Chapter 19
LOTTIE
The barn at the Whitmore Estate is laced with the scent of expensive cologne warmed by hay, with a faint trace of masculine confidence knitting itself back together one article of clothing at a time.
I’m standing next to Muffin, about ready to shake any info I can out of her, and behind us, Noah and Everett pull their shirts on with the slow, controlled movements of men who know exactly how good they look doing it, the soft clink of belt buckles and low murmurs creating a soundtrack that should honestly come with a warning label.
Muffin reviews her photos with a smug grin as if she just captured photographic proof that handsome men roam freely in the wild. Her camera gear gleams in the evening light streaming through the barn’s overly picturesque windows. The whole place still looks like a romance novel cover in progress.
“Muffin,” I say, seizing the moment while she’s riding high on artistic success. “If you don’t mind, could I ask you a few questions?”
She looks up from her camera with the kind of dreamy expression that suggests she’s still mentally editing her photos into calendar gold. “Of course! Though I have to say, this shoot exceeded all my expectations. Those two are absolutely magnificent specimens of Vermont masculinity.”
“I can testify to that.”
Before I can launch into my carefully plotted interrogation, Carlotta trots over with the stealth of a busybody who’s never met a conversation she couldn’t crash.
“Honey,” she announces to Muffin, “you look way too good to be grieving properly. Either you’ve got excellent concealer or you’re handling widowhood better than most people handle a head cold.”
I want to stuff her in a hay bale and use her as agricultural decoration for the rest of the evening. She’d make a terrifying scarecrow. If they only knew how effective she’d be, farmers everywhere would dole out the big bucks for her.
“Carlotta,” I warn through gritted teeth, “maybe you could—”
“What? I’m just saying she’s got that glow,” Carlotta continues with the subtlety of a yodeler.
“It’s that my-problems-just-solved-themselves kind of radiance.
It’s very becoming. I’ve had it a few times myself, usually after a good divorce or after making one of my exes disappear without a trace.
But I think you one-upped me in that department, didn’t you, sis?
I’ve yet to send a man toes up in the morgue myself. ”
My mouth falls open. Where is a pitchfork when you really need it?
Muffin blinks at Carlotta, as if she’s caught somewhere between flattered and offended and clearly unsure of which way to lean.
Lenny appears by the vintage tractor, looking like he’s settling in for premium entertainment. “This should be illuminating. Cray Cray here has a talent for extracting information through sheer inappropriate observation.”
“How are you holding up, really?” I ask Muffin, hoping to shift us back to the investigation and not whatever psychological demolition Carlotta just performed.
“Oh, you know,” Muffin sighs, her cheerful facade slipping slightly. “Some days are harder than others. Duncan and I... well, let’s just say our marriage had been challenging for quite some time.”
“Challenging how?” I press gently.
She makes a face. “He was very controlling,” she admits, her voice dropping to something more genuine. “About money, about my writing, about who I could see and where I could go. I felt like I was suffocating.”
“That’s terrible,” I say with sincere sympathy, because regardless of murder motives, being trapped in a controlling marriage sounds like its own kind of prison.
“Men can be such disasters,” Carlotta sighs at the thought. “Trust me, I’ve dated enough to qualify as a certified chaos inspector.”
Lenny snorts with amusement. “She’s not wrong. Duncan was particularly possessive, even for a wealthy man who thought he owned everything he touched.”
“Duncan found out about Marcus, didn’t he?” I ask because subtlety has never been my strong suit, and Carlotta’s presence has officially blown any chance of conducting a delicate interrogation.
Muffin’s expression tilts toward relief—as if she’s finally allowed to stop performing for the room.
She sniffs. “About six months ago. Duncan hired a private investigator and had me followed. Can you imagine? Hiring someone to spy on your own wife?”
“Depends on what the wife was doing.” Carlotta gives a suggestive laugh. “If you were stepping out on him, he had a right to know. Though personally, I think cheating is just advanced relationship shopping.”
“Carlotta!” I hiss because comparing adultery to retail therapy is not helping my investigation.
“What? I’m being supportive!” she protests. “Life is too short for bad husbands and dull nighttime activities.”
Hear, hear, but I don’t dare say that out loud.
Muffin actually laughs at this, which suggests Carlotta’s inappropriate commentary might be more therapeutic than I thought.
“You know what? You’re absolutely right.” Muffin shakes her head at the thought. “Duncan was both of those things—a bad husband and dull in the bedroom.”
