Chapter 7
Do you ever get the feeling your latte understands you better than most people? Yeah. That’s where I’m at this morning.
It’s early-ish in Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland, and I’m parked in a corner booth at Sugar Moon Bakehouse—a bakery that looks like it was designed by a sugar-crazed woodland sprite on a pumpkin spice bender.
The walls are covered in pink gingham wallpaper and vintage baking tins.
There’s a chandelier made entirely of copper whisks.
A jack-o’-lantern centerpiece grins at me from the middle of the table like it knows something I don’t.
The whole place smells like caramel drizzle, nutmeg, and ambition—which, coincidentally, is also what I’d name my girl band if this whole theme-park-manager-slash-body-finder gig doesn’t pan out.
In front of me sits a pumpkin spice latte with Fish and Chip’s foam art floating proudly on top. Fish looks like she’s planning world domination. Chip’s tongue is out. It tracks.
Next to that? I’m treating myself to a caramel apple sticky bun the size of my head and at least twice as judgmental. And judging by my appetite, next time will be here in about five minutes.
My planner is open to a two-page spread titled “Halloween Takeover and Other Semi-Legal Adventures.” Half the page is filled with sticky notes and a doodle of a bat in a witch hat.
The other half? My murder notes. Clues. Suspects.
A tiny sketch of a rolling pin with the words weapon of choice? circled three times.
At the front of the bakery, Fish and Chip are sitting on a literal velvet throne. Guests fawn over them like they’re feline royalty, which honestly isn’t far off. Fish looks bored and vaguely offended. Chip is eating it up like he thinks it comes with free tuna.
If I have to pose with one more screaming toddler, I’m peeing on your planner, Fish mutters.
Do it, Chip says. I’ll back you up. Riot at dawn.
The door swings open in a hurricane of energy and whipped cream perfume.
McKenna and Riley barrel through like they’re fleeing campus security, dragging behind them a girl whose eyes look suspiciously familiar.
McKenna and Riley would be my sweet baby girls. Only they’re not babies, they’re grown college women who happen to share my addiction to caffeine and have an affinity for winged eyeliner.
McKenna, my diplomatic daughter with autumn-red hair and peace negotiation skills, spots me instantly.
Riley, my other daughter, fellow redhead, and the human equivalent of a tactical nuclear weapon with better hair, waves with enough enthusiasm to generate renewable energy.
They get the red locks from me—also the hyperactive imaginations and tendencies to run after bad boys from me as well.
The mystery girl hangs back with polite uncertainty. Dark hair catches the morning light, and those bright blue eyes have that quality that makes you wonder where you’ve seen them before, probably on someone significantly more attractive than your current reflection suggests you’ll ever be.
“Mom!” McKenna calls, navigating tables with gazelle-like grace. “Emergency fashion consultation and business meeting!”
“Plus, gossip that could power the entire East Coast,” Riley adds, because Riley never met a dramatic statement she couldn’t amplify.
They descend on my table like sorority sisters planning a social media revolution, and Mystery Girl approaches with the careful steps of someone who’s been involuntarily drafted into family chaos.
“Ladies,” I say, closing my murder board because introducing college students to homicide investigation techniques probably violates several maternal guidelines, and maybe a few collegiate ones, too. “What brings this caffeinated invasion to my peaceful day?”
“We’re here to rescue your social life,” Riley announces, claiming a chair with the authority of a college student staging a friendly takeover. “And maybe revolutionize your business model while we’re at it.”
“Also,” McKenna adds with perfect poise, “meet Emma Drake. You know—your boyfriend’s daughter.”
I gasp as she says it.
Mystery Girl steps forward, and those familiar eyes click into place like puzzle pieces. “Hi, Ms. Janglewood. I’m Emma. You’re dating my dad.”
I pause mid-sip and gasp again. “I am?”
All three daughters nod with the synchronized certainty of backup dancers.
“Fascinating,” I muse, because apparently, my romantic status gets decided by committee now, and I so approve. “The mom is always the last to know. If only Detective Dreamboat could get a memo and pick up the obvious clues.”
The truth is, Dexter and I exist in some undefined relationship limbo.
We’re not dating. We’re not not dating. We’re two people who bonded over a corpse and kissed like the world was ending after catching a killer.
Standard romantic comedy material, except with more actual felonies and fewer meet-cute scenarios.
Guns and bullets were involved. It was a whole thing.
“Anyway,” Emma continues, sliding into the remaining chair with the inherited take-charge confidence I’ve seen before in her father. “I have ideas about your Halloween expansion.”
“It’s September,” I point out.
Emma shakes her head with the patience of someone explaining basic economics to a particularly slow toddler.
“Theme parks launch Halloween in August. You know that magical kingdom in Florida where a couple of mice run the show? They’ve been doing this since before the internet existed.
You’re basically behind schedule, and every day you wait is money walking out the door. ”
She produces her phone with the efficiency of someone whose generation emerged from the womb with smartphones pre-installed.
