Mom shakes her head. “It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m sleeping with him. He said I’m underperforming.” She gasps as she brings her fingers to her mouth. “What if that was some sort of a reverse double entendre?”
“I’m stepping away now,” I say. “I’m sure your book sales will pick up. It’s the holidays.”
“Before you go”—her fingers wiggle in my direction—“make sure you don’t forget the holiday craft fair I’m hosting at the inn. I’m depending on you to cater the desserts.”
“You bet. I can’t wait.”
“Me either.” Carlotta smacks my mother on the back. “You bring the wallets, I’ll bring the kinky candles. Hey? Maybe I’ll set up shop with my van outside of the inn, too? I can get ’em coming and going.”
I don’t stick around to hear the end of that wayward conversation. My mother owns the only bed and breakfast in town. It used to be that she got the run offs from the Evergreen Manor, but once a happy ghost family settled at the inn, it’s been the other way around. My mother’s inn is now listed as one of the must-see tourist attractions in all of Vermont. And I’m rather proud of that haunted fact, too.
I scan the crowd for my handsome husband, and instead, I spot Candy holding herself while looking up at that rumored to be haunted painting. It’s almost as if her gaze is unbreakable. Soon, Carlotta and my mother join her, and I have to shake my head at the sight. It’s clear the man was a hypnotist. Or at least the artist was.
Just past them I spot that ornery elf who earlier took more than a little heat from the newly deceased. She’s talking to Santa, and now it looks as if the two of them are locked in a heated conversation. I wonder if they know that it was Gloria who bit the big one outside? I feel so very bad for everyone involved.
Everett comes my way with Dr. Barnette. She’s a stunning redhead who has garnered the privilege to call Everett by his proper moniker—Essex, but I’ve never let that bother me. She delivered Lainey’s little girl, Josie, last August, and she took care of Keelie after she gave birth to her son, Bear—named after his papa. Keelie actually had her baby down at Honey Lake a bit unexpectedly. He just arrived that quickly, and it was Noah who helped deliver him. And coming right up this March, Dr. Barnette is going to deliver my little sugar cookie into this world.
She quickly checks my vitals and asks me a few dozen rapid-fire questions.
“I think you’re going to be fine, Lottie.” She sheds a pained smile. “Your blood pressure might be elevated, and so for that alone I’m going to suggest you go straight home and rest. Should you feel even the slightest twinge, don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll have my phone on all night just for you. Otherwise, I’ll see you at your regularly scheduled appointment. I’m sorry you had to come upon such a grisly scene. It’s a horrible thing.”
She takes off, and Everett pulls me in and holds me, whispering how much I mean to him, how much he loves me right into my ear.
“Please, Lemon”—he breathes the words over my temple—“don’t even think about this case. This Christmas is all about new beginnings, getting settled as a family, and getting back to spending some serious alone time together.” He dots a kiss to my lips, and I nod up at him, all the while trying to ignore the fact a sugary perfume seems to be lingering on his suit. I’m sure it’s nothing. My hormones want to run wild in all sorts of crazy directions tonight.
Dr. Barnette is right. I witnessed a horrible thing.
A sharp scream erupts over by that haunted painting, and we look over to find Carlotta dancing a jig and pulling my mother in on the foot-stomping chaos.
“I won!” Carlotta shouts at the top of her lungs to the amusement of those around her. “I won! I won!”
“Frosty the Snowman” blares over the speakers, and people continue to dance to the peppy beat. One wouldn’t think that a body lies just outside of these walls—that a person who was just in this very room reveling in the merriment has turned up dead with a gunshot wound to the back.
One would never suspect that a murder had taken place, let alone that there might be a murderer in our midst.
But someone did pull that trigger, and I very much doubt it was Suze.
Someone killed Gloria Abner in cold blood, and they just might have come back in to have a jolly good time.
It would be the perfect cover.
Not that it would help.
They will be winnowed out.
And come hell or high water, the protest from Noah or Everett—I’m betting I’ll be the one to do just that.
Chapter 4
December in Honey Hollow is the most magical time of the year. All of Main Street is lit up with twinkle lights, garland is strung up from one business to the next with cheery red bows dotting it intermittently, and each door is festooned with a wreath made of evergreens and poinsettias.
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery is no different. The inside has always held a homey appeal with its butter yellow walls and mix and match pastel furniture, but Lily and I went the extra nine yards and put up garland and lights along the counter and windows. I’ve put an entire gingerbread village on display, frosted and dotted with colorful candies. And because of their apparent yummy goodness, I’ve had more orders than ever for those scrumptious humble abodes.
My bakery and the restaurant next door, the Honey Pot Diner, are connected through a shared wall. They both once belonged to my grandma Nell—back when I still didn’t know she was my grandmother.
Nell has since passed away, and she left just about everything she owned to me. Of course, she left a nominal amount to her children, Carlotta, Aunt Becca—my best friend Keelie’s mom—and Uncle William who actually took me to court in an effort to get back everything Nell gave me, which didn’t work. Nell felt guilty for keeping Carlotta’s secret all these years, and the cash and prizes were her way of making it up to me. But Nell got to watch me grow up with the Lemon family, and I worked for her as soon as I came back from college. We were closer than ever back then.
The Honey Pot Diner was Nell’s baby. It’s as quirky as it is delicious, and there’s a life-size oak tree made of resin that sits in the middle of the establishment. The branches are strewn with twinkle lights that crawl over the ceiling and creep right over the ceiling of the café portion of my bakery as well, giving both places a fairy-tale appeal.
A rush of customers just vacated the premises at what felt like the very same time, and Lily belts out a hard groan.
She takes a moment to glare my way. “I thought I warned you not to actively participate in any more homicides.”
“I’m not actively participating in any homicides.” More or less.
“You know what I mean.” She narrows her dark eyes over mine. “That woman was found with a plate full of your eggnog trifle! Every last body that has bit the dust—or should I say cookie—has suspiciously been found with one of your desserts on their person. And you were suspiciously at each and every crime scene—discovering the body. Don’t tell me you haven’t been planting your desserts at the scene of the crime. I mean, I get it. You wanted to find an innovative way to advertise and, believe me, you have.”