Chapter 20
LOTTIE
No sooner did Carlotta and I get kicked out of Evergreen Manor—still damp from the great root beer fountain incident—than my phone started buzzing.
The caller ID read HONEY HOLLOW PRESCHOOL.
Turns out, Carlotta wasn’t the only family member kicked out on her ear today.
Lyla Nell had organized what Miss Moody called a hostile takeover of the classroom.
She’d divided the children into teams, assigned roles without consent, and when several refused to participate in her block tower mega house, she told them they were fired from preschool.
Three children cried. One wet himself. Another demanded to speak to his parents’ lawyer.
Miss Moody suspended her until Friday.
Suspended. From preschool. My baby girl!
I picked up my tiny dictator, who seemed genuinely confused about why being da boss was a problem, and headed home with Carlotta and the twins in tow.
No sooner do I stand in the driveway than Noah’s truck and Everett’s sedan pull up at the very same time.
Both men climb out looking as if they’ve had the kind of day that requires either copious amounts of liquor or an attorney. Possibly both.
“Hey,” I call out as they make their way over. “Rough day?”
“You could say that,” Noah mutters, walking toward his mailbox.
Everett comes over and greets me with a kiss before heading to our mailbox as well. And they both stop dead.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, setting Corbin’s car seat on the porch.
“Come see this,” Everett says, and his tone suggests I really, really don’t want to.
I make my way over, and the smell hits me like a wall made of all things stinky. It smells rank and briny, and a stench that makes you question your nose’s ability to ever recover.
Both mailboxes are hanging open. Both are stuffed with mail. And sitting on top of each pile is what looks like a dead fish.
“Oh, that’s foul,” I say, covering my nose.
“The Pickens strike again,” Noah says flatly.
A shower of bright blue stars rains over Noah’s mailbox as Percy materializes on top of it, writhing his poor head right and left as if trying to escape the odor himself. “Even I find this offensive, and I’m deceased.”
“It gets worse,” Everett says, pulling out a handful of envelopes. “Look at this.”
I glance at the mammoth stack. Magazines with subscription confirmations adhered to each one—at least twenty of them.
Cat Fancy. Modern Taxidermy. Quilting Quarterly.
Ferret Enthusiast Monthly. Three separate timeshare presentation invitations.
A brochure for cemetery plots. And another for estate planning seminars.
“They signed you up for burial plots?” I ask.
“Both of us,” Noah says, holding up his own pile of mail. “And apparently, a free Caribbean cruise presentation in Tampa next weekend.”
Carlotta hops over on one leg while holding her nose and takes a look at the situation. “I gotta hand it to these kids, they’re creative little terrors.”
“For once, I agree with you,” I say.
Percy floats over to our mailbox and takes a gander himself. “Vandalism with this much commitment is rather like overcooked custard, darling—dramatic, messy, and someone’s going to have to clean it up.”
Both Everett and Noah exchange a dark glance, and I’m terrified that there might be a felony buried in the subtext somewhere. So I do the only thing I can think of. I distract.
“Let’s go inside. I have something to tell you that might make this day slightly less terrible. I also have a box of fresh chocolate chip cookies, waiting to make things better.”
Five minutes later, we’re in the kitchen.
The twins are in their bouncers. Lyla Nell is immersed in a coloring book at the coffee table while a blue bear runs amok on the television.
Carlotta is making herself a gin and tonic that’s approximately ninety percent gin.
The dead fish have been disposed of, and the mountain of junk mail is sitting in a box like evidence at a trial.
“So,” I say, pulling out the black business card Ronnie Crane gave me. “I got invited to a meeting tonight. At a place called The Velvet Lounge in Leeds. Seven o’clock.”
Both Everett and Noah frown at me.
“Leeds?” Noah’s radar goes up at the mention of that dicey town that sits just south of Honey Hollow.
“Who invited you?” Everett asks.
“Ronnie Crane. Gigi Wentworth-Crane’s daughter. She said she knows where all the bodies are buried, literally and figuratively, and she’ll tell me anything I want to know about anyone in the Daughters of Honey Hollow.”
Noah’s eyebrows hike a notch. “In exchange for what?”
“Playing a game with her and her friends.” I pause. “She specifically said to bring my two husbands.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I’m in,” Noah says.
“Obviously, I’m coming,” Everett says. “I’m the only husband you have.”
“Legally speaking,” Noah mutters.
“In every way that matters,” Everett corrects.
“Oh, this is going to be good.” Carlotta appears in the doorway, eating what looks to be a cold meatball straight from the fridge. “I’m coming, too. Someone needs to supervise.”
“No,” all three of us say in unison.
“Excuse me?” Carlotta looks genuinely offended. “I am an asset to any investigation.”
“You’re a liability with a pulse,” Noah says.
“You say liability, I say entertainment.” She takes another bite of meatball. “Besides, you need someone to keep things from getting awkward when Foxy and Sexy start their territorial caveman routine.”
“We don’t—” Noah starts.
“You sort of do,” I interrupt. “But Carlotta, I don’t think—”
“I’m coming, and that’s final.” She points the meatball at me. “You might be heading into a lounge full of rich old ladies who probably have dirt on everyone in this town. You need someone who speaks their language.”
“What language is that?” Noah asks dryly.
“Gossip, blackmail, and passive aggression.” Carlotta grins. “I’m fluent in all three.”
Percy appears on the kitchen table, fanning his tail feathers. “A game with strangers in a mysterious lounge? This has all the makings of either a brilliant breakthrough or a spectacular disaster. I’m absolutely coming.”
“Great,” I say. “So we’re all going to Leeds to play mystery games with a woman who may or may not have information about a murder. Sounds like a great time is about to be had by all.”
