Chapter 21 Lottie #2
“We’re doing strawberry cheesecake cupcakes with champagne buttercream,” Ainsley explains with her brunette waves meticulously styled despite the kitchen heat in a way that defies both physics and common sense. “They’re our signature for, like, all our mixers and formal events.”
“That sounds delicious,” I say sincerely because it actually does. “And complex enough to impress judges.” Or cause complete disaster, but I leave that part out.
“Not as complex as that whole Jolene situation,” Madison says, dropping her voice to a whisper that could probably be heard in the next county. “We totally know she swiped those recipes straight out of Sherry’s book. And this time we’re positive.”
My hands pause mid-roll like someone just hit the pause button on my entire nervous system. “How can you be so positive?”
“We put both e-books through our plagiarism checker,” Ainsley explains with casual confidence as if she were discussing weekend plans rather than potential copyright infringement that could lead to murder. “It came back, like, totes red. Like, the same sentences and everything.”
“You have a plagiarism checker?” I ask, genuinely curious about the technological resources available to modern college students and slightly impressed by their investigative thoroughness.
“Duh.” Madison rolls her eyes like I’ve just asked if water is wet. “How else would we get through Comparative Literature? Professor Martinez is, like, super strict about that stuff and has zero tolerance for academic dishonesty.”
“We use it for our sorority newsletter, too,” Ainsley adds with the pride of someone who’s found practical applications for academic tools.
“Had to make sure Brittany wasn’t copying content from other Greek organizations for our rush materials.
Intellectual property theft is, like, totally not cute. ”
“Speaking of Brittany”—Madison leans in, her voice dropping another octave—”she is definitely pregnant and totally lying about it to everyone including herself.”
“Completely.” Ainsley nods vigorously. “And we bet she doesn’t even know who the dad is because she’s, like, a total skank.”
“She hooked up with three different Sigma Chis in one weekend,” Madison elaborates. “The Valentine’s Day mixer, the post-game party, AND the charity car wash.”
“A charity car wash?” I can’t help but ask. “That’s a hook-up venue?”
“You’d be surprised what happens behind a soapy sponge,” Ainsley says with an expression suggesting she speaks from extensive personal experience and maybe some regret.
“Anyway,” Madison continues, determined to get back to the important gossip, “we think it’s either Tyler with the man-bun, Derek from the lacrosse team, or that exchange student who’s always talking about his family’s vineyard in France.”
“It’s definitely not the vineyard guy,” Ainsley counters with absolute certainty. “He only hooks up with Kappas. He’s all about legacy.”
“So helpful of him to limit his genetic contributions by Greek affiliation,” I comment dryly, returning to my dough.
The conversation has taken a turn that makes me grateful Lyla Nell is out of earshot.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the sorority gossip and detailed reproductive analysis, but was there anything else you could think of about Jolene? ”
“Oh!” Madison’s eyes widen like she’s just remembered the original point. “We totally overheard Jolene and Chuck Longnecker arguing the day before she died.”
I’m pretty sure they mentioned this the other day, but I don’t dare stop them in the event this crazy train leads to a whole different set of tracks—and potentially crucial clues.
“What were they arguing about again?” I ask while spreading my cinnamon mixture because multitasking is apparently my superpower.
“Something about a promise he made,” Ainsley says, clearly an authority when it comes to eavesdropping. “She kept saying he told her they would announce it after the competition.”
“Announce what?” I press because this sounds like it could be important.
Madison shrugs. “No idea. But she was, like, super mad. Said something about not being the other woman anymore.”
Ainsley nods. “And then he was all like, ‘You need to be patient’ and she was all like, ‘I’ve been patient for months,’ and he was all like—”
“Ladies!” The competition host’s voice cuts through our conversation like a knife through butter, except less pleasant and more anxiety-inducing. “Please return to your stations! Judging of the preliminary round begins in forty-five minutes!”
The girls jump as if physically startled. “We gotta go!” Madison says as if she just remembered where she is and why. “Our champagne buttercream isn’t going to pipe itself!”
“Good luck with your cinnamon rolls!” Ainsley adds as they scurry away as if they were late for a mixer with the hottest frat on campus. “May the best baker win, but also, like, we hope it’s us because we really need the prize money for Spring Formal!”
I watch them dart back to their station, their conversation replaying in my mind. The other woman? A promise to announce something after the competition? Chuck and Jolene had been arguing the day before her murder...
I carefully spread my cinnamon-sugar mixture across the rolled dough and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve just received a crucial piece of the puzzle. Something worth killing for, which in my experience usually involves money, love, or secret recipes.
I begin rolling the dough into a tight spiral, my hands working on autopilot while my mind races.
Across the ballroom, I notice Chuck and Pacy having another intense conversation, their body language suggesting this isn’t about security protocols or event planning but something much more personal and potentially dangerous.
Chuck gestures sharply, his professional persona slipping to reveal genuine anger that makes him look less like a hotel events coordinator and more like someone capable of violence. Pacy responds with a cold smile that suggests he’s enjoying whatever discomfort he’s causing.
The competition clock ticks down as I slice my roll into perfect rounds and arrange them in the baking dish. Soon, they’ll go into the oven, and I’ll have another brief window to investigate before judging begins and I have to pretend I’m not mentally solving murders while baking pastries.
In a room full of culinary creations, the recipe for murder might be the most complex dish of all, and I’m starting to think I have most of the ingredients.
And then I see her—Sherry Smoot—staring off into space with a distant expression as if she’s contemplating deep philosophical questions or how to dispose of evidence and I can’t seem to resist the investigative urge, so I just go with it and make my way over.
Either here goes nothing or here goes justice.