Chapter 10 Lottie
LOTTIE
The dress has a cinched waist that’s making me rethink every life choice that led to wearing a girdle, a full skirt that keeps trying to fly up like I’m in a Marilyn Monroe nightmare, pearls that are digging into my neck, and kitten heels that are slowly murdering my feet.
But my boob is out for a good reason—Corbin was fussing, and desperate times call for desperate milky measures.
Around me, fifty women in vintage costumes are taste-testing casseroles and Jell-O molds like they’re judging the Miss America pageant. The air smells like cream of mushroom soup, melted cheese, and whatever toxic combination of ingredients went into that terrifying fish-shaped Jell-O situation.
I spot my target across the room.
Midge Thornbury stands by the casserole table like she’s posing for a Better Homes and Gardens cover shoot.
She’s got soft honey brown curls framing a heart-shaped face, warm hazel eyes that crinkle when she smiles, rosy cheeks, and a dimpled smile that makes her look incapable of swatting a fly, let alone bludgeoning someone to death with a cast-iron skillet named Big Bertha.
She’s slightly curvy in that bakes-cookies-for-the-whole-neighborhood-and-samples-every-batch kind of way, and her vintage dress is so authentic it looks like she raided June Cleaver’s closet.
Powder blue shirtwaist with tiny white polka dots, matching cardigan with pearl buttons, a crisp white apron embroidered with her monogram, and kitten heels that somehow look comfortable.
She’s holding a blue velvet box, about the size of a takeout container, in her hands. Odd. I bet it contains her secret recipe for that outstanding banana pudding of hers. I’ll see if I can’t pry it out of her hands while I’m at it.
I make a beeline toward her, adjusting Corbin’s latch as I walk because multitasking is my superpower.
I’m about three feet away when a spray of miniature blue stars erupts in the air between us.
Percy materializes in a shower of ethereal feathers, landing on the edge of the casserole table with all the drama of someone who knows he looks fabulous.
“Lottie Lemon,” he says, eyeing my exposed breast with what I can only describe as avian judgment. “Bold choice. Though I must say, the color of that dress does complement your complexion beautifully.”
“Thanks, Percy,” I mutter. “Can we focus on the murder suspect?”
“That’s precisely why I’m here, honey.” He ruffles his spectral feathers and fixes his glittering eye on Midge. “Let’s see if our little homemaker has a dark side beneath all those pearls and pudding cups. After all, the sweetest frosting often hides the bitterest cake.”
I’ll agree with him on that one.
Midge looks up as I approach, and her smile snaps into place like someone just flipped a switch—bright, sharp, and about as warm as her ice-cold pudding.
“Lottie Lemon! So we meet again.” Her toothy smile broadens before her eyes drift toward my boob.
“Oh my goodness, you look absolutely adorable going all Mother Earth on us.” She sets the blue velvet box down on the table beside her banana pudding display.
“And your little sweet angel is twice as adorable.”
“He’s really packing it away,” I say, patting his back. “I bet he’s up for a growth spurt.”
“Nothing like mother’s milk to make them grow like weeds,” Midge says warmly, still cooing away at my sweet baby boy, and my boob by proxy. “I nursed all three of my boys until they were two. Best decision I ever made.”
Two years? I briefly imagine myself nursing these boys as full-blown toddlers before remembering Lyla Nell still checks in for the occasional sip.
If the twins make it to two, I’m going to need a reservation system and possibly a referee.
Because Lyla Nell does not share dairy resources willingly, and she’s got the elbows of a professional hockey player.
Across the room, Carlotta’s voice carries over the crowd. “Now THIS Jell-O looks like it knows how to have a good time! Look at those curves! All that jiggle! This thing moves better than half the men I’ve dated!”
Half the women turn to stare, and I take a moment to scowl at the menace.
Percy hops closer to Midge’s banana pudding cups. “Midge here has eighteen consecutive wins, Lottie. Quite the streak. Almost suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”
I give a little nod his way before focusing on Midge. “I see you brought banana pudding even though it’s not technically allowed.”
Midge’s smile doesn’t falter, but something flickers in her eyes.
“I thought the Daughters of Honey Hollow deserved to be treated to some of the best banana pudding on the planet. You know, to wipe out the memory of Vivienne going down surrounded by your murder pudding. And to cleanse their palates after Vivienne died face-down in well, your contribution. I guess we could call it murder pudding.” She chortles away at the thought.