“I’ve got ideas. College partnership programs, extended Halloween season through November, holiday transition packages that eliminate the dead zone between Halloween and Christmas. ”
I stare at her. “You’re hired.”
“I’m a business major at Brambleberry Bay University,” she continues, gesturing toward my daughters. “Same school as McKenna and Riley. I’m happy to offer my newly acquired expertise for free.”
“Free?” I echo, because nothing good comes free, especially from college students who should be learning that money doesn’t grow on student loan trees.
“Absolutely,” she says with the emphatic enthusiasm that lets me know I won’t be paying her a dime. “Real-world experience beats theoretical knowledge. Consider it an internship with profit-sharing potential.”
“Done and done,” I say. “Now go get yourself some coffee and a sweet treat on the house.”
Emma bounces toward the latte line just as McKenna immediately leans forward with the scheming intensity of someone about to reveal which rides break down most often. Spoiler alert: I already know. It’s a tie with all of them.
“Emma has a brother,” she whispers.
“A criminally hot brother,” Riley elaborates, because Riley never met a detail she couldn’t improve. “Criminal justice major. Looks exactly like Detective Dreamboat but younger and less emotionally unavailable.”
“Jack,” McKenna continues. “Single by choice, not by circumstance. Tragically unattached.”
I watch Emma explaining advanced foam art techniques to the increasingly overwhelmed barista, probably revolutionizing their entire operation before her order’s ready. Poor Dexter. His daughter refuses payment, his son is tragically unattached, and his mother might be sitting in jail for murder.
“You realize now that you’re already behind on Halloween prep?” McKenna points out, flipping through my notebook with inherited organizational obsession.
“I’ve been slightly occupied with the whole murder situation,” I defend. “Forgive me for prioritizing homicide over holiday marketing.”
“That’s where multitasking comes in. Riley grins. “Solve murders while planning Halloween. It’s called time management.”
The girls abandon me for the latte line, where Emma appears to be explaining seasonal business theory to anyone within earshot. College students—they’ll revolutionize your life before their coffee cools.
I’m considering the implications of faux-hiring someone whose father I may or may not be dating when a familiar Southern drawl cuts through café chatter.
“Well, butter my biscuit, if it isn’t the empress of Huckleberry Hollow!”
Savvy Sparrow approaches with the confidence of someone who owns whatever space she currently occupies.
Today’s tight red outfit screams successful Southern businesswoman who could charm the devil into buying fire insurance, and her smile could convince you that the air we breathe is actually cotton candy.
But it’s her furry not-so-little companion that stops traffic.
Trotting beside Savvy is a poodle that’s been subjected to grooming that makes Vegas showgirls look understated. Pure white fluff has been sculpted into elaborate pom-poms at strategic locations—head, tail, ankles—while the rest sports a cut so precise it could qualify as geometric art.
Pink bows perch on each ear, and her collar sparkles with enough rhinestones to be seen from the top of the Ferris wheel.
“I don’t go anywhere without my sweet Cupcake,” Savvy says with a touch of pride. “She’s my business partner and chief quality control officer.”
Cupcake poses with the insufferable confidence of a pooch who knows they’re not just the cutest thing in a fifty-mile radius, but probably in the entire state of Maine. She’s ready for circus auditions, which is perfect since she’s in exactly the right place for it.
That’s not a dog, Fish observes from her throne. That’s a cotton candy sculpture with delusions of being a mammal.
I shoot her a look that says both be nice and good at the very same time.
I wonder if she tastes like actual cupcakes, Chip muses. You know, for research purposes.
“Cupcake is absolutely stunning,” I manage, because what else do you say about a dog who looks ready to hit the Great White Way?
“Why, thank you, sugar! She’s quite the celebrity back in Tennessee at my bakery, Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes.
” Savvy’s expression shifts to business mode.
“Speaking of which, I’m heading to Storybook Hollow for the morning session I’ll be hosting.
Nadine will be there demonstrating advanced frosting techniques later, and that delightful Delora will probably be there critiquing everyone’s piping skills. ”
If she isn’t trying to clobber them.
So, Dexter decided to give his mother a pass in the homicide department. Interesting. Maybe I should make things official with him? After all, I’ve got an annoying ex who’s still breathing somewhere. And heaven knows I’d love to get away with murder.
She studies my face with menu-reading intensity. “You should come, Josie. I’m presenting coffin cake construction—the technical aspects of edible mortality. Plus, watching our prime suspect handle sharp objects should be educational.”
I like Savvy immediately. Anyone who treats murder investigations as entertainment has my kind of priorities.
“Sounds perfect,” I tell her. “I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful! See you in an hour, honey.” She glides out with Cupcake prancing beside her, both moving as smooth as a mint julep.
My phone buzzes.
Ree: Is the hunt officially on?
Georgie: Please say we’re investigating. I wore my lucky detective tiara.
I type back.
Josie: Meet me in Storybook Hollow as fast as you can.
Because apparently, I’ve got a symposium to attend, a business to expand, and a murderer who’s about to discover that crossing Josie Janglewood was her final mistake.