Poison Apple Crisp

by Addison Moore

  “Margo has agreed to open the bakery for me for the next week or so. Indefinitely if I wanted it,” I tell them. It’s true. Everett was at the heart of those negotiations. “I was supposed to be sleeping in.” Although, technically, waking up at six rather than four might just qualify. “I really need to find a way to stop this woman,” I say but Keelie, Meg, and Carlotta are all too busy jiggling their hineys in an effort to see who has the most wiggle in their walk.

  Baby Bear snags my attention as he pulls his tiny arms over his head and stretches to life adorably.

  By this time next year, I’m going to have my very own baby to take care of—just as soft, and sweet, and vulnerable. Tears come to my eyes, and a giant baby-shaped boulder knots up in my throat. How could the authorities possibly let just anybody take one of these tiny creatures home from the hospital without any certification, or license, or research study to do so? It’s the equivalent of receiving an honorary parenting degree just because you pushed a sweet angel out of your body. It doesn’t seem right. It seems horrifying is what it seems. How do those doctors and nurses know that I can be trusted with an infant? How can anyone be trusted with someone so very fragile?

  Evie comes over and hands me one of my individually portioned apple crisps, and I indulge in every bite.

  “You’re getting too deep into your head, Mom.” She bumps her hip to mine. “Forget about those fit and toned women bending over in all sorts of provocative positions in our neighborhood. I’m sure Uncle Noah and Dad won’t even notice them after a couple of months or years. You just focus on that baby.” She wrinkles her nose. “On second thought, that baby isn’t going to get here any quicker if you think about it twenty-four seven. Try to think about that woman who was poisoned at the fundraiser. I bet you’re already close to solving that one.” She takes off to load up on more carbs, and I think on it a moment.

  I’m not even close to solving this one. Alyssa did mention that Rachelle stood up to Brenda when they first met—and that shortly thereafter she and Rachelle were inseparable. Maybe Brenda found some dirt on Rachelle? She certainly had dirt on Alyssa.

  I think back on that argument Alyssa and Brenda had before Brenda was killed, back when they were reduced to their shoes in lieu of proper names, Gold Buckles and Pinky.

  Alyssa told her, “I don’t care what the hell you think you have on me. You don’t threaten me in my own house.”

  Brenda came back with, “When I’m through with you, not only won’t you be able to show your face in Honey Hollow, you’ll be looking to relocate from Vermont.”

  It makes sense now that I know Alyssa’s backstory. Brenda wanted to control Alyssa by way of her past.

  What if she was doing the same to Rachelle?

  Lucky for me, my mother’s game night is coming right up, and I’ll get to ask Rachelle myself.

  Chapter 12

  The next few mornings it’s nothing but a bouncing booty party on my new neighbor’s front lawn. And not only is Hannah defying her new neighbors’ wishes to cease and desist, or in the least take it to the local gym, she’s garnered an army of yoga wearing enthusiasts that include Carlotta, my mother, Meg, Cressida, and Cormack. Ugh. Double ugh. There are only a few things that grate on my nerves, and peppy people who want to genuflect at unforgivably early hours of the morning are one of them.

  But that nightmare isn’t unfolding at the moment. It’s a good thirteen hours after that posterior trauma, and I’m staring up at my mother’s quaint B&B.

  Not so long ago my mother’s bed and breakfast was once a struggling endeavor.

  It was where she and my father, Joseph Lemon, honeymooned all those years ago. And after he passed away, she took the insurance money and bought the place. She fixed it up, moved into the owner’s unit to save money, and gave it the old college try, but this place was taking a long drive on the struggle bus for as long as I can remember.

  Then came the ghosts. It was well after the first murder in Honey Hollow, well after my powers began to enliven and come into their own, that Greer Giles, a woman who was murdered right here in town, came back to help me with yet another case. And instead of floating off to paradise afterwards like the other disembodied spirits had done, she decided to get herself a ghostly boyfriend and hang out at the B&B indefinitely.

