Chapter 7 Lottie
LOTTIE
“We’ve sold four dozen banana pudding cups before nine a.m.,” Lily Swanson announces from behind the counter, shaking her head. “That’s got to be some kind of record.”
“It’s a conspiracy,” I mutter, watching another customer walk out with three cups balanced precariously in their arms. “Everyone in this town is suddenly obsessed with banana pudding, and I’m fairly certain it’s because they want to see if I can actually compete with Midge Thornbury.”
Suze barks out a laugh. “Tell yourself all the lies you want, Lottie. We all know why they’re here. It was your pudding that was at the murder scene. I guess in that respect, you did beat out Midge in something.” She gives a devious wink as she says it, and I can’t help but frown.
“Can you compete with Midge?” Effie asks, not looking up from the croissant display she’s restocking.
“I guess not,” I sigh with defeat. “But I’m going to try anyway because I’m a glutton for punishment.”
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery smells like heaven opened a pastry franchise—with cinnamon rolls, chocolate chip cookies, fresh-baked pies, and that rich vanilla-banana scent that’s apparently become catnip for the entire population of Honey Hollow.
Through the arched doorway connecting us to the Honey Pot Diner, I can hear Charlie barking orders and the sizzle of bacon hitting the griddle. Between the two businesses, we’ve created what my mother calls a full-service carb experience.
I’m stationed at one of the bistro tables near the window with the twins in their double stroller and Lyla Nell strapped into a highchair like a tiny, adorable prisoner. Carlotta sits across from me, working through a stack of chocolate glazed donuts with Olympic-level dedication.
“Are you planning to help me watch the kids,” I ask, “or just sit there eating my entire inventory?”
“Multitasking is my specialty, Lot Lot.” She licks chocolate off her fingers. “Besides, look at them. One little yipper has discovered his toes, the other little yipper is plotting world domination, and the biggest yipper of them all is... what is she doing?”
I glance over. Lyla Nell has her finger pointed at a cupcake like she’s delivering a closing argument.
“You listen to me,” she tells the cupcake sternly. “You be nice, or I eat you.”
Her dark pigtails are tied with pink ribbons, the ends tipped in that distinctive auburn red that matches Noah’s hair exactly. She’s got Noah’s dimples and his green eyes. She basically looks like his twin, except twice as pretty and twice as feisty. Maybe three times as feisty.
“That’s my little yip yip,” Carlotta says proudly. “Threatening baked goods before breakfast. The kid is going places.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Places with bars come to mind.
“You know,” Suze calls from the register, “there’s a contest for those of us dedicated enough to forgo modern dress and amenities like cell phones all the way up until Sunday, even while we’re not at the official events.”
I look up and immediately do a double take.
Suze has donned a pink gingham dress with a white Peter Pan collar, a matching cardigan, and an apron that says Kiss the Cook. Her blonde and gray hair is set in pin curls that look shellacked in place, and she’s wearing pearls. Actual pearls. At a bakery. At eight-thirty in the morning.
“I’m fairly certain I’m winning the Golden Whisk Award,” she adds, straightening said pearls with a touch of pride. “It comes with a one-hundred-dollar gift card to the Country Pantry.”
The Country Pantry just so happens to be a cute little boutique grocery store next to the Honey Pot Diner.
I’m sort of addicted to the place myself.
They not only have fresh organic everything, but their house mac and cheese is the stuff that dreams are made of.
They have a hot dish buffet, fresh baked cookies, gorgeous fresh flowers, and they serve amazing lattes.
Honestly, it’s as if they’re out to put half the town out of business.
Lily laughs from the decorating station where she’s icing a birthday cake. “How would anyone even know if you’re sneaking around on your cell phone?”
“Miranda confiscated my cell phone,” Suze announces like she just won a prize of a different order.
Lily, Effie, and I gasp in perfect unison.
“She what?” I squawk at the thought of my mother doing the unthinkable.
“Took it right out of my hands this morning.” Suze actually beams. “She said if I’m serious about winning, I need to commit fully to the experience. She’s in charge of making sure no one gets away with any modern funny business.”
“That sounds like my mother,” I quip.
Effie straightens up from the display case, fixing Suze with a look that could melt steel. “I would never give up my cell phone. You could offer me a Golden Whisk made of actual gold, and I’d still tell you exactly where to shove it.”
I love Effie. She’s about my age, no-nonsense, and happens to be a big crime boss’s niece, which means even Carlotta thinks twice before saying something inappropriate around her. Well, maybe not Carlotta.
The bell over the door chimes.
“Speaking of the 1950s,” Carlotta mutters. “Look what the mothballs dragged in.”
My mother sweeps in wearing a lavender vintage dress with a full skirt that could double as a parachute, white gloves, a matching pillbox hat, and enough costume jewelry to fund a small country.
My sister Lainey follows close behind in something mercifully modern, her caramel-colored hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders.
“Coffee?” I offer as I jump to my feet.
“Oh, none for me.” Mom waves me off with a gloved hand. “I’m just here checking up on Suze.”
She gives Suze a thorough once-over, lingering on the pin curls and pearls like she’s cataloging evidence.
“Well, well,” she coos. “Someone is taking this very seriously.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m in the lead,” Suze says smugly. “No phone, full wardrobe commitment, and I even made my eggs on a cast-iron skillet this morning because Teflon felt too modern.”
I happen to know Suze cooks her breakfast right here at the bakery because not only does she live at my mother’s happily haunted B&B, but she’s too cheap to buy eggs. And at the prices they’re going for these days, I cringe a little when making the purchase myself.
Mom offers Suze a smile that’s bright, polished, and just a little bit dangerous. “We shall see. The competition is fiercer than I anticipated.”
Oh wow. They’re actually competitive about this.
