Just as I’m about to head to my beat-up old hatchback, I spot both the aforementioned Simonson sisters at the foot of the driveway squabbling amongst themselves about who knows what—most likely me. It is me they’re hauling to court after all, and over something completely ridiculous.
It just so happens that last summer at the county fair my blueberry buckle pie won the coveted blue ribbon in its division, and it seemed as if all of Ashford County were thrilled for me, at least all of the townsfolk here in Honey Hollow. But the Simonson sisters were decidedly not enthused in the least. Sometime between the taste test and the judging, someone edited my entry to read Simple Simonson Pie and crossed out the all-important part about the blueberry buckle. Regretfully, a riot of laughter ensued, mostly from the fine, and, might I add, intuitive folk here in Honey Hollow, but I swear on all that is holy that good time only lasted about three thrilling minutes before I made the correction. Although, to hear Mora Anne and Merilee tell it, the aftermath not only bruised their egos and reputation but managed to cause a retail apocalypse down at the shop they own and run. It turns out, The Busy Bee Craft Shop was short on patrons and dollar bills alike and had a difficult time paying its rent last month, so the only logical solution they could come up with was to sue me for every last red cent.
Both sisters are dressed head to toe in long velvet coats with ruffled shirts peeking out from underneath like a couple of throwbacks from some long-forgotten steampunk era. It’s eerie the way they choose to dress alike each and every day despite the fact they’ve been on the planet for twenty-six long years—and twenty-seven respectively. I know this because I happen to be the exact same age as Merilee. We’ve all grown up together, but the way they treat me you’d think they were my bitter and scorned elders.
Merilee snarls as if she were rabid. “Well, look who’s here? If it isn’t Honey Hollow’s favorite jester who will soon be performing live in court.” Those narrow slits she calls eyes light up like cauldrons. The sisters have always held a witchy appeal to me, what with their long, dark, stringy hair and bony, long fingers. The fact they look as if they suck on lemons day and night doesn’t exactly help their plight. “Are you ready to have your bank account turned inside out?”
I scoff at the thought. If they think this is the day they hit a financial jackpot, they’d better think again. Working shifts at the Honey Pot Diner doesn’t afford me much of a bank account. The only thing in my savings at the moment is enough to cover my rent and Pancake’s Fancy Beast cat food. I’ve had Pancake now for over a year, and he officially qualifies as the greatest love of my life.
I glance over to the living room window where he’s currently monitoring the situation while licking his paw. Pancake is a butter yellow Himalayan with a rusty-tipped tail and dart of a line running between his eyes. He is a precious little angel now that he’s no longer using my leather ottoman as a scratching post and chewing down all the cables and cords he could get his hungry little paws on. The entire apartment has been cat-proofed, and Pancake hasn’t forgiven me yet.
An icy breeze picks up and the row of liquid ambers and maples that lines the street shed the first smattering of red and gold fall leaves. I steal a moment to take in the glory of nature on full display around the two wicked witches determined to make my life a living hell. Our little corner of Vermont has a habit of turning into a golden and ruby wonderland this time of year, so much so that the leaf peeping keeps the tourists coming in strong right up until winter.
Speaking of tourist traps, the Honey Hollow Apple Festival is coming up later this month, and I’ve been asked to supply the pies for the occasion. After my shift was over at the Honey Pot last night, I baked two dozen personal-sized caramel apple pies—cutie pies as I like to call them—and I need to deliver them straight to the orchard this afternoon because the owners requested a sample for their employees. My guess is they want to be sure my baking skills are up to snuff before they live to regret the decision come the day of the festival. But I guarantee they’ll far from regret it. In fact, the only thing they might regret is not ordering enough to keep up with demand. It took me weeks to perfect the right combination of caramel and spices, and I even threw in a handful of crushed walnuts into each tiny pie to give it a little crunch. But it’s that buttery caramel that steals the limelight from those golden delicious apples. It’s so smooth and creamy, my best friend Keelie and I spent an hour last night licking the bowls clean ourselves.
I can’t help but sigh over at the two beady-eyed siblings who relish my financial undoing. “I won’t be having my bank account turned in any direction this morning because there isn’t a judge on this planet who would side with—” I’m about to lay into the Simonson sisters with every colorful word in my lexicon when something akin to a flame flickers around Merilee’s ankle. For a brief and fleeting moment, I think it’s simply a stray leaf, but suddenly that flicker materializes into the clear outline of a long-lost, dearly departed orange tabby that I’m guessing once belonged to one of the shrews before me.
“Ha!” Mora Anne scoffs as she takes a step in close. “She can’t finish the sentence because she knows she’s guilty. Just admit it and whip out your checkbook. Save us all the trouble of driving to Ashford. We’re meeting with Darlene Grand this afternoon to secure a booth for the festival. We don’t have a lot of time to dilly-dally with you over a handful of change. Hand it over right now and we can all get on with our day.”
I take a moment to scowl at the surly sisters. Since when is three thousand eight hundred dollars a handful of change? And if it’s so darn piddly, why bother to sue me to begin with?