  I’m still not sure why Greer and her cute boy toy, Winslow Decker, get to remain on the planet, but that’s none of my mortal business. I’m glad they’re here. And I’m more than glad they’re my friends. They also sort of adopted the ghost of a little girl named Lea and a black cat who has spent all his nine lives named Thirteen. They’ve certainly helped my mother out. Without the haunted Honey Hollow tours she runs through this place, she most likely would have gone under by now. Outside of the B&B, the only place for tourists or visitors to stay in town is at the Evergreen Manor. It used to be that my mother got the Evergreen’s runoff as far as guests go, but these days it’s the other way around.

  The B&B is an oversized white mansion complete with columns that sit onto a wraparound porch. There’s wrought iron work both inside and out, and more bedrooms and bathrooms than I can count. The inn might be mammoth indeed, but inside it feels rather cozy with its dark wood paneling, thick carpet, and creamy marble reception counter.

  The game night my mother is hosting is being held in the glass conservatory attached to the back end of the B&B. It’s a more recent addition, but it’s been one of Honey Hollow’s favorite places to host parties ever since it was built.

  It’s a brisk fall evening, and the evergreens just outside of the conservatory windows are backlit in citrine colors. My mother has even dotted the periphery of the walkways with cheery-looking pumpkins, while the inside of the conservatory is strewn with fall leaves. Booths and tables have been set up all throughout the room, and despite the fact the event just started, it’s already elbow to elbow in here.

  A large banner hangs across the back of the room that reads In Memory of Brenda Phillips! Honey Hollow High Funeral Fundraiser!

  “I’m pretty sure the exclamation points were an oversight on whoever had the banner made up. But it is to the point,” I say to Everett as he helps Lily and me line the back wall of the conservatory with platters and platters of my sweet treats.

  I purposefully left apple crisps off the menu tonight because of the way poor Brenda met her demise. But that didn’t stop me from baking apple cider muffins, apple tarts, caramel apple hand pies, and pumpkin spice brownies. Of course, I have trays upon trays of sugar cookies iced to look like bright orange maple leaves, and I have a few apple fritter donuts as well.

  I, for one, can’t get enough of holiday baking, and for me it all begins in September. It truly is the most delicious time of the year.

  Okay, confession: there is one platter in particular that doesn’t quite fit in at this time of the year—or perhaps any time of year—but I couldn’t help including my new favorite, fried pickles. They’re so tangy and delicious, I can’t imagine the guests here tonight won’t enjoy them as much as I do.

  Everett wraps his arms around me. “The fundraiser is a nice gesture. I’m sure her family appreciates it.”

  I nod. “At least her son and ex-husband. Speaking of her plus ones, I really look forward to speaking with Martin Smulder, her fiancé at the time of her murder. He was acting so odd the night of her death—almost as if he was glad she was gone,” I whisper it so low, Everett turns his ear toward my lips in an effort to hear.

  “Who was glad she was gone?” a female voice trills, and I turn to find Greer Giles floating beside us in all her ghostly glory. Her dark chestnut hair radiates amber light as a sprinkling of stars buzzes around her head as if they were refusing to form a halo. Greer is just as stunning in death as she was in life, and she still wears the white ruched dress she had on that fateful day when she was gunned down.

  “It’s Greer,” I whisper to Everett as I take up his hand so he can experience her snark and sass in real time. “Hey, ghoul, how�
�s it going? We were just talking about the newly deceased, a woman by the name of Brenda Phillips. This event is in her honor.”

  “I could have told you that.” She winks as her two-hundred-year-old boyfriend, Winslow Decker, materializes by her side with his dirty blond hair and comely features. Winslow once owned a pig farm right here on the land my mother’s B&B was built on, and I guess he never wanted to leave.

  “Lottie.” He nods my way. “Judge Baxter. Any news on who the killer might be?”

  Everett examines the empty space to his right. “Winslow, Greer. It’s always a pleasure. No leads so far, but Lemon is on the case.” He glances my way. “Have you heard the happy news? We’re about to become parents for the second time.”

  Greer makes a squealing noise that sounds as if a major appliance just malfunctioned.

  “Lottie Lemon!” she roars my name. “Are you growing a baby lemon in that tummy of yours?”

  “I sure am,” I say the words as if I were freshly surprised myself.

  Both Greer and Winslow let out a whoop.

