“Did I hear you say hunk? A hunk of burning love?” Carlotta practically purrs, appearing at our table with uncanny speed and a nose for inappropriate topics. There’s no way Carlotta could have heard that—wait, scratch that. If it concerns men of any kind, Carlotta seems to have the ability to hear a conversation clear in another county, let alone outside my bakery walls. “Count me in, sis!”
Muffin manages a weak laugh, the first genuine expression I’ve seen from her since she walked in. “Actually, I was hoping to countNoah and Everett in. A homicide detective and a judge would fit perfectly in the calendar.”
Carlotta whoops and claps her hands together. “Now we’re talking! Foxy and Sexy as calendar hunks? I’ll buy a dozen copies!”
“No way are they doing something like that,” I point out, hoping that both Carlotta and Muffin will move on to bigger and better fantasies. But let’s face it, there’s nothing bigger and better than Noah and Everett, especially bare-chested.
Suze, Lily, and Effie abandon their posts and migrate over to our table, drawn by the promise of entertainment and the possibility of embarrassing me further. Both a reality that I’m guessing is about to unfold.
“Oh, this is rich.” Suze grins. “Everyone knows Lottie is far too possessive to share her men. She kills anyone who looks at them sideways.”
“Literally, apparently,” Lily adds. “Remember that woman at the farmers’ market who asked Everett for his number?”
“She didn’t die!” I protest. “She just... moved away. Voluntarily.”
“After you accidentally spilled hot coffee on her,” Effie reminds me. “Twice.”
“That was a complete accident,” I say as I cringe. Because it was less of an accident and more of an if I’m going to spill it, I may as well spill in her direction type of a deal.
“Both times?” Suze raises an eyebrow.
“Regardless, I’m not possessive,” I declare, though even I don’t sound convinced. “And just to prove it, they’d both be happy to pose for the calendar.” I pause, realizing how that might sound to just serve up both Noah and Everett who look slightly amused and equally very much unamused at the very same time. “Clothed, of course,” I add for clarification in the event the fine print was written in the nude.
Muffin laughs—a real laugh this time. “You bet they will be. I’m photographing hunks, not starting a scandal.”
“That’s a shame,” Carlotta mutters. “Everyone knows a good scandal sells.”
Noah clears his throat, decidingthis conversation has veered far enough off course. “Muffin, are you ready to start this investigation? I know this is difficult timing.”
“It’s perfect timing,” she counters. “I’m anxious to clear my name.” She straightens her shoulders. “I realize I’m the obvious suspect here. Publicly humiliated wife plus dead husband equals prime murder material.”
“How about we take a seat by the window,” Noah suggests, gesturing toward a quieter corner of the bakery. “We can talk privately.”
“Daddy, bye-bye,” Lyla Nell shouts as she swipes the last donut from his plate and squeals with delight. “Mine!”
As they move away from our group, I can’t help but think that between the big buildup to Easter, calendar hunks, and homicide investigations, this Monday is shaping up to be a Monday indeed.
Because in Honey Hollow, springtime means chocolate bunnies, Resurrection Sunday, and apparently, at least one fresh corpse.
NOAH
Isettle back in my chair and pull out my digital recorder, placing it on the small table between Muffin and me.
The morning light streams through the bakery window, highlighting the exhaustion and strain on her face. Her red curls are pinned behind her ears, and her makeup looks smudged as if she slept in it. Behind us, I can hear Lottie and her crew still bantering about something, but I choose to tune them out. It’s time to get to work.
“Do you mind if I record this?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle but professional enough. Muffin Whitmore just agreed to tell me all she knows about her husband’s homicide that occurred less than twenty-four hours ago, and right after he embarrassed her in front of the entire town—heck, the entire state of Vermont, for that matter. And yet she still looks every bit the part of someone who is grieved. “It helps me keep everything straight.”
“Of course.” Muffin nods immediately. “I want everything on the record.”
Her eagerness strikes me as either completely innocent or carefully calculated. In my experience, the guilty ones usually want lawyers present before they’ll even spell their names, while the innocent ones can’t wait to clear things up. The question is, whichcategory does Muffin fall into? As it stands, she’s projecting innocence pretty darn well.
Lyla Nell claps and laughs from across the way, and even offers me a thumbs-up before Everett scoops her into his lap. I nod his way in thanks. If anything can distract me from doing my job, it’s my baby girl.
“Let’s start with the basics,” I say, pressing record. “Full name and current address.”
“Margaret Elizabeth Whitmore. I live at 42 Lakeshore Drive.” Her voice is steady despite the obvious emotional toll of the last twenty-four hours.
“How long were you married to Duncan?”
