I pull into a parking space and duck out into the falling snow.
“Oh! Hey!” Amy waves when I enter one of the warm greenhouses.
“Did Hollis mention I was coming?” I greet her.
“No,” she says, confused. “I’m glad you caught me. I was about to head out to the Bake-Off.”
“It’s crazy down there. Also, there’s not a leaf of mint anywhere in town.”
“Oh,” she says. “Weird. Well, what kind of mint do you want? We have spearmint, chocolate mint, pineapple mint, banana mint—Hollis was just up here earlier. It’s too bad she didn’t realize that y’all were out. It would have saved you a trip.”
“I think just regular mint?” I shrug.
“Boo! I have lemon mint and water mint and—oh, Mycroft, you need to stay away from my pumpkins!”
The guinea pig is half hanging out of his basket, little rodent mouth open to snag a bite of a pretty white-and-yellow-swirled pumpkin.
“That looks like Cinderella’s carriage.” I admire it.
“He’s a hybrid.” Amy pats the pumpkin affectionately.
“You must be a Halloween girlie,” I remark. “It’s not even Christmas, and the pumpkins are out.”
“Getting started on next year’s batch. So don’t ruin my hard work.” Amy snuggles the guinea pig.
“Oh, do you two know each other?”
“Hollis brings him by sometimes when she’s babysitting.” She snips off a few leaves and feeds them to the guinea pig, who scarfs them down.
“If you have any reject pumpkins,” I tell her, “I’ve been wanting to make pumpkin tarts at the shop. Taylor Grace thought it was a stupid idea, but apparently, I don’t have to listen to her anymore.”
“No!” Amy barks at me. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, okay, sorry.” I take a step back.
Amy softens. “Sorry to scare you, but never eat squash that’s not from seeds. You can get cucurbit poison—toxic squash syndrome. Only eat squash you grow from a seed that you buy,” she says urgently.
“Well, I’m not a gardener, so I don’t think that will be a problem,” I joke.
“Guinea pigs can have them, though,” Amy coos and feeds Mycroft some more leaves. “I’ll give you a bag of clippings for him. And here’s some mint. I personally think that the apple mint will go amazing with your desserts. Good luck! I can’t wait to taste everything!”
I hum along to the Christmas carols on the radio while Lord Mycroft sits happily in his bed of lettuce leaves and munches.
“Not lettuce leaves,” I correct myself.
I turn the radio tuner to another Christmas station. Yeah, Gran’s old-school, no touch screens in this car. Or airbags, either, so I need to be careful.
In the side-view mirror, I see a huge pickup truck going pretty fast. It speeds past me and clips the side of the Cadillac. I scream as the car jerks. The Cadillac swerves as I try to regain control on the icy road. We fishtail into a snowbank on the side of the road.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” I repeat over and over.
The truck doesn’t even slow. I watch the taillights speed down the country road.
“Oh my gosh, did someone try to kill us?” I shriek at the guinea pig. “Help!” I call forlornly into the forest. “Oh, no, your salad is all over the floor.”
My hands are shaking. I don’t know why I’m fixated on the salad. I need to call 911, right? Wait, Gran doesn’t have this thing insured. I need to phone a friend. I dial Hollis.
“Hey, where are you?” she asks.
