Chapter 22
LOTTIE
It’s just a mere hour after the trauma and drama that was the photo session with the Easter bunny, and while the kids are happily noshing on enough chocolate to require a future dental intervention—at least those kids with teeth—I happen to notice a huge line at the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery booth that stretches halfway around the lake.
I squint that way, and sure enough, every last person is walking away from the booth with one of my coconut Easter bunny cupcakes. And nothing could make my baker’s heart prouder.
Apparently, murder-adjacent baked goods continue to be the hottest commodity at local festivals—and local bakeries, which says something either very disturbing or very practical about small-town priorities.
Since Mom has Lyla Nell, and both Everett and Noah each have one of the twins, I take this opportunity to hop behind the counter to help Suze and Effie, because we all know that Easter Sunday crowds don’t mess around when it comes to sugar consumption.
Not only are the coconut bunny cupcakes flying off the tables faster than gossip at a church social, but someone has already bought our entire stock of Easter egg macarons.
“These people are insane,” Effie pants, as she boxes up another dozen cookies shaped like baby chicks. “I’ve never seen anyone fight over cupcakes with this much determination.”
“It’s not the cupcakes,” Suze explains while pulling espresso shots with machine-gun efficiency.
“It’s the murder connection. People want to eat the same desserts that were involved in a homicide.
It’s like culinary tourism for the morbidly curious.
And don’t think for a minute that Lottie isn’t behind this. ”
“Oh sure, blame me. I stumble over a few dead bodies, and suddenly I’m the Julia Child of Crime. Believe me, if I could control the chaos, my kids would sleep through the night, and Carlotta would obey traffic laws.”
After the initial rush dies down, I head to the front of the booth where Everett and Noah are standing with the suspicious absence of small children. They both look relaxed and are holding a cup of coffee, which immediately makes me question their parenting responsibilities.
“Where are the boys?” I ask, because two small children don’t just disappear without either supernatural intervention or questionable babysitting decisions.
Carlotta materializes beside them like the annoying apparition she is. “Foxy and Sexy got smart and sold them on the black market. Turns out, there’s a hot demand for adorable little yippies, especially ones with judicial and law enforcement genes.”
“Carlotta,” I hiss. “Human trafficking is pushing the boundaries of appropriate Easter Sunday humor, and you know it.”
Not that it’s stopping her. Not that anything could ever stop her.
“Your mother put them all in the stroller,” Everett assures as he pulls me in and lands a kiss on my lips. “Lyla Nell included. They’re off enjoying the festival under Miranda’s supervision.”
“Oh, good,” I say with relief. “Because nothing says responsible parent quite like not knowing where your children are during an active homicide investigation.”
“Lottie! Noah! Everett!”
We turn around, and Noah tips his head. “Speaking of which…”
Muffin Whitmore approaches our booth with the kind of determined smile that suggests she’s either genuinely happy to see us or has been practicing her widow-in-public face in the mirror.
She’s wearing a lovely navy dress that strikes the perfect balance between Easter celebration and appropriate mourning attire, and her red curls bob in time with her every step.
“Happy Easter!” we all sing her way, because despite the fact that she’s a murder suspect, it’s still Easter Sunday, and we have manners.
“Happy Easter to you, too,” she replies warmly. “I’m helping with the games today. It really does help get my mind off things.”
“I’m so glad,” I say and genuinely mean it. Murder suspect or not, I really like her.
“But I also wanted to let you know,” she continues, her expression brightening with a touch of excitement, “that I’ve narrowed down a few shots for the calendar. You boys really outdid yourselves! It’s going to be really hard to narrow it down to just one shot each.”
Everett and Noah exchange a look that suggests they’re both remembering exactly how much dignity they sacrificed for charity.
“Forget narrowing it down,” Carlotta is quick to say. “Each of these Honey Hollow Hotties should have their own calendars! Twelve months of Sexy, twelve months of Foxy.”
I wouldn’t object—that is, of course, if I were the only owner of those calendars.
“Think of the marketing possibilities,” Carlotta goes on. “And the tie-in with our new baby hatching venture.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea!” Muffin shouts with glee as if Carlotta just shared the winning lottery numbers with her.
And let’s face it, a calendar with those two men would provide a waterfall of cash year-round.
“We could do themes for each month,” Muffin goes on.
“Maybe some seasonal wardrobe changes, or different settings, or you could dress up... or dress down, as it were.”
Both men shake their heads as if they just realized their actions will haunt them forever.
“We appreciate the offer,” Everett says kindly but firmly. “But I think posing for one calendar per lifetime is more than sufficient.”
