Chapter 17 Lottie
LOTTIE
By the time I drop Lyla Nell off at preschool, where she practically sprints inside shouting orders like a benevolent dictator, I feel my shoulders finally unclench.
The twins and I make it to the bakery without incident, which in Honey Hollow means no ghostly interferences, no unexpected murders, and no rogue glitter bombs falling from the sky the way they did on Everett this morning.
He’s still sparkling. Noah says it’s distractingly majestic. I say it matches his personality—prickly with a hint of holiday shimmer. There were more sparkly vampire jokes, mostly from Noah this time.
Noah had to call a mobile service to come inflate his tires, which means he spent his morning standing in his driveway looking like a man contemplating violence while a guy with an air compressor charged him seventy-five dollars.
The Pickens boys are officially on my list. Right below murder suspects and right above people who put raisins in cookies and call them chocolate chips.
But I can’t think about that right now because I’ve got a bakery to run, twins to wrangle, and hopefully a suspect to question later this afternoon.
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery welcomes me with open butter yellow arms as I wheel the twins inside, and the scent of sugar, and spice, and everything nice washes over me like a warm hug that just so happens to contain 700 calories.
Percy materializes in a spray of tiny blue stars and hops right onto the stroller handle the moment I cross the threshold, his spectral plumage shimmering faintly as if he’s auditioning for a one-bird Vegas revue.
Neither Ozzy nor Corbin so much as blink.
Sweet mercy.
I was worried for a minute there while feeding them last week that Ozzy was tracking something invisible. Turned out, he was just fascinated by a dust particle illuminated by sunlight.
As it stands, my beautiful boys have zero ghost detection, and yet they’re ten out of ten when it comes to adorably chubby arms and legs. There is nothing yummier than a baby with rolls.
But I digress. The fact that they can’t see through to the other side is enough to make this supersensual mama weep with relief.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being transmundane.
It’s given me purpose. I can help solve murders, and it connects me to my Grandma Nell in ways I never expected, now and again.
But the idea of my baby boys growing up seeing the dead?
Watching them navigate preschool while also dodging ghosts who may or may not harbor warnings about impending doom?
I’ll take a hard pass on that, thanks. It’s bad enough that Lyla Nell shares my supernatural quirk.
Outside, clouds are rolling in—thick, gray, heavy with the promise of a spring shower. The air smells like rain and fresh cut grass, and the temperature has dropped just enough that I’m grateful for the warmth radiating from the ovens.
The bakery smells like heaven decided to take up residence in Vermont.
Chocolate chip cookies cooling on racks, cinnamon rolls glazed and glistening under the display lights, banana pudding cups lined up like little soldiers of deliciousness.
The espresso machine hisses and gurgles behind the counter, filling the air with that rich, dark coffee aroma that makes early mornings slightly less painful.
Suze is working the register, wearing yet another pastel wonder circa the 1950s. Evidently, she’s committed to winning that Golden Whisk if it kills her. Today’s ensemble is a powder blue vintage dress with white polka dots, pearls, and her pin curls shellacked into submission.
Lily is at the decorating station, icing about a hundred cupcakes in a manic spree that suggests she’s either highly caffeinated or mildly unhinged. Possibly both. Working in a bakery can do that to a person.
Effie is restocking the pastry case, moving efficiently and quietly, her dark ponytail swishing as she arranges croissants in perfect geometric patterns.
And Carlotta? Carlotta’s holding court at one of the bistro tables near the front, regaling anyone within earshot with the harrowing tale of this morning’s glitter bomb.
“And I’m telling you, Sexy looked like the hottest vampire this side of the underworld,” she shouts, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten bear claw in her hand.
I’ll admit, that whole sexy vampire thing never gets old.
In fact, I might just buy him a pair of fangs to wear to bed tonight.
Suffice it to say, neither of us will be getting any sleep, not that we do.
And well, with my naughty intentions, we might just end up with a baby vampire out of the deal if we play our cards right, or very, very wrong.
“It was glitter everywhere,” Carlotta goes on as a crowd of women gathers. “In his hair, his suit, and his dignity. I haven’t seen a man that defeated since my third husband found out I was also dating his brother.”
“Carlotta,” I warn from behind the counter.
She waves me off. “The point is, these punk kids have declared war. And Sexy and Foxy are about ready to declare martial law.”
Oh good gravy. Now the entire town knows our business.
Suze looks up from the register, eyes wide. “Did someone really have the nerve to glitter-bomb Essex?”
I wrinkle my nose her way. Usually, only the vast sea of women who Everett slept with before he met me call him by his proper moniker.
It’s safe to say he was a bit of a playboy.
But there are other women like Ivy, Suze, and, well, Everett’s mother and sister who use his proper name as well. I’ll admit, it’s a bit unsettling.
“That’s right. They rigged it above the front door like a booby trap,” Carlotta confirms. “Fishing line, a bucket, the whole nine wicked yards. And Sexy thinks they might have disabled the Ring cam because it never went off. I tell you, these kids are escalating.”
