It turns out, Olivia was once indicted for embezzlement by an old employer who happened to be a real estate developer. She was fined six thousand dollars to make restitution and sentenced to two years’ probation. It was several years ago. And judging from that conversation I had with her the night of the art show, I would like to think it was during that period of time when her husband left her and her mind went haywire as she put it.
But the indictment clearly demonstrates doing shady things is well within her wheelhouse. That coupled with the fact she has a receipt from Martinelle Finance, aka the Canelli crime family, she’s less than six degrees of separation from committing another crime—like a homicide.
Suffice it to say, Olivia has moved all the way to the top of my suspect list.
The lobby of the Grand Marquis is exquisite, with its opulent chandeliers and glossy marble and granite everywhere you look. There’s a large sign that reads Story Builders Convention, and Carlotta gives my arm a tug in that direction.
“Nice cover,” I say.
“We like to switch it up every now and again to keep the paranormal pervs at bay.”
“The reference to fiction can’t hurt either,” I say as we take the elevator up to the second floor where there’s a grand ballroom and another Welcome to Story Builders sign to greet us.
Carlotta fills out the registration forms, giving us the pseudonyms of Cat Canelli and Naomi Sawyer.
“Why did you choose Naomi for my cover?” I whisper as we head into the well-populated ballroom. “Naomi is your niece.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like her.”
Can’t argue with her there. Naomi is Keelie’s angry twin, who has always harbored resentment toward me for one reason or another but primarily because Bear wouldn’t sleep with her while we were together. But seeing that Keelie is about to marry Bear, it looks as if Bear’s rebuffing of her advances was for the best.
Rows and rows of booths have been set up in the ballroom, and each one has a small mob gathering around it. Apparently, they have quite a lineup of panelists that will be regaling us with tales from the crypt throughout the day. Carlotta and I stroll past the first few booths that promise to enhance our knowledge of the other side! Enable you to better understand the needs of those long gone by! And my favorite so far—can’t find your soulmate? Give dating the dead a try!
“They can’t be serious,” I say, ogling in that direction as the line steadily grows to get into the booth.
A friendly looking woman strides up with a laugh. “They’re as serious as the heart attack that sent my sweet beau to the great by and by.” She gives Carlotta a pat on the back. “Long time no see.”
“Arlene!” Carlotta howls with glee.
“I remember you,” I say with a brief wave.
Arlene Pots is the transmundane chapter leader in our area. And a few months back, Carlotta had her host a meeting in my bakery.
Arlene’s dark hair has a wash of fuchsia to it, which seems to be a new addition from the last time I saw her, but the triangular brows and the sharply defined nose are the same as I remember.
“That’s right.” She snaps her fingers my way. “Lottie Lemon. Hey? Are you still seeing the dead by the dozen? If I recall correctly, you were having monthly visitations.”
“And then some,” I assure her.
Carlotta belts out a laugh. “Lottie not only attracts the dead, she seems to be doing her part to fill up coffins faster than they can make ’em. She’s your run-of-the-mill bad luck charm.”
I’d correct her, but I’m afraid she’s right.
Arlene waves it off with a laugh. “I had a sister like that. No sooner would she see a cute little ghostly critter than a body would drop right out of the sky.”
“Really? Is your sister here? I’d love to talk to her about how she handled it.”
“Oh yeah, she’s right over there.” She points to a booth just past Carlotta and, horror of all horrors, a ghostly girl about my age waves our way before turning back around to speak with a small congregation of all too familiar spooks that makes me moan at the sight of them.
“Check that out, Lot Lot.” Carlotta jabs me in the ribs. “It’s the crabby crew from your mama’s B&B.”
“Yes, it is.”
Standing there, sans the flesh, is Greer Giles holding Winslow Decker’s hand, chattering away with Arlene’s ghostly sister as if it were a family reunion. But it’s the pretty poltergeist standing with them that has me gobsmacked.
I grimace at the sight. “Arlene, your sister is dead. What happened?”
She clucks her tongue while looking at her spectral sibling. “She got a little too good at solving crimes. A killer finally got wise that she was getting close to sending him off to the big house for good, and he decided to silence her—forever.” She pumps her shoulders as if it were no big deal before turning back our way. “But once the ghost of my old pooch, Mr. Muffins, came back to help, we solved her murder, of course.”
Carlotta grunts, “Hear that, Lot? You get too good and they start coming after you. If I were you, I’d let that boy with the bullets you hang out with catch a few live ones—before you become a dead one.”
“Geez.” I press my hand to my chest at the thought. “No kidding.”
A robust woman with shaggy cherry red hair jumps right into our midst and shouts, “Boo!”
The three of us each lean back and gasp at the sight, and just like that, Carlotta and Arlene start whooping with laughter.
“And they say nothing scares the transmundane.” The woman with the wild red hair joins in on the cackle fest, and soon enough I recognize her, too.
It’s Morgana Harold, the transmundane PI from Connecticut that Everett and I met last year. She’s parlayed her penchant for tracking down killers into a killer business, pun intended.
“Lottie?” She slaps a hand over my shoulder so hard, I can feel the bruise swelling already. “How’s that hot stud you hauled into my office last year?”