  “Oh, Lottie.” Greer gives my arm a squeeze, and I feel it just as if she were doing it with a physical body. “You’re going to make a great mother. And if you don’t, at least your kid will have great desserts lying around to make up for it.”

  “I’d laugh or bother to be insulted, but I’m guessing you’re right,” I say. “This could go either way.”

  Winslow shakes his head. “Don’t listen, Lottie. You’ll be fantastic. Look at us? We never thought we’d be parents, let alone how we would handle a child, but after adopting Azalea, we’re smitten with her and parenthood as well. Much like us, I suspect you’ll learn as you go.”

  Azalea, Lea, is a six-year-old ghost whose entire family was once slaughtered over this very site. She has long dark hair that covers her face, wears a pinafore and beat-up Mary Jane’s, and stalks the halls of this B&B with a hatchet dangling from her hand. She’s been itching for revenge ever since the bloody attack on her family, and who could blame her?

  “Speaking of Lea,” Greer frowns as she looks around the room, “she and Thirteen came across the most adorable little Pomeranian named Ginger. She’s one of yours, isn’t she?”

  “That’s right. The little red pompom was sent down to help with the case.” And a part of me wonders if she was sent down to help with another case, too—that of my baby’s paternity.

  “She won’t be much of a help tonight,” Greer says. “She’s been riding Thirteen’s back ever since she showed up, and Lea is chasing them up and down the halls, threatening to chop off both of their tails.”

  “And heads.” Winslow nods. “I’d best look after them. Last I saw, Thirteen knocked over a stack of books off the credenza, much to the delight of the tourists. Haunting is truly his forte.”

  Thirteen is a black cat that has garnered himself more than nine lives. He’s been here for about a year, and Lea has really taken to him as her own little ghostly pet. And why am I not too surprised that Ginger has glommed onto that tall, dark, and handsome feline phantom?

  Greer leans in. “Let’s hear what you got with the case. I’m all ears. In fact, I can be your ears, too. Once you give me the lowdown, I’ll move around the party and see if I can get the skinny on whoever you need it on.”

  “That would be great.” Everett is clearly on board with anyone snooping but me, so I quickly fill Greer in on all that I’ve got.

  Everett nods her way. “You get busy scoping out the guests, and I’ll find a dark corner and get busy with my wife.”

  A dark laugh strums from me. “A tiger doesn’t change his stripes even if he is married. I’m so thankful you’re not sick of me yet. I’ve been craving a little more than those fried pickles. I might have to take you up on that dark corner offer. It’s as if I’m insatiable these days. That is, when I’m not feeling like a rag that got caught up in the tires of a semi. Creating new life is an exhausting endeavor.”

  “And a horny one at that,” Greer snarks. “But I guess that’s what got you into this pickled predicament to begin with.”

  Carlotta pops up. “That’s my Lot Lot, deep-fried, pickled, and perverted.” She pats me on the back. “You two ready to lose your shirts in tonight’s brain-a-thon? I’m about to head up a game of strip Scrabble. So far I’ve got Mayor Nash, Wiley Fox, Suze-the-Snooty-Schmooze Fox, and Meg to play the first round. I’ve got room for two more. How about it, Sexy? You feel like showing off those guns to get the girls here going?”

  His lids hood as he looks my way. “Definitely later.” He leans in. “Maybe even sooner than that. But I was thinking more of a private show.” His brows hike a notch. “The dark hallway proposition is still on the table.”

  “I’m not above haunting these halls myself.” I put my lips to his ear. “You won’t believe the moaning I’m capable of.”

  Everett blows out a breath. “You know how to make the temperature rise, Lemon.”

  Mom runs up in a sparkly red dress and matching red lipstick.

  “Oh, thank God, you’re both here,” she pants. “Everett, I have you and Noah down for the trivia challenge. We’re gearing up to start, so if you want to take a seat at the round table near the front, we’ll get moving.”

  “Good luck.” I give him a little wink as I straighten his tie. “I know you’re going to kill it.” I make a face. “I guess I can’t really ask you to go easy on anyone. Not in this competition anyway. You simply can’t.”

