternoon drifts by, and oddly, Noah and Everett receive texts from Muffin asking them to stop by after work for some kinky calendar photography—my words, not hers, but I’m betting the thought wasn’t far from her mind.
Talk about creative ways to take your mind off your grief.
But then, with a husband like Duncan, especially after the way he humiliated her, I gather she’s not grieving much anyway.
But I digress. Noah and Everett invited me along, because watching my “husbands” pose for what amounts to beefcake photography seemed like an excellent way to spend a Wednesday evening.
Carlotta tags along because she never misses an opportunity to watch attractive men remove clothing, regardless of the circumstances or appropriateness of the situation.
My mother and Wiley graciously offered to babysit at my house, which makes everything a thousand times easier and spares me from dragging three small children to what will inevitably become a crime scene—with me as the killer.
Hey, it’s not my fault. I’m not too keen on other women ogling my men. Man. Okay, fine, I meant men.
The Whitmore Estate holds the scent of expensive horse feed, luxury leather, and the lingering scent of money that’s been cultivating itself for generations.
The air carries hints of fresh hay mixed with whatever imported cologne wealthy people use to mask the reality that they still live in Vermont.
Sounds of horses neighing in the distance blend with the gentle evening breeze rustling through maple trees, and believe me, that’s about the only wholesome thing brewing around here.
The Whitmore Estate is exactly what you’d expect from a chocolate empire built on Swiss precision and American excess.
The main mansion rises from the landscape with the confidence of architecture that’s never had to worry about mortgage payments, while working ranch elements—stables, paddocks, and rustic barns—spread across the property with the kind of authenticity that only serious money can buy.
Muffin greets us at the front entrance wearing what can only be described as photographer chic—expensive camera equipment draped around her neck, hair pulled back into an artfully messy bun, and an outfit that suggests she’s either about to document wildlife or seduce it.
And seeing that Noah and Everett are the wildlife in question, I’m betting it’s the latter.
“Boys!” she exclaims with enough enthusiasm to let me know she’s been looking forward to this moment all day, month, and maybe year. “You both look absolutely perfect! And Lottie, Carlotta, what a wonderful sur—oh my goodness, Lottie, what happened to your eye?”
“Chandelier incident,” I reply, because at this point it’s becoming my standard explanation for everything.
“Chandelier incident?” Muffin blinks at me with confusion.
“My fault,” Carlotta adds cheerfully. “I was swinging from one and accidentally kicked her in the face. Turns out, my foot and Lot’s face had a scheduling conflict at the same chandelier. Spoiler alert: my foot won.”
I nod. “Usually, it ends up in her mouth. Word to the wise—stay out of her way.”
“I will, indeed.” Muffin winces. “Well, it gives you a very mysterious, dangerous look. Very femme fatale. If you want, you can be in the calendar, too. That black eye will photograph beautifully.”
“I’ll pass,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “Well, Lottie and Carlotta, you’re a wonderful surprise.”
I’m pretty sure our presence isn’t actually a surprise, but Muffin has the kind of social grace that comes from years of pretending unwelcome guests are delightful additions to any gathering.
She’s a Whitmore. A multi-millionaire at that.
They attract unwanted guests and apparently, unwanted killers, too.
“Let’s get out to the barn,” she says, stepping outside of the house and joining us on the porch.
I’ll admit, I’m more than a little disappointed.
I was dying to see the glitz and glamour of the Whitmore house.
“I’ve got the most amazing setup prepared.
I’ll shoot you both at the same time just from different spaces so we can save you a lot of time that way,” she continues, gesturing for us to follow her toward the ranch grounds.
“Multiple backdrops, professional lighting, and enough props to make this calendar absolutely irresistible!”
A spray of blue stars appears by my side, and Lenny materializes with the expression that says he’s about to witness something that will either be highly entertaining or deeply traumatic.
“This should be interesting,” he rumbles. “I’ve seen mating displays in the wild that were less elaborate than whatever’s about to happen here tonight.”
“Mating displays?” I ask under my breath.
“Oh yes,” Lenny replies with obvious amusement. “Two grown men about to strip down and pose, each trying to look more casual about it than the other. This should be educational. Notice how they’re sizing each other up? Neither wants the other to look better in the photos.”
Carlotta nods. “Two men who share everything are about to compete over who photographs better shirtless. And lucky us, Lot, we get front-row seats!”
“Lucky us, indeed.” And I mean it.
Muffin leads us away from the main house and down a cobblestone path that probably cost more to install than most people spend on their entire homes.
We pass manicured gardens that look like they require a team of horticultural engineers and several trust funds to maintain, before arriving at what appears to be her staging area near the main barn.
She’s created a photographer’s paradise that combines an elegant mansion backdrop with rustic ranch elements in ways that suggest someone has been reading far too many romance novels featuring wealthy cowboys with questionable business practices and an unhealthy obsession with shirtless horseback riding.
Or in her case, they’ve been writing those romance novels.
The barn itself is one of those structures that’s been “restored” to look authentically rustic while secretly costing a mint in materials.
Weathered wood that’s been carefully distressed by expensive contractors, vintage farm equipment that’s been polished to museum quality, and hay bales arranged with the kind of artistic precision that says I hired a staging consultant who specializes in rural fantasies.