Carlotta wraps an arm around me as if beaming with pride. “She done did married him.”
“Done did?” I tilt my head her way, wondering why it is the friendlier she gets with people, the less likely she is to speak the King’s English.
Morgana’s heavily drawn-in lips part like the Red Sea. “No kidding?”
“No kidding,” Carlotta answers for me.
I don’t bother correcting anyone on the faux state of my marriage to Everett. Instead, I get right down to the nitty-gritty.
“Either of you ladies wouldn’t happen to know how to grow my powers, would you? I’ve got a pack of hungry poltergeists just waiting to indulge in a stack of pancakes as tall as the Empire State Building.”
Now it’s both of their mouths falling open.
Arlene steps in. “You’ve garnered the ability to feed them?”
I nod. “Just the ones that come to help.”
“I’ll say.” Morgana shakes her head as if she’s never heard of anything like it, and I’m betting she hasn’t. “Hey? I bet that’s the key. They have to help you solve a crime to level up.”
“Knew it!” a tiny voice squawks from below and we look down to see little Lea with her long stringy hair covering her face and tattered pinafore. She’s got that adorably unlucky cat, Thirteen, by the tail and he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.
“That’s it, Lottie!” Thirteen’s head twitches side to side as onyx stars spark from his fur. “All we have to do is help you find the killer. I’ll tell the others.”
He tries to speed off, but Lea gives him a yank until he springs back like a yoyo. “You better watch your back, Lottie. You’re officially off the case.” Lea’s hair parts enough for me to see her knotted-up features. “I’m solving this one.”
“Great. Just what I was hoping for.” A breath expires from me as I look to Greer and Winslow who seem to be whooping it up over the news. Something tells me Flip’s killer will be apprehended in no time. Just the thought wrenches my heart. I
can’t stand to lose my father again.
They take off, and soon enough we’re all encouraged to attend the various presentations in the rooms nearby.
And much to my delight, I find every last dissertation interesting.
Things I have learned: Not only is supersensual a subclassification of transmundane, but there are other classifications as well.
There are visionaries—folks who can see things happening in the world around them right in their minds as if they were there. I bet that would come in handy if you were dealing with a homicide.
Sibylline—people who have a niggling about the future that turns out to be correct one hundred percent of the time. Another handy skill when trying to guess who the killer is.
And telepaths, or telasensuals, people who can read other people’s minds. In all honesty, I’m not sure if that last one is a blessing or a curse. I’d hate to know exactly what Noah thinks of me these days.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I fish it out with glee. Maybe it’s Noah? Maybe he’s going to tell me exactly what he’s thinking and it’s all great news.
But it’s not Noah. It’s Everett.
If you’re free for dinner, I’ve got reservations at Underwood’s at seven. Tell Carlotta she’s invited, too. There might be a special guest.
A special guest? It might be Noah. Everett has been awfully generous to us these past few months. But then, it could be Cressida. She’s been awfully obsessed these last few months as well.
And Underwood’s? It doesn’t get ritzier than that.
Hey?
Underwood’s is right here in Manhattan.
Of course, we’re going to join him.
And that’s just what we do.
Underwood’s is at the tip-top of the Astor building, offering penthouse views anywhere you sit.
Everett rises to his feet at the sight of us, his eyes never leaving mine. He looks dangerously sexy in his dark suit, a tie that flashes like lightning. The only colorful thing about him is his eyes.
“Lemon.” He pulls me in and I’m quickly intoxicated by this thick cologne. He lands a warm kiss to my cheek and lingers as if he wants to slide it over to my lips—and believe me, my mouth would be the last to protest.
He quickly greets Carlotta and we get our five-star feast underway.
I crane my neck to the entry for signs of Noah or Cressida. “So, where’s this guest you spoke of?”
“She’s right over there.” He nods past me at a petite brunette with fiery red eyes.
“Oh my goodness, that’s Jennifer—Flip’s stepdaughter.”
“That’s right,” Everett says. “She was at the courthouse this morning and I heard her mention she was heading this way for the weekend. Something about checking out her future apartment. I heard her mention Underwood’s tonight at six, so I thought I’d offer you a double surprise.” His left eye comes shy of winking.
Carlotta sighs dreamily at him. “Lot, you realize this man right here is the best surprise. How do you sleep with yourself at night knowing there’s a perfectly good naked judge sleeping next door?”
Everett’s lips curl in the right direction, but he’s too stubborn to give a smile.
“Not well,” I say. I turn around and note Jennifer is getting up to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll head to the little girls’ room.” I hop out of my seat and navigate my way past waiters and waitresses with trays of food that cost more than my beat-up Honda and I not so accidentally bump right into her.
“So sorry!” I stumble back as she looks my way and does a double take.
“Lottie? Is that you?”
“It is! Oh wow, Jennifer. It really is a small world. I’m spending the weekend with Carlotta and my husband. What are you doing here?”
Her delicate features twitch. “I’m here signing my life away on a lease. Good thing my mom came through for me. I never would have been able to afford first, last, and security without her. It’s a miracle anyone can afford living on their own in the city.”
