Chapter 23
LOTTIE
Suffice it to say, pizza was the only thing that could possibly make this night better after the key party nightmare that thankfully never fully unfolded, or undressed.
We’re sitting in Mangias Italian Restaurant at eight-thirty at night, and I’ve never been more grateful for cheesy carbs in my entire life.
Carlotta would have joined us, but she got so worked up at the key party, so thoroughly revved up by the attention of three men and the general atmosphere of debauchery, that she texted Mayor Nash and told him she was in a state and needed him to handle it immediately.
She left Mangias ten minutes ago in a cloud of perfume and innuendo, cackling about how that key party was the best foreplay she’d had in years.
Mangias happens to be Honey Hollow’s premier Italian restaurant and one of our favorite haunts.
The tables, floors, and exposed beams across the ceiling are all stained the color of chocolate, and every table is strewn with red-and-white checkered tablecloths that look as if they’ve been here since the restaurant opened forty years ago.
Sinatra croons “Fly Me to the Moon” through corner speakers, competing with the din of families, couples, and a birthday party in the back. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce hypnotically permeates the place, and that would explain why it’s packed to the hilt.
And the pizza.
The best pizza on the planet is currently getting shoved directly into my pie hole, and I’m not even sorry about it.
Everett’s on his third slice. Noah’s on his fourth. I’ve lost count of my own consumption, but the pile of crusts on my plate suggests I should slow down. And don’t think for a minute I’m wasting a bite of this. I have a strict no crust left behind policy. I sort of view those as dessert.
I don’t slow down. And Everett has already ordered another pizza to take home with us. That man has forward thinking on lockdown.
“This,” I say around a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese, “is exactly what I needed after that nightmare in Leeds.”
“Agreed,” Noah says, reaching for another slice. “Nothing erases the memory of a key party like carbs and cheese.”
Everett nods thoughtfully as he chews. “I’m filing that experience under things I will never speak of again.”
“Too late,” I say. “It’s already burned into my brain forever. Along with Refrigerator Man and his paint-stripping cologne.”
A shower of tiny blue stars erupts as Percy materializes on the empty chair next to me. “Lottie Lemon, is that pizza I see?”
“Percy’s here,” I say with a smile, and both Noah and Everett offer a short-lived smile.
Percy coos and warbles as he scoots in close. “Might I have a slice? Pepperoni, if you please.”
“He wants pizza,” I say as I grab a slice.
Noah nods. “This day has already gone sideways six different ways, I don’t see why not.”
I slide a piece onto a napkin and set it in front of the gorgeous ghost, and he picks it up delicately with his spectral talons and takes a bite.
I have no idea how ghost digestion works, and I don’t ask. As long as Percy is happy, so am I.
“Perfection,” he sighs. “Pizza never disappoints.”
“So,” I say, sliding another cheesy slice onto my plate. “Let’s talk suspects.”
Noah pulls out his phone and opens his notes. “We’ve got three strong candidates. Dolly Hatchett—embezzled from the charity fund five years ago, still paying it back, Vivienne was planning to expose her.”
“Gigi Wentworth-Crane,” Everett adds. “Her mother was rejected from the Daughters multiple times, but Gigi’s been lying about it for forty years. You mentioned that Vivienne had proof and was going to reveal it at her retrospective.”
I nod. “And then there’s the mystery woman Ronnie mentioned,” I say. “The one whose perfect life Vivienne was planning to destroy. The one who’d been paying monthly hush money for six months.”
Percy hops onto the table, carefully avoiding the pizza. “Don’t forget the affair, Lottie Lemon. Mother Vivi was sleeping with someone’s husband. That’s motive enough for murder right there.”
“Percy says we can’t forget about the affair,” I say as I take Everett’s and Noah’s hands. For some reason, I work as a conduit when it comes to hearing clear to the other side.
“We’re not forgetting,” Everett says. “But without knowing who the husband was, we can’t connect those dots yet.”
“What about Vivienne herself?” I ask. “What was she getting out of all this? The blackmail, the files, the threats?”
“Control,” Noah says while giving my hand a squeeze. “Power. She obviously liked having leverage over people.”
“She was a monster,” Percy says. “A beautiful, elegant, well-organized monster, but a monster, nonetheless. She collected secrets like other people collect stamps.”
“And eventually,” I say, “someone decided they’d had enough.”
Noah nods with a sigh. “Too bad forensics couldn’t find a single print on the skillet.”
The server returns with the check. Everett drops a wad of cash onto the table that more than covers the bill, the tip, and maybe the rent on this place, and then we bundle ourselves back into our coats.
Outside, the rain has started. Not the gentle spring rain that makes everything smell like fresh grass and possibility, but the cold, relentless variety that reminds you this is Vermont and pleasant weather is always temporary.
The rain is coming at us sideways, hard and angry, as it drums against the sidewalk, bounces off car hoods, and turns the streetlights into blurry halos.
“Oh, this is horrible,” I say as we stand under Mangias’ awning, looking out at the dark Honey Hollow night and hoping for a reprieve.
Both Noah and Everett groan simultaneously.
“I know, right?” I say. “How can summer possibly be on its way with weather like this?” I look to the men by my side, but neither of them is paying attention. Instead, they’re both intently staring at something across the street, in the exact direction of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery.
“What is it?” I ask, following their gazes.
The soft glow of the refrigerated pastry shelves gives the storefront a cozy, welcoming appeal. Through the rain-speckled windows, I can see the silhouettes of my display cases, the bistro tables, the chalkboard menu on the wall. And it feels like home.
Everett and Noah exchange a glance and they both look fit to kill.
“What?” I squawk. “What is it?”
I scan the perimeter, checking for anything out of place. The flower boxes look fine. The windows are intact. The door is—
My eyes land on my white bakery van parked at the curb, and I gasp.
Spray-painted across the side in large, red letters dripping like blood, it reads SNITCHES GET STITCHES.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I cover my face with my hands.
“The Pickens kids strike again,” Noah says, his voice flat and dangerous.
“The Pickens kids,” Everett confirms, and his tone suggests someone is about to regret every life choice that led them to this moment.
As we drive through the rain-soaked streets toward home, I can’t help but think that somewhere out there, a killer is sleeping peacefully, thinking they got away with murder.
And somewhere else, a bunch of teenage boys are probably high-fiving each other over spray-painting my van.
Tomorrow, we’re dealing with both.
Tonight, I’m going home, putting on dry pajamas, and snuggling with my cats, my kids, and my husband.
We drive home as the storm moves in full force, rain pelting our windshield as if it were trying to break in.
Everett slows down as we pass the Pickens house, and we see the oddest sight—all four of the Pickens children bobbing up one by one past the side gate as they jump on the trampoline in their backyard, completely soaked, laughing and hollering into the storm.
At nine-thirty at night, in a downpour, with no adult in sight.
“Unsupervised or under-supervised?” I ask.
Noah shakes his head. “At this point, it’s the same thing.”
Everett nods slowly. “The sight of that alone tells us everything we need to know.”
We drive on, leaving the Pickens house and its feral occupants behind, heading home to where our own kids are warm and dry and tucked safely into bed.
If Honey Hollow wants a war—between murderers and miniature vandals—it just picked the wrong mom to mess with.