“Agreed,” Noah adds quickly. “I’ve hit my lifetime cap on posing shirtless for charitable causes as well.”
Muffin laughs with genuine amusement. “Well, I’ll email you the options so you can weigh in on the final selections. No point in publishing something you both hate.”
“Could you email us, too?” Carlotta nearly accosts the woman as she asks it. “I want to make sure you pick the shots that show off their best assets.”
“And I want to make sure you don’t,” I add firmly.
“Sure thing,” Muffin agrees. “I’ll send them to everyone who might have opinions worth considering.”
She excuses herself to return to managing the games, leaving us to contemplate the horrifying possibility that our family Christmas card might soon feature Noah and Everett in strategic poses with farm equipment.
I’m about to say something when Everett does a double take toward the lake, his expression shifting to something akin to parental panic. “I don’t think Evie is wearing any clothes.”
I follow his gaze and spot our daughter by the water with Dash and what appears to be half the teenage population of Vermont. And once I spot her, I let out a gasp.
Evie is indeed wearing what could generously be described as dental floss with delusions of being a swimsuit.
“Well, when we were at church, she did mention hitting the beach as soon as she got to the lake,” I point out with weary acceptance of the fact that teenage fashion choices are beyond my parental control.
“All her friends are here. Oh, and look—there’s Conner and Kyle.
The girls are with their boyfriends.” I say that last bit as if it’s supposed to bring comfort and instead, I can feel the temperature rising around us, mostly for the tempers that are starting to flare.
Everett’s expression darkens with territorial intensity. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I’ll be right back.”
He’s not too interested in Evie dating to begin with, let alone while scantily clad in front of her boyfriend, and well, all of Honey Hollow.
He takes off toward the lake with a determined stride, and I can tell he’s about to deliver an impromptu lecture on appropriate public attire and the legal consequences of teenage romance.
I swoop next to Noah. “Any more evidence turn up in Duncan Whitmore’s homicide investigation?”
He shakes his head, and his expression lets me know he’s hit an investigative wall. “Just what we discovered the other night. Duncan Whitmore had enough digitalis coursing through his veins to put down an elephant. He was probably about to drop dead just before he was stabbed to death.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, because death by poison followed by death by stabbing seems like overkill in the most literal sense. Digitalis is something we’ve both seen used before in a homicide. “And odd. Why use two different methods?”
“It could be the killer wanted to make sure he was really dead,” Noah suggests. “Or maybe they wanted to make it look like something else entirely.”
Noah’s phone buzzes with the urgent tone that suggests someone, somewhere, is having a very bad day. He frowns at the screen with a look of displeasure.
“It’s Ivy,” he says with a sigh. “She’s in the parking lot, and she’s well over her head,” he says, already moving in that direction. “A bunch of teenagers are warring it out over something probably involving social media and hurt feelings. I’d better go help out.”
He starts to walk away, then backtracks as if he just remembered something important.
“Lot, please head to your booth. At least that way I’ll know you’re safe.”
“Will do,” I reply, giving him a mock salute as he takes off toward whatever teenage drama requires intervention via the sheriff’s department.
“That way he’ll know I’m safe,” I mutter under my breath, because the illusion of safety and actual safety are two completely different things, especially when you’re investigating murders involving organized crime and family chocolate empires.
I turn toward my booth with every intention of following Noah’s instructions and nestling in the safe confines of sugar and caffeine, but something to my left catches my eye and stops me dead in my tracks.
It’s Bunny’s wellness booth, and she’s laughing and chatting with a small crowd of customers who are probably getting lectured about the dangers of processed sugar while standing in the middle of a sugar tornado, also known as Easter.
But it’s not Bunny’s anti-chocolate evangelism that puts my investigative instincts on high alert.
It’s the massive bouquet of gorgeous lavender foxgloves sitting prominently on the table at the front of her booth, displayed with the kind of pride usually reserved for prize-winning roses or championship trophies.
I gasp at the sight of them, because I’ve been around the homicidal block enough times to know that digitalis and foxglove are the exact same thing.
Digitalis is just the fancy scientific name for a plant that can kill you with its beauty while stopping your heart with the efficiency of a cardiac assassin.
Every instinct I have is screaming that I should head straight to my booth, surround myself with witnesses and security cameras, and wait for Noah to come back before confronting a potential killer who’s apparently advertising her murder weapon as holiday decor.
But my feet have other ideas, and they’re taking me directly toward Bunny Whitmore and her bouquet of beautiful, deadly evidence, because sometimes the difference between solving a murder and becoming the next victim is nothing more than the courage to walk toward the very thing that terrifies you most.