“Speaking of competition,” Lainey says, turning to me with an expression that immediately makes me suspicious. “I just dropped Josie off at preschool, and they’re doing a free preview week. Just thought I’d pass it along.”
Josie would be her three-year-old baby girl.
I inch back like she just suggested I donate a kidney. “I already checked out their school a year ago, remember?”
Lainey is forever trying to pressure me into sticking Lyla Nell in preschool when it’s clear neither of us is ready for that level of separation anxiety.
“A year ago.” Lainey nods. “As in, it’s time now. You do want her to start in the fall, don’t you?”
“Well...” I glance at Lyla Nell, who has progressed from threatening her cupcake to smearing frosting all over the highchair tray and flicking crumbs at her brothers.
I cringe just as she shoves a wad of frosting up one nostril.
“She’s clearly not mature enough,” I’m quick to point out.
“Lottie.” Lainey laughs. “You treat her like a baby. Look—you have her in a highchair. She could easily sit in a booster in a booth.”
Mom nods in solidarity with my sister, the separator. “Lyla Nell always sits in a booster seat at Glam Glam’s. Isn’t that right, my little cutie pie?” Mom is quick to stamp her bright red lips all over Lyla Nell’s cheeks. Wonderful. “And that always makes her feel like a big girl.”
“I big girl,” Lyla Nell says, jabbing her pretty pink blouse with chocolate frosting. “I not baby, Lottie.”
I jump a little and gasp as she calls me by my proper moniker. Everyone around me breaks out in titters, but I’m not laughing. Because it’s so not funny. It’s happened a time or two before, and I wasn’t laughing then either.
“I know you’re a big girl, honey, but—”
“No buts.” Lainey swoops in and plucks Lyla Nell out of the highchair without consulting the woman who pushed her through her loins. “I’m driving her to the preschool myself. I’m the afternoon helper, so I won’t be leaving her there.”
“Wait, what?” I gasp like she just announced she’s joining a cult and taking my daughter along with her. “No, thank you. Mom is watching the kids today. Lyla Nell has a playdate with Glam Glam.”
Mom shakes her head, and I watch my childcare plans crumble.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’ve got to take my role as co-chair seriously.
I’ll be making rounds all day—checking participants, verifying commitment, confiscating contraband cell phones.
” She says this like she’s describing a military operation.
“Plus, there’s an event at the community center in a couple of hours.
Given the grim circumstances with Vivienne’s murder, we’ve decided to combine the Casserole Competition and the Jell-O Jubilee. ”
“See?” Lainey looks way too pleased with herself. “You can’t rely on Mom. Besides, Keelie will be at the school this afternoon, helping with Mother’s Day crafts, and you know Lyla Nell is obsessed with Little Bear.”
I frown openly because Lainey is not fighting fair.
Although the mention of my bestie and her adorable baby boy does make me feel slightly better.
“Come on, Lottie,” Lainey pleads.
“Come on, Lottie!” Lyla Nell parrots her aunt’s words with the exact same tone.
Half the bakery erupts in laughter once again.
Great. Now my parenting decisions are public entertainment.
“Hey,” I say, giving Lyla Nell a mournful laugh. “It’s Mommy to you.” I kiss her cheek, breathing in that distinct Lyla Nell scent of baby shampoo and cupcake frosting before looking at my sister. “Okay, fine. But promise you won’t leave her.”
Lainey crosses her heart. “I won’t leave. And when I do, I’ll bring her straight to your house. Door-to-door delivery.”
I reluctantly agree, because what choice do I have?
“All right, Little Yippie,” Carlotta pipes up. “You go learn some new tricks. But don’t shove any crayons up your nose, don’t set anything on fire, and don’t off anybody. Save that for when you’re older and can lawyer up properly.”
“Carlotta!”
“What? I’m being supportive!”
Lainey heads for the door with Lyla Nell and Mom following in a rustle of lavender tulle.
“Bye, Lottie! See you later!” Lainey calls.
“Bye, Lottie! See you later!” Lyla Nell chirps, and my mouth falls open.
The bakery laughs again. But I’m not laughing.
“Did you see that?” I say to Carlotta. “She’s already learning inappropriate things. Pretty soon she’ll be calling Everett and Noah by their first names and asking you for dating advice.”
“Good. Someone in this family should benefit from my expertise.”
I shoot her a look.
“Now what?” Carlotta asks, brushing crumbs off her chest.
“I’m making a casserole.”
“Why?”
“Because Jell-O takes too long to set, and I’ve got suspects to grill at the community center in a few hours.” I stand up, grabbing the stroller. “Which means I need an entry that won’t embarrass me.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“I didn’t think I could stop you.”
“I need more gin.” Carlotta follows me to the door. “Plus, I heard there’s a new butcher at the grocery store. I’ve always had a thing for men who know their way around large cuts of meat.”
“Please don’t elaborate.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
We don’t get three steps outside—with me pushing the stroller and Carlotta chattering on about butchers and inappropriate comments about cuts of meat—when a spray of miniature blue stars erupts three feet in front of us.
That glorious blue peacock materializes on a bistro table outside the bakery in a shower of ethereal feathers and supernatural drama.
He spreads his tail in full display with one glittering eye fixed on me.
“It looks as if we have a change of plans,” I say. “We’ve got someone else to question first.”
He gives what I swear is an approving nod, then hops off the table and struts down the sidewalk like he owns the place.
Which, given he’s got information about a murder, he kind of does.
I follow, pushing the stroller and wondering how my life became a series of increasingly absurd crime scenes punctuated by baked goods and ghosts.
Monday morning in Honey Hollow.
Where the banana pudding is legendary, the dress code is 1952, and the dead refuse to stay buried.
Just another day in paradise.