“Speaking of having a great time,” Noah says, “how was the sock hop?”
“We got kicked out.” I shrink a little as I say it.
Everett’s lips twitch. “What did Carlotta do?”
“Hey!” Carlotta protests. “Why do you assume it was me?”
“Because it’s always you,” I say. “She accidentally turned the soda fountain into a power washer and soaked Francine Dundee and half the ballroom in root beer.”
Noah belts out a laugh. “Accidentally?”
“The machine went rogue,” Carlotta insists.
“Right. The machine.” Everett shakes his head as he looks my way. “Did you at least get useful information before you were forcibly removed?”
“Actually, yes.” I fill them in on Gigi’s revelations—Dolly’s embezzlement, Vivienne’s secret affair with someone married and perhaps close to the Daughters, the whispers of current financial discrepancies, Midge’s carefully constructed perfection.
“So basically everyone had a motive,” Noah says.
“Everyone had a motive,” I confirm.
Percy flaps his glorious blue wings, and a shower of tiny green stars shoots across the room. “Mother Vivi did love to collect leverage. It’s what got her killed, I suspect. Too many secrets, too much blackmail, and eventually, someone decided enough was enough. Big Bertha did it!”
Big Bertha did it, indeed. With a little help from a friend. But which friend?
“And that’s why tonight matters,” I say. “Ronnie might know who Vivienne was sleeping with. She might know who was embezzling, if it wasn’t Dolly. She might—”
“Enough about the boring bits.” Carlotta waves me off before snapping up a chocolate chip cookie from the platter. I guess she prefers to wash that meatball down with a cookie rather than gin. “Go on and tell them what Little Yippy Number One did today.”
Noah groans as if he’s not sure he wants to know.
Everett lowers his chin my way. “What happened?”
I wince. “Funny you should ask.”
“Lottie,” Noah says slowly. “Did Lyla Nell get a gold star today?”
“No. She got suspended from preschool.”
Both men freeze.
“Suspended?” Everett couldn’t look more stunned if I hit him over the head with a frying pan. “From preschool?”
“You gotta start somewhere,” Carlotta howls with a laugh.
I take a moment to glare at her.
“What for?” Noah looks as if he’s ready to drive over to the preschool himself and tell Miss Moody a thing or two. And seeing how upset he is, he might find himself suspended, too—from the force.
“For organizing a hostile takeover of the classroom,” I cringe a little.
“And for creating seventeen new rules, including no crying and one called everyone listen to Lyla or go home, for demoting all of the snack helpers, and for making three kids cry.” I leave out the bit about the kid who was seeking legal counsel. We’ve got enough on our plates already.
Both men seem to stop breathing.
Noah closes his eyes as a mournful smile takes over.
Everett’s jaw twitches. “She’s two.”
“And apparently, middle management material,” I say. “Miss Moody suggested leadership camp. Or therapy. Possibly both.”
“Nah,” Carlotta is quick to eschew the responsible navigating of Lyla Nell’s personality traits.
“I’ll take Little Yippie under my wing,” Carlotta volunteers.
“I can show her the ropes down at the bingo hall, and when she’s old enough, I’ll teach her how to count cards and sweet-talk bartenders into free drinks. ”
Percy ruffles his feathers. “The child is like a pressure cooker left unattended, full of potential, building steam, and likely to explode all over the kitchen if someone doesn’t release the valve.”
Lyla Nell toddles into the kitchen at that exact moment, blissfully unaware that she’s been the star of an emergency parenting summit where we’ve been pondering her future as either a CEO or a supervillain.
She’s holding one of her blocks and looks more than pleased with herself.
“I build big house!” she announces.
“That’s great, baby girl,” Noah says, scooping her up. “But maybe tomorrow we talk about how to build towers without making other kids cry, okay?”
“They cry too much,” she says matter-of-factly. “They be crybabies.”
Noah’s dimples dig in, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “That’s not the point, sweetheart.”
She pats his cheek. “Okay, Daddy.”
Sadly, I don’t believe her for a second.
Everett checks his watch. “It’s almost six. If we’re leaving for Leeds at six-thirty, we need to figure out childcare.”
“Already handled,” I say. “Lainey and Keelie are coming over. Between the two of them, they can manage the kids and Carlotta.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Carlotta protests.
“You got us banned from the Evergreen Manor,” I say. “You’re getting a babysitter.”
“You wish you can hold me down,” she grumbles but doesn’t argue further.
Noah sets Lyla Nell down and looks at me. “So we’re really doing this. Walking into a mysterious lounge to play games with a woman who claims to have all the dirt on a murder victim’s social circle.”
“That’s right,” I say, snapping up one of my chocolate chip cookies and indulging in a bite. Mmm, so good, if I do say so myself.
“And we have no idea what kind of game we’re playing?” he asks.
“Nope.”
Everett frowns. “It could be a trap.”
“It could be a breakthrough,” I counter.
Percy materializes on the back of a chair. “Only one way to find out, Lottie Lemon. And honestly, after dead fish and a suspended toddler, what’s one more adventure into chaos?”
“That’s the spirit,” Carlotta says, draining her glass.
I look at the clock. Six-fifteen. Lainey and Keelie will be here in fifteen minutes. That gives us just enough time to change, grab a quick bite, and head to Leeds.
Somewhere in this town, a killer is walking free.
And tonight, we’re walking into a lounge full of strangers who might just give us the answers we need to catch them.
Even if it means playing games, dodging vandals, and explaining to my daughter why hostile takeovers aren’t appropriate preschool behavior.
Percy lands on my shoulder. “Onward, Lottie Lemon. To Leeds. To answers. To justice.”
“To sanity,” I mutter.
“That ship sailed years ago, darling.”
He’s not wrong.