Lily snorts without looking up from her icing. “Teenagers are the worst. They’ve got just enough brain cells to be dangerous and not enough to understand consequences.” She looks out the window and sighs. “Best years of my life.”
“They let the air out of Noah’s tires, too,” I add, pulling a tray of cookies from the oven. “All four. He couldn’t even drive to work.”
Effie straightens, and her expression darkens. “You want me to handle it?”
I freeze. “Handle it how?”
She shrugs and winks at the very same time. “Let’s just say I know people.”
“I know people, too,” I counter. “People with handcuffs. So it’s a big no, but a big thank you anyway, all the same.”
“I’m just saying, one phone call and those boys would—”
I shake my head. “I think we’ll save the mob connections for another time.” A brief fantasy runs through my mind of Daryl Pickens meeting up with a man named Lefty, who happens to know how to crack a kneecap. I shake the thought out of my head and frown.
“Your loss,” she says. “But you know where to find me.” She breaks out into a killer grin, and I can’t help but laugh.
Suze tsks as she snatches a red velvet cookie from the shelf. “Well, I hope Noah and the sheriff’s department do something. Those boys need a wake-up call before they hurt someone.”
“I wholeheartedly agree,” I say, transferring a tray of sugar cookies to a cooling rack. “But right now I’ve got bigger problems. Like keeping these banana pudding cups in stock.”
“Oh, you can thank your mother for that,” Suze says, ringing up a customer. “Ever since she started that morbid little tour of hers, we can’t keep any of your murder treats on the shelves.”
I wince. “The Last Thing They Ate Tour strikes again.”
“That’s the one.” Suze hands the customer their change and a white bakery box. “She finishes up her happily haunted B&B tour, points the tourists down Main Street, and they buy twelve cups each of the latest homicide’s last meal.”
Lily cackles. “It’s morbid as heck, but I respect the hustle.”
“It’s terrible,” I say, but even I have to admit—my mother knows how to turn a dollar and make a ghost holler. And as long as I keep accidentally stumbling over corpses, she’ll keep lining both our bank accounts with green.
So terrible, and yet so effective.
I’m a little ashamed of how okay I am with it. A crowd wanders in, and suddenly Suze, Lily, and Effie are too busy selling my murder treats to tease me about them.
Percy hops from the stroller to the counter, cocking his head at me. “You’re profiting off Mother Vivi’s death, darling. How deliciously ironic.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening to me talk to thin air.
“And yet here you are, cashing checks with her name on them. Proverbially, of course.”
I lean closer to the counter, keeping my voice low. “I’m solving her murder. That counts for something.”
“Does it, though? Because from where I’m standing, or hovering, rather, you’re running a profitable side hustle based on corpse discovery.”
“I am not running a—” I catch myself getting too loud and drop back to a whisper. “Percy, I swear to all that is—”
“Please. You can’t even commit to the moral outrage. You’re already calculating how much banana pudding you can buy with the profits.”
“That is—” I stop cold and wince. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little.”
“A little?” Percy fans his tail feathers smugly. “Honey, you’re one dead body away from franchising.”
I press my lips tight to keep from bursting out in a laugh. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary, I’m fascinated. Mother Vivi dies tragically, and somehow you end up with a bakery boom and a themed dessert. It’s like watching capitalism in motion itself, but with more frosting.”
“You’re impossible,” I tease.
“I’m entertaining.”
“Same thing.”
“I’ll give you that.”
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I glance down. It’s a text from my mother. Lottie! Could you please bring a few cookie platters to the Sock Hop Social this afternoon? Evergreen Manor, 2p.m. You’re a lifesaver!
I stare at the text.
Sock Hop Social.
Evergreen Manor.
That’s where Gigi Wentworth-Crane will be. Gigi, who’s been paying Vivienne to keep quiet about her mother’s rejection from the Daughters. Gigi, who had everything to lose if Vivienne exposed her at that retrospective she planned.
Gigi, who might just be a killer in kitten heels and pearls.
I text right back. You bet! See you at 2.
Carlotta leans over my shoulder. “Ooh, a sock hop. Are we going undercover?”
“I’m delivering cookies.”
“Undercover cookies,” she clarifies. “Even better.”
Percy ruffles his feathers. “Do try not to get yourself killed, Lottie Lemon. I’m rather enjoying our little investigative partnership. Death is permanent, darling. Rather like burnt Baked Alaska—once it’s ruined, there’s no bringing it back.”
“Noted.” And he is so right.
I glance out the window at the gray clouds gathering overhead, threatening rain, and mentally prepare myself for an afternoon of vintage dancing, passive-aggressive small talk, and interrogating a woman who may or may not have bludgeoned someone to death with a cast-iron skillet.
Just another May day in Honey Hollow.
Time to prove that sock hops aren’t just for moving and grooving—they’re also for catching killers.
Look out, Gigi Wentworth-Crane.
Here I come.