The ghostly cat twirls around Merilee’s left foot before pausing to look up at me, and I would bet my life that feisty feline just smiled. The pets I see are never skeletal or gruesomely decomposing but clear as vellum versions of themselves in their plush and fluffy prime. On the rare occasion, I do see a once-upon-a-person, but neither the pets nor the people breathe a single word to me. I’m guessing the lack of vocal cords has something to do with it. And, believe you me, I am more than grateful.
I’ve only confided my strange gift to one person, and she wasn’t family at that. Nell Sawyer is my best friend’s grandmother, and she might as well be mine. She’s been that kind to me. If my mother knew about my morbid third eye, she would tie me to a stake and light the flames just trying to usher the dark side out of me. And, well, considering the fact my mother has a way of spreading an errant word around town—you would think she were aspiring to be the biggest gossip Honey Hollow has ever seen—I’m not too sorry I’ve never broached the subject with her. But Nell seemed as understanding as she was intrigued, not one ounce of judgment spilled over from that woman. I’m not sure why I told Nell and not my sisters, or Keelie, Nell’s granddaughter and my BFF, but something about Nell’s sweet round face has the power to pull even the darkest secret from my soul.
“What’s the matter?” Merilee chides with a bony hand set over an equally bony hip. “Cat got your tongue?”
I glance down at the curious cute little kitty. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it does. I’m guessing luck is on my side today.” And not yours, I want to say. “I’ll see you ladies in court.” I bite down a smile as I give one last look to the tiny poltergeist licking its ghostly paws.
Who knows? Maybe Merilee will trip on the courthouse stairs—and if she does, I hope to see it.
Aw heck, maybe she’ll skin a knee.
Chapter 2
Ashford County is less than twenty minutes down the highway, and unlike Honey Hollow with its houses tucked against the evergreens, Ashford is more of your urban sprawl, complete with a few high-rises downtown and a nice little brick building next to the courthouse that reads World’s Best Coffee. And seeing that I have a few minutes to spare, I make a beeline toward that java-laden establishment in hopes to give me the proper energy I’ll need to see me through this inglorious day. But as horrible as getting called to court may be, it’s the furthest thing
from my scattered mind at the moment. I just can’t seem to get over those caramel apple pies waiting for me back at the Honey Pot Diner. I whipped up a few extra so Keelie and the rest of the staff could indulge in the ooey gooey good—
No sooner do I round the corner from the parking structure to the coffee shop than a brick wall of a body crashes into mine.
“Oh!” I cry as my purse goes flying as does his briefcase, only to clash all on their own before exploding like a paper filled and blessed by Sephora’s finest offerings piñata. A plethora of office supplies and lipsticks rain down over us—in my defense, I had no idea what shade of red went best with a not guilty plea, thus the half dozen or so tubes of MAC pelting us like lethargic bullets. “I’m so sorry!” I pant over the dark-haired man with the body of a linebacker already busy scooping up his files posthaste.
“No, it’s fine, really,” he grumbles as if it were anything but.
“It’s not fine. I was so wrapped up thinking about caramel”—I quickly join him in scooping up the eight by ten slices of what feels like an entire Canadian forest sprawled at our feet—“and once I dive deep into the caramel apple pie corner of my mind, I may as well be on another planet entirely.”
A tube of lipstick begins to roll toward the gutter, and instinctively I dive over it, slapping it into submission with the palm of my hand. I may not mind secondhand clothes, but I’ve invested enough into my face to warrant a second car at this point. Nary a lipstick shall be lost on my watch.
I jerk my head up abruptly, and the top of my head hits him in the fun zone a little too hard.
“Geez,” he howls out in pain as he hobbles backward, protectively cupping his man parts while proceeding to straddle me awkwardly in the process.
“Dear heavens,” I pant, struggling to rise and accidentally giving him an inadvertent piggyback ride in the process. “Oh my God,” I cry as my back begs to cave in from the weight of his body.
“Hang on.” His voice rises in an unnatural way as if he were in fact speaking to a horse.
Dear Lord. Kill me. Here I am in the middle of downtown Ashford showing a grown man a bucking bronco of a good time.
“Let’s try this another way,” I say, dropping flat onto my stomach, and off he rockets, stumbling forward toward a dogwood bush and—oh no, his suit is far too nice to be embellished with twigs.
I grab onto his ankles, and he falls face-first into the border garden, his head and torso buried at least a foot deep in lavender hyacinths.
Okay, so holding onto his ankles wasn’t the brainstorm I had thought it would be.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he barks, struggling to right himself.
“Oh dear!” I stagger halfway up just as he backs out and pegs me in the forehead with his rock-hard behind and lands me flat on my back, knocking the wind right out of me.
“God Almighty,” he grunts, offering me a hand and, soon enough, we’re both back on our feet, face to scowling face. His hair is mussed and wild. His eyes are nothing but two irate blue flames, scalding me with their hatred.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my lips quivering as if I were about to cry. My head is pounding, and I feel as if I just crawled through a trench on the front lines, only to make it out half-alive.