  “You’re right, I can’t. That’s why when Noah drops out early because he’s exhausted his gray matter, I want you to buy him a stiff drink from me.” His lips stretch back with a malevolent smile.

  “All right, you,” I say as he leads us to the round table near the front where the brain drain is set to begin.

  It’s an even split of men and women—almost twenty of them—so I’m assuming this could go on for a while. And Noah is one in that number.

  “Hey, Lot.” He pulls me into a warm embrace. Noah has on a tweed jacket paired with dark jeans. And judging by that hard bulge on his side, he’s brought his gun with him. I, however, left Ethel at home. I figured with Noah here I wouldn’t need her, and I’m betting I’m right. His bullets are just as good as mine.

  Noah nods my way. “Are you ready to console Everett once he’s eliminated?” He flashes those dimples to his former stepbrother. “You’re going down, Judge Baxter, once and for all.”

  “Behave,” I tell them. I already opted out of this and every other competition citing that I couldn’t predict when my nausea would kick in. But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to remain free to wander the room tonight. I’m hoping a handful of suspects will show up—namely Rachelle Dalton and Martin Smulder.

  I spot Rachelle right off the bat with her blunt platinum blonde bob and overall angry appeal as she helps pass out cups of coffee to the people in the java line. I guess one out of two isn’t bad.

  A man in a light blue suit calls the table in front of me to order, and soon he’s spouting off the rules for the trivia challenge.

  “First wrong answer will leave the player disqualified,” he shouts. “Last player standing wins a gift card to the exclusive, ever so difficult to get into, Smulder’s Railway Restaurant. Owned and operated by Brenda’s own beloved fiancé. Unfortunately, Martin couldn’t be here this evening, but he encourages you to bring the family if you dare. The more the merrier when experiencing a trip while traveling around the Fallbrook hillsides—with an entire boxcar reserved for you and your friends, filled with culinary delights. This is fine dining, people. Fine dining.” The man in blue raises a champagne flute, and the entire table goes wild.

  I bend down to where Noah and Everett are seated. “Did you hear that? Smulder’s is owned by her fiancé. And apparently, that meal train is hard to hop onto. One of you has to win if I’m ever going to speak with him.”

  “Don’t worry, Lemon.” Everett nods. “It’s as good as a done deal.”

  Noah scowls at
him a moment. “I’m bringing home the win, Lot. I’m doing it for you and the baby.” He tips his head toward Everett as if he’s bested him.

  “And don’t you two worry about anything. I’m staying out of trouble tonight.” I wink without meaning to. It’s almost as if my body knows better. “In fact, I’ll text Evie and make sure she’s all right.” Evie said she was having her best friend Dash over to watch horror movies while we were gone for the night. I happen to know Evie has to sleep with the lights on after a scare-a-thon like that. She’s terrified of horror movies. She just likes to put on a brave front for her girlfriends.

  Everett nods. “I appreciate it, Lemon. How about a kiss for good luck?”

  I don’t hesitate to land a quick peck on his cheek. I’ll admit, it feels strange to be kissing Everett in such close proximity to Noah.

  “Me too, Lot.” Noah offers up a cheek, and I give an even quicker peck to him. “Sorry,” I mouth to Everett before taking off.

  The master of trivia ceremonies gets right to asking the hard questions, and slowly but surely a few people begin to drop away.

  It’s still a win for the fundraiser, considering each person paid fifty bucks a pop to participate.

  I spot Rachelle straightening the napkins over at the refreshment table and tossing away the discarded creamer pods, so I thread my way through the crowd as I speed her way.

  My mother really has this place popping with a dice table, a roulette wheel, a seemingly innocent poker game, Carlotta’s strip Scrabble, and a few other events that I have no idea how they function.

  “Rachelle,” I say brightly as I pull a cup off the table, and my hands drift toward the coffee.

  “Hey, Lottie.” A smile bounces on her face. A dark crimson line sits just above her platinum hair at the roots. She has those adorable beach waves as it cuts off just past her neck, and her skin and lips are almost a matching pale shade. She’s donned a tight orange turtleneck with a brown cashmere sweater over it, and it looks like the perfect fall combination. “I think you want the decaf.” She points me in the opposite direction.