I gasp. “I do not serve murder pudding!”
“Says you.” She shrugs. “Is that why you didn’t bring it today?” Midge asks with sugary sweetness. “Smart thinking.”
“I brought a casserole because this is a casserole or Jell-O competition.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “I, unlike some people, follow the rules.”
Corban bites down on me as if he objects to the thought, and I try not to flinch.
“Oh, Lottie.” Midge’s dimples deepen. “Rules are more like guidelines when it comes to honoring the dead, don’t you think?”
“Meow,” Percy comments. “Someone is showing her claws. And the pudding pot is beginning to simmer. I do adore a good culinary duel.”
Corbin chooses this moment to pop off my breast and let out a satisfied burp that echoes across the room.
Several women glance over and coo at the sight of him despite the brazen act of milk-drunk indecency.
I quickly adjust my dress and shift Corbin to my shoulder. “I’m so sorry about Vivienne,” I say, trying to sound gentle and sympathetic instead of like someone actively investigating Midge for murder. And boy, how I would love to pin a murder on this woman. Kidding. Sort of. “How did you know her?”
“Oh, Vivi and I went way back,” Midge says, her expression shifting to something that looks like genuine grief.
“We’ve been in the Daughters together for over twenty years.
She recruited me, actually. Saw me at a church bake sale and insisted I join.
Said I had natural hospitality instincts.
” She laughs softly. “She could be demanding, but she recognized talent when she saw it. Did she invite you to the society?” Her eyes rake over me up and down because she darn well knows the answer.
“Were you close friends?” I choose to ignore yet another jab and my culinary skills.
“As close as anyone could be with Vivi.” Midge arranges one of her banana pudding cups as if the fate of the luncheon depends on it. “She wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type, but she was brilliant at organizing and getting things done. The Daughters wouldn’t be what they are today without her vision.”
“Have the two of you had any disagreements over the years?” I ask as if I care. As if I don’t already know that Midge has had a disagreement with just about everyone over the years, and a passive-aggressive one at that.
“Oh, nothing serious.” Midge waves it off. “You know how it is with strong personalities. We butted heads occasionally over event planning or budget allocation, but nothing that ever damaged our friendship.”
“Liar, liar, pearls on fire,” Percy caws while pecking at an invisible speck on the table.
Across the room, Carlotta’s voice rings out again. “I’m just saying, this tuna casserole tastes like depression and canned regret had a baby! Who committed this crime against seafood?”
A woman in a green poodle skirt bursts into tears.
“Carlotta!” Mom snaps.
“What? I’m helping! Isn’t there a People’s Choice award? The people deserve the truth!”
Suze appears beside Carlotta, holding her coconut-toenail-clipping Jell-O mold like a shield. “At least I put effort into my entry instead of just showing up to insult people.”
Carlotta makes a face at the jiggly mold before her. “Suzie Q, you put something into that Jell-O, but I wouldn’t call it effort,” she shoots back. “It looks like a science experiment that escaped from a lab—one that specializes in feet!”
Percy chuckles and caws. “I do appreciate that woman’s commitment to chaos. The luncheon has achieved a marvelous balance of hostility, mayonnaise, and emotional turbulence.”
He’s not wrong. And sometimes, Carlotta isn’t wrong either.
Corbin starts squirming against my shoulder, making little grunting noises that suggest he’s either uncomfortable or plotting something.
This kid has Everett’s intensity—even his baby frowns look like he’s mentally reviewing case law, the case laws of breastfeeding.
Much like their father, the boys are definitely boob men.
“Midge,” I say, steering us back on track, “do you have any idea who might have wanted to land Big Bertha over Vivienne’s skull?” Okay, so I could have said that with a little more finesse, but let’s face it—subtlety left the building the moment my boob made its public debut.
Midge’s expression darkens. “Well, I hate to speak ill of anyone, but...” She leans in a notch. “Dolly Hatchett had a very public falling-out with Vivi three weeks ago.”
“Dolly? What happened?”
“Vivi announced at a Daughters meeting that Dolly’s catering wouldn’t be welcome at official events anymore.
” Midge’s voice drops lower. “She said that Dolly’s food was pedestrian at best, and her presentation was an embarrassment to the organization.
She called her famous deviled eggs ‘the devil’s work’ and her potato salad ‘a crime against culinary decency.’ She was right on both counts, of course. ”
I wince. “In front of everyone?”