“I’m sorry I ever got out of bed this morning.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, and it’s quickly becoming evident not only did I take down a well-dressed man but I took down an abnormally handsome one at that. He’s smooth skinned, just the right amount of stubble peppering his face, and he looks as if he’s got a half-decade on me at least.
“My name is Lottie Lemon, and if you don’t mind, I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee for the trouble.” It’s the least I could do after giving the front and back of his crotch such an enthusiastic hello with my face of all things. Gah!
Once I reiterate this entire fiasco to Keelie, I’m sure this day will go down in infamy as my most proficient foray in testosterone sciences.
“No,” he says, heading toward the coffee shop, and I don’t hesitate to whiz right next to him, suddenly thrown for a loop because I happened to have thought the shop was in the other direction. That might just be why we bumped into one another so violently.
“What do you mean no?” I say, zipping inside as he holds the door open for me and scuttling into the line. “Is that some kind of male machismo thing? Like you can’t have a woman buy a cup of coffee for you because it might stick a pin in your ego? Because I’m pretty sure the world has moved well past that point, and I promise you won’t suddenly have the need to use a feminine hygiene product just because someone with slightly more estrogen happened to spring for your cup of morning joe. You do realize that men and women are comprised of both estrogen and testosterone. In fact, at about the age of seventy, we equal out as far as the aforementioned hormones go, and there’s not a lot of gender difference hormonally speaking at that point. But, chances are, I won’t be standing next to you to buy that cup of coffee for you when you hit the big seven zero—so, if I were you, I’d take me up on my free latte right now in the present.” I step up to the barista waiting to take my order and nod over at him. “I’m buying for the two of us.”
“I said no.” His eyes slit to nothing. As if my little Kung Fu takedown outside didn’t infuriate him enough—my offer to make all of his java dreams come true has him wanting to rocket through the roof with that briefcase he’s clutching as if it had nuclear codes inside of it.
“Fine.” I put in my order and pay. And as soon as the barista asks for my name, I say it loud and proud. “L-O-T-T-I-E”—I turn back at the aggressively handsome, aggressively angry well-suited man and smile—“It’s Lottie. I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“I didn’t give it.” His lips twitch in the right direction, but there’s not a hint of a smile.
So irritating.
I step aside as he puts in his order, keeping an ear open to hear his name once he shouts it over the counter. I just had an impromptu meet and greet with that man’s family jewels and had his backside give me a spontaneous high-five over the forehead. I’m not leaving this establishment until I at least get his initials.
But as fate, or my luck as it were, would have it, the barista doesn’t ask. She simply flirts and giggles in his presence as I’m sure women and girls alike are prone to do. My guess is he’s a regular anyways. As soon as my drink is ready, I take my time near the creamers, rearrange the straws and the napkins until his cup lands on the pick-up counter, and then I see it in black and white but don’t believe it.
I tiptoe over on the balls of my feet, and my mouth falls open as he scoops it up with pride. He flexes the cup my way so I can get a better look.
“Mr. Sexy?” I flatline. Gone is the apologetic schoolgirl and come to stay is the hardened-by-life New Yorker that took up residence in me during my short tenure there. Every now and again she likes to make a reprisal and, believe you me, she’s a barrel of F-U-N.
“That’s right.” He gives a subtle wink as he makes his way to the door. “Do yourself and everyone else a favor and watch where you’re going, would you? You could walk into a real disaster if you’re not careful.”
A gasp gets locked in my throat, and I choke on a half a dozen comebacks. “You watch where you’re going! And if I were you, I’d consider investing in a jock strap!” Okay, so that’s not how I envisioned that would go, but, for whatever it’s worth, it felt good to take down his ego a notch.
The barista and—come to think of it—just about every other patron in the establishment is ogling at me as if I just told off the Almighty Himself.
I avert my eyes at the thought. I bet that man was nothing more than some nine-to-five pencil pusher ready to submit to his cubicle prison cell. He’s got a sentence of roughly forty years, and I can’t say I feel too sorry for him.
I head out the door and up the steps to the Ashford County Courthouse.
Mr. Sexy.
I’ve got another name
for him, and it’s not nearly as generous.
Read more now! Cutie Pies and Deadly Lies (Murder in the Mix 1) Happy reading!
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Cozy Mysteries
Country Cottage Mysteries
Kittyzen’s Arrest (Country Cottage Mysteries 1)
Dog Days of Murder (Country Cottage Mysteries 2)
Santa Claws Calamity (Country Cottage Mysteries 3)
Bow Wow Big House (Country Cottage Mysteries 4)
Murder Bites (Country Cottage Mysteries 5)
Felines and Fatalities (Country Cottage Mysteries 6)
Murder in the Mix Mysteries
Cutie Pies and Deadly Lies (Murder in the Mix 1)
Bobbing for Bodies (Murder in the Mix 2)
Pumpkin Spice Sacrifice (Murder in the Mix 3)
Gingerbread & Deadly Dread (Murder in the Mix 4)
Seven-Layer Slayer (Murder in the Mix 5)
Red Velvet Vengeance (Murder in the Mix 6)
Santa Claws Calamity (Country Cottage Mysteries Book 3) Page 17