“How long had you been seeing Marcus?” I ask, trying to redirect the conversation toward useful information. I should stomp on Carlotta’s toes for derailing us.
“Two years,” Muffin admits. “He’s everything Duncan wasn’t—kind, funny, supportive of my writing. He actually reads my books and doesn’t criticize them for being unrealistic female fantasies.”
“Unlike some people,” Lenny growls. “I’m guessing Duncan thought romance novels were beneath his intellectual, sophisticated tastes.”
I bet they were, too. Oddly enough, I’ve read a few chapters of my own romance novels to both Noah and Everett from some of my steamier selections, and neither of them seemed to think they were above it all.
In fact, they appreciate the template they provided for the bedroom.
During different timelines of our relationships, of course.
“Marcus has been pressuring you to leave Duncan, hasn’t he?” I continue.
Muffin nods, her expression growing more distraught. “He’s been patient, but lately he’s been saying I needed to choose. He didn’t want to be someone’s secret anymore.”
“Smart man,” Carlotta approves. “Nobody likes being the side dish when they’ve got main course potential.”
I shoot Carlotta a look sharp enough to slice pie, but she’s blissfully oblivious, humming along in her own self-satisfied universe.
“Duncan filed for divorce the week before the festival,” Muffin continues. “He was furious about Marcus, about my books, about everything. He said he was going to take me for everything I was worth in the settlement.”
“But if he died while you were still married,” I point out carefully, “you’d inherit everything instead of losing it in divorce court.”
The silence that follows is so heavy it could crack an egg.
“Well,” Carlotta says cheerfully, “that worked out nicely for you! Death is so much more profitable than divorce.”
“Oh my word, Carlotta!” I gasp, because even for her, that’s impressively inappropriate.
“What? I’m just pointing out the obvious financial benefits,” she harps. “Muffin here is a smart cookie because she recognized a good investment opportunity when she saw one.”
I try not to roll my eyes at the baking references, but in truth, they somehow seem to ground me.
Muffin’s face goes through several interesting color changes, finally settling on a shade that suggests she’s either embarrassed or calculating whether she can get away with murdering Carlotta, too.
I wouldn’t stop her. I might even help hide the body.
“I didn’t kill Duncan for money,” Muffin says firmly. “Though I won’t pretend the inheritance isn’t convenient.”
“How convenient?” I ask, because when someone mentions convenient inheritance money, my investigative instincts perk up with the intensity of a bloodhound catching a scent.
“Very convenient,” Muffin admits. “Duncan had increased his life insurance policy a few years back. Substantially. Plus, I inherit his share of the chocolate company, the estate, the investment portfolio...”
“How substantially are we talking about?” Carlotta asks with obvious interest.
“Twenty million dollars,” Muffin replies quietly.
Carlotta whistles appreciatively. “Honey, that’s not just convenient, that’s life-changing! You could buy your own chocolate empire with that kind of money!”
Lenny’s expression grows thunderous. “Follow the money, Lottie. It always leads to the killer. Twenty million dollars is enough motive to murder half of Vermont.”
I would do it for ten. Kidding. Mostly.
“Marcus was on a cruise during the festival, right?” Obviously alibis need to be verified even when they involve bachelor parties and international waters.
“It’s his brother’s bachelor party cruise,” Muffin confirms. “They left from Boston on Friday and won’t be back until Sunday. He’s been sending me pictures of sunsets and complaining about seasickness.”
“Alibis can be bought,” Lenny muses grimly. “Check the cruise manifest. Make sure he’s actually on that ship.”
“What about the family business troubles?” I continue, because financial stress has a way of bringing out the worst in people, especially when millions of dollars are involved.
Muffin’s expression darkens further. “Duncan had been... creative with the company books. Moving money around, hiding losses, making it look like we were doing better than we actually were.”
“Embezzlement?” I ask bluntly. This corroborates what Gina told us.
“More like creative accounting,” she hedges. “But Fairbanks was getting suspicious. He’s very tech-savvy, always running numbers and analyzing financial patterns. He’d been asking uncomfortable questions.”
“And Bunny’s wellness campaign was hurting chocolate sales,” I add.
“Oh, that woman,” Muffin says with a grunt. “Her entire business model is based on convincing people that everything delicious is trying to kill them. Do you know what that does to a chocolate company’s bottom line?”