Chapter 10 Lottie #2
“Forty-seven women,” Midge confirms. “Someone recorded it. The video made it to the Honey Hollow Facebook group. Dolly’s business has taken a serious hit.” She pauses. “Dolly was overheard in the parking lot afterward screaming, ‘You’ll regret this, Vivienne! Mark my words!’”
“That’s quite the threat,” Percy observes, fanning his tail feathers thoughtfully. “The social pot is clearly boiling over. One can almost smell the burnt sugar and simmering grudges.”
Simmering grudges, indeed.
“Poor Dolly,” Midge continues, shaking her head. “But you have to understand—when someone threatens you publicly, and then you turn up dead? It doesn’t look so good. I wouldn’t be surprised if the detectives weren’t knocking down her door as we speak.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I suppose they would be.”
A howl goes off across the room, and I look over to see Carlotta engaged in what appears to be a passive-aggressive standoff with Suze. They’re standing on opposite sides of the Jell-O table, arms crossed, glaring at each other like gunslingers at high noon.
“Your coconut monstrosity looks like it’s melting,” Carlotta announces.
“Your face looks like it’s melting!” Suze retorts.
“Honey, I’m old. Everything is melting. But at least I don’t sprinkle toenail clippings on my desserts and call it a winner!”
The crowd gasps.
“They’re toasted coconut shreds!” Suze shrieks, throwing her arms up in frustration.
“Ladies!” Mom appears between them, hands raised. “This is a celebration, not a cage match!”
The bell chimes from the front of the room.
“Attention, Daughters!” Mom calls into the microphone, looking slightly frazzled. “The judges have made their decisions! For the casserole competition, the winner is... Midge Thornbury’s green bean supreme!”
The room erupts in applause.
Midge’s face lights up. “Oh my goodness! What an honor!”
I can’t help but make a face. Of course, she brought a casserole. The woman is determined to beat me at every turn.
“And for the Jell-O Jubilee,” Mom continues, “the winner is... Suze Fox’s coconut delight!”
More applause, though I notice several women exchanging skeptical glances.
Suze beams triumphantly. “I’d like to thank the Academy—”
“It’s not the Oscars, Suze,” Carlotta mutters.
“And I’d like to thank—”
“Literally no one cares,” Carlotta adds louder.
“Carlotta!” Mom’s voice carries a warning.
But Carlotta’s already moving, gesturing dramatically with both hands as she launches into what I can only assume is a scathing critique of Suze’s win. She’s backing up, not watching where she’s going, still talking—
“And another thing about that so-called coconut delight—” She bumps into the Jell-O table.
And from that moment on, everything happens in slow motion.
The fish-shaped Jell-O with olive eyes wobbles.
The layered red and white creation tips sideways.
The radioactive blue monstrosity slides forward as if it’s about to attack.
“Carlotta, no—” I start, but it’s far too late.
She flails, trying to catch herself, and her hand lands squarely in the middle of the lime Jell-O with suspended carrots.
It flies and somehow manages to hit Suze directly in the chest.
Suze gasps—and well, her heart may have stopped beating. She looks down at the green gelatinous blob now decorating her pink gingham dress before looking up at Carlotta with an unholy vengeance brewing in her eyes.
“You—”
“It was an accident!” Carlotta protests with a touch of laughter. That’s not really helping her case either.
The cherry Jell-O ring topples next, rolling off the table and landing with a wet splat on the floor.
Someone screams.
The fish Jell-O wobbles precariously.
A woman in a yellow dress tries to save it and fails spectacularly. The next thing we see is a flying fish that hits the ground and basically explodes in a shower of pale yellow gelatin and olive slices.
And just like that, it’s chaos. Complete and total chaos.
Women shriek and scream and howl at the ceiling while jumping back from the Jell-O carnage and pointing at Carlotta like she’s just committed a war crime.
Percy laughs so hard that each of his feathers is glowing and vibrating all at once. “Oh, this is delicious. Pun fully intended.”
Mom appears at my elbow, her face a study in controlled fury beneath her perfect pin curls. “Lottie, would you mind escorting Carlotta out before security is forced to do it?”
“Security?” I glance around. “Really?”
She makes big eyes at me. “I’m about to call the sheriff’s department if Carlotta doesn’t leave voluntarily.”
Across the room, Midge Thornbury is already moving toward the exit, her blue velvet box forgotten on the table beside her banana pudding display.
She’s practically running.
“Sure, Mom,” I say absently, watching Midge disappear through the door. “I’ll take care of Carlotta.”
About a million things zoom through my mind, not one of them any good, and only half are legal.
I scoop up the blue velvet box—maybe I can catch Midge in the parking lot, return it, and ask a few more questions.
I quickly retrieve Ozzy and the stroller from my mother, settling Corbin back in next to his brother.
Ozzy is gnawing on his fist like it personally offended him.
I buckle them both in and head for the exit.
Carlotta is already halfway out the door, covered in lime Jell-O and looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“That was fun,” she announces once we hit fresh air. “We should do this more often.”
“We’re banned,” I tell her as I push the stroller into the fresh spring air. “Definitely banned.”
Outside, I scan the parking lot for Midge’s car, but she’s already gone.
What I do see is Dolly Hatchett climbing into a silver Honda Civic, her red bouffant visible even from here.
Dolly Hatchett, who had a very public, very heated confrontation with Vivienne three weeks ago.
Dolly Hatchett, who threatened Vivienne in front of witnesses.
Dolly Hatchett, who suggested—less than an hour before Vivienne died—that someone should knock both Vivi and Midge over the head with Big Bertha.
Dolly Hatchett, who might just be a killer hiding behind cat-eye glasses and deviled eggs.
Sooner or later, I’ll catch up with Honey Hollow’s most humiliated caterer and make sure a murderer doesn’t get away with killing—no matter what decade they’re dressed for.