Chapter 26 Lottie #2
They disappear, and Carlotta and I make our way out to the garden where my mother has transformed the already gorgeous grounds into a full-blown 1950s spectacle.
Rolling green lawns stretch toward the woods, perfectly manicured and impossibly green against the crisp blue sky.
White lattice arches wrapped in pastel ribbons frame the pathways.
Bistro tables with checkered cloths dot the grass.
A fountain in the center is surrounded by tulips and daffodils in every shade of spring.
And strung across the back, near the edge of the woods, a massive banner reads HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL THE WONDERFUL DAUGHTERS OF HONEY HOLLOW!
Throngs of women are already here, decked out in full vintage regalia—poodle skirts, pearls, victory rolls, cat-eye glasses. It’s a lot.
The crowd parts just enough, and I spot my sisters immediately.
Meg stands by the fountain in her signature all black ensemble, holding baby Piper and looking like the Goth fairy godmother of vintage garden parties.
Charlie is next to her in a yellow sundress, laughing at something Lainey just said.
And Lainey is in pink gingham with her caramel hair curled to perfection, and they all look so happy and relaxed that I can’t help but feel a pang of pure love for them. I really do have the very best family.
“Where are all the hot men?” Carlotta barks. “I’ve got a hankering to be heavily restrained with a silk tie.”
Mostly the best family.
But my mother—Miranda Lemon— is in her element with her powder blue dress, shimmering pearls, and a sun hat that could double as a small umbrella as she flits between guests like a social butterfly who’s had three espressos and one serious vision of yesteryear.
She spots me and rushes over with her arms outstretched.
“Lottie! Carlotta! Happy Mother’s Day!” She hugs us both, and her floral perfume wraps around us like a cloud.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom,” I say, landing a kiss on her cheek.
“Happy Mama’s Day, Mirandy.” Carlotta laughs as she says it. “Though I’ll be skipping that particular title, thank you very much. Being a Cray Cray is where it’s at.”
I nod her way. “You said it. Not me.”
Mom laughs. “Where are my grandbabies, anyway?” She cranes her neck past me because we all know that’s who she’s really waiting for. And my heart warms because of it.
“Everett is bringing them,” I say. “He has to wrangle three children into vintage-appropriate outfits, so he’s running a few minutes behind.”
“Oh, that man is a saint.” Mom glances around. “Well, make yourselves comfortable! There’s lemonade, iced tea, and enough banana pudding to sink a battleship!”
She’s off in a flash, already descending on another cluster of arrivals with the energy of someone who loves hosting a little too much.
“Your mother could run this town with a casserole dish and a clipboard,” Carlotta points out. “And if that woman ever decides to start a cult, I’m joining early so I can get a good seat. Front row. Right next to the Kool-Aid.”
“And I’ll be right there next to you.”
“Lottie Lemon?” I turn to see Midge Thornbury approaching, all sunshine and dimples in a butter yellow dress that makes her look like she’s been dipped in optimism and perhaps a smidge of denial.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” she chirps, holding a tray of her infamous banana pudding cups.
Okay, fine. Technically mine would be the infamous variety, considering it made its way next to a corpse, but still.
“I brought my famous recipe. It’s the best, of course.
Eighteen-time county fair champion doesn’t lie. ”
“Of course,” I say through a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Congratulations on all of your wins.”
“Oh, I see your mother! I simply must give her the first taste!” She takes off like a bullet with her heels clicking across the patio stones like gunshots.
Mom, much to my chagrin, looks delighted. “Midge! I’m so glad you brought your famous banana pudding. I’ve been having some serious cravings for this stuff. I’m like a junkie, and you’re my supplier!” Both women dissolve into cackles.
I frown as she takes a cup and digs in with the enthusiasm of someone who apparently forgot I exist and also happens to make banana pudding.
But before I can get a single feeling in a frenzy, before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve weaponized pastry, Francine Dundee appears.
She’s dressed to the fifties-style nines—pale green dress with white daisies, her massive bun somehow even more massive than the other day and secured with enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector.
“Well, well, well,” she says, zeroing in on Carlotta. “If it isn’t Honey Hollow’s resident troublemaker.”
“Did that lipstick do the trick?” Carlotta barks at the woman. “When is baby eighteen due? I’m guessing January!”
Francine glowers at her. “Still hoping to steal that Golden Whisk from under my nose?”
Carlotta smiles sweetly. “Francinie wienie, I wouldn’t dream of stealing something you were never going to win in the first place.”
Francine’s eye twitches. “I have seventeen children and thirty-two grandchildren who would beg to differ.”
Carlotta tilts her head. “Seventeen children and not one of them had the courage to tell you that casserole was a cry for help.”
I suck in a quick breath. “Did you bring your famous mac and crack?”
Francine nods, and that bun of hers does a precarious wobble. “You bet your honey buns I did.” She turns to Carlotta and narrows her eyes. “And just for the record, no one is taking that Golden Whisk away from me today.”
“Says you!” Suze appears, balancing a tray of my banana pudding cups with the confidence of someone who knows she’s already won.
And oddly, that entire tray is still filled to capacity.
It’s as if no one is interested in my poor banana pudding.
I really need to find out what Midge is putting in hers to make it so addictive.
“That Golden Whisk is mine, ladies,” Suze is quick to set the catty record straight. “I can feel it.”
She sweeps past, and Francine looks like she’s been personally victimized by my dessert.
I’m about to join my sisters, desperately in need of sane human interaction, when I spot her.
Dolly Hatchett.
She’s standing alone near the edge of the garden, clutching a glass of lemonade like it’s a life preserver, her red bouffant catching the sunlight. She’s wearing a floral dress that’s trying very hard to be cheerful, but her expression suggests she’d rather be anywhere else.
She’s all alone and very much isolated. And looking exactly like someone who’s either innocent and traumatized or guilty and spiraling.
Time to find out which.
Because somewhere in this garden full of pearls, pastels, and banana pudding, there’s a killer hiding behind a perfect smile, and I’m about to have a very friendly, very pointed conversation with the woman who might just be her.