“I hear that. I lived in New York myself for a while. And speaking of mothers, I know you’re leaving Honey Hollow soon, but I’d love to have you stop by my mother’s surprise party next Saturday at her B&B. Your mom will be there. And even if you were there for just a few minutes, I know my mother would appreciate it. She just loves you guys.”
“And I love your mother. I’d be thrilled to stop by.”
“Great.” An awkward moment of silence bumps by. “Any news on who might have killed Flip?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. I’m just thrilled my mother is finally free of him. It’s almost as if their split wasn’t enough to get that curse of a man away from her. I really thought she was going to bottom out financially, but she won’t have to worry about money anymore.”
“You mean the properties they shared all go to her now?”
“Yup. And I bet she can manage them better without his interference.”
“From what I hear, that might be a good thing.”
Jennifer bucks with a laugh. “Trust me, it is.”
We wish one another a good weekend and get on our way.
Everett, Carlotta, and I wrap up our dinner and Everett offers us each a bed in his suite right here, beneath Underwood’s, where he’s scored a room for the night.
Carlotta declines the offer and takes a cab back to the roach motel, but I hightail it down to Everett’s luxury suite where I fall asleep in a bedroom glistening with the lights from the city, safe and cozy in Everett’s arms.
Being Mrs. Essex Everett Baxter sure does have its perks.
And my body just so happens to be missing a majority of them.
All night I dream of Everett and those insane night moves he used to expend my way. I dream of the two of us doing all sorts of indelicate things in those properties Flip left Lisa.
And in the morning, one thing rings through my mind.
Lisa Alexander is suddenly a land baron. I wonder if a few seemingly worthless properties are motive enough for murder?
Lisa could be the killer.
Or it could be Olivia.
I bet whoever said all was fair in love and war wasn’t counting on murder.
One thing is for sure—I’ll make certain both of those women are on the guest list for my mother’s surprise birthday party.
Something tells me we’re going to have a killer good time.
Chapter 17
A week drifts by in a blur. I’ve been baking nonstop, even though the bakery has been a virtual ghost town—this time sans the ghosts.
Not even my father has been by all that much. He’s spending most of his time with my mother, then dividing the rest of his attention with my sisters and me. I can sense he’s afraid his proverbial days are numbered. And, in a way, it’s as if I can sense it, too.
But, nevertheless, the reason I’ve been baking nonstop isn’t to line my pockets with profits. It’s to restore goodwill to the fine people of Honey Hollow—people who I’ve grown up with, known all my life, people who now think I’m capable of the most heinous crimes. I’ve been going door to door to the businesses right here on Main Street, giving away baked goods in hopes of winning back the trust of my fellow citizens of this cozy town.
Thankfully, the tourists that my mother sends over to my bakery are none the wiser about my murderous status. Since my father is picking up the haunting slack at the B&B, no thanks to the reverse hunger strike the ghosts that should be haunting that place are throwing, the tourists are happy, yet slightly frightened campers once again.
It’s Saturday, the evening of my mother’s surprise birthday party, and I’ve baked her my special triple chocolate lava cake, large enough for everyone attending tonight’s sensational soiree to enjoy.
I drive to the B&B dressed in jeans and the cheeriest bright red sweater I own, and, of course, Ethel is tucked in my little leather backpack. Both Everett and Noah are adamant about me bringing Ethel along wherever I go, and my only exception
to this rule is the bakery itself. I’d like to think of it as a weapons-free zone.
Chrissy Nash and Becca Sawyer, my mother’s best friends, have taken Mom to dinner and then a movie, so by the time they come back at seven o’clock sharp, my sisters and I will herd everyone into the conservatory to shout surprise just as they’re walking in the door.
There are dozens of bodies already milling around the B&B.
Keelie and Bear helped haul all the food from the Honey Pot and set it up in the chafing dishes that line the back wall. I catered all the sweet treats myself and have plenty of my mom’s favorites on hand—fudge brownies with walnuts, chocolate crinkles, fudge dipped snowballs, chocolate whoopie pies, banana chocolate chip cookies, chocolate coconut cookies, chocolate thumbprints, Swiss mocha bars, and double chocolate chunk cookies. If my mother is anything, she’s a chocoholic.
The conservatory itself is a large glass structure that was recently added onto the back of the B&B. My mother installed up lights in the evergreens outside to give the room the feel of being outdoors. And with the snow hanging heavy on all the branches, it really does look as if we’re in a winter wonderland-inspired snow globe.
Meg is in charge of decorations, and the conservatory looks as if it were ready to host every three-year-old’s birthday party on the planet. There are at least six dozen colorful helium balloons all stuck to the ceiling, crepe paper and streamers abound, and there are at least seven different life-size cutouts of my mother that Meg is encouraging the guests to write a birthday greeting upon.
The cutouts are from a picture of my mother in a hot pink power suit with her hand on her hip, giving the camera a cheeky smile. I’ll admit, it’s a bit comical to see her here, dotting the room with her sass and style—not to mention oddly quiet.
On several of them, someone has already drawn in little devil’s horns over her smiling face, a pointed tail over her hot pink skirt, blackened out some of her teeth, and given her a mustache.
Pancake Panic Page 14
