“I’m hoping to start shooting soon. Are you still willing to participate?”
The question catches me slightly off guard. Posing for a charity calendar while investigating the photographer’s husband’s murder has to violate some kind of professional protocol, but I can’t think of which one. The wordsmorally gray areacome to mind.
“Just keep me posted on your schedule,” I tell her. “And let me know what to wear.” And hopefully, I will be wearing a lot.
“I will.” She stands, gathering her purse. “Thank you for listening. And for treating me like a person instead of a suspect.”
“Take care of yourself,” I say. “I know this is a difficult time.”
“And Noah?” She leans my way another notch. “For that photo shoot, you won’t need to wear much more than a deerstalker cap anda magnifying lens.” Her lips curve a notch before she sweeps out the door.
I watch her walk away, and my brain takes a moment to process what just happened. Did she just casually inform me that I’m going to be practically naked for this charity calendar? While discussing a murder investigation? The woman has interesting timing.
I’m posing nearly nude with detective props? This day keeps getting stranger.
My desk back at the station is covered with budget reports, court testimony prep, and three other cases that were priorities until yesterday afternoon. But this homicide investigation just jumped to the top of the pile.
I glance over at Lot, who seems to be arguing with Carlotta about something involving Easter decorations and appropriate public behavior. In about five minutes, she’s going to start asking me questions about the case, and in about ten minutes, she’s going to decide she needs to solve it herself.
Which means I’d better solve it fast, before the love of my life gets herself killed trying to catch a killer who’s already proven they’re not afraid to use a knife.
EVERETT
The late morning sunlight streams through the bakery windows, casting everything in a warm glow that should be peaceful but absolutely isn’t.
The Cutie Pie is in full Easter chaos mode—Suze is juggling three phone orders while frosting cupcakes and Lily is trying to restock the display case while dodging Effie, who’s wielding the coffee pot like a weapon against anyone who gets between her and the espresso machine.
“I’m just saying,” Carlotta announces loud enough for half of Vermont to hear, “a woman has needs. And my needs include both cinnamon rolls AND attractive men in various states of undress.”
“That’s your third cinnamon roll,” Lemon points out, looking remarkably put together for someone managing twins and a bakery during Easter week. She’s got Lyla Nell on her hip, who’s systematically destroying a chocolate bunny with the focused intensity of a tiny demolition expert. Somehow Lemon still manages to look drop-dead gorgeous—though I might be biased, given that I’m legally bound to her in holy matrimony and completely smitten.
“Your point?” Carlotta asks, already eyeing a fourth. “Some of us have healthy appetites. Speaking of which, when exactly is thiscalendar photo shoot? I need to clear my schedule for optimal ogling time.”
“Ogle!” Lyla Nell shouts, chocolate covering most of her face. “Ogle, ogle, ogle!”
“Great,” Lemon mutters. “Now she’s learned a new word.”
The twins are still sleeping in their stroller beside me—a minor miracle that defies all legal precedent and previous evidence. Ozzy’s tiny fist is curled against his cheek while Corbin has somehow managed to twist himself into a position that looks physically impossible but seems to work for him. I’m not moving a muscle until they wake up, because disturbing sleeping infants ranks somewhere between perjury and judicial misconduct in terms of crimes I’m not willing to commit.
“You’re not invited to the photo shoot,” Lemon tells Carlotta firmly, then turns to where Noah sits and she seems startled to see he’s now alone.
Muffin Whitmore just left after her interview with him—the one and only suspect in the town’s latest homicide case that Lemon will no doubt want to champion all on her own. Little does she know that it will happen over my dead body. We have a family to think of. I not only have the deep desire to protect Lemon, but I’m determined to protect them, too.
Noah comes over and plops back into his seat before taking Lyla Nell back into his arms. And she gets right to work, constructing what appears to be a miniature city out of donut holes and is providing detailed commentary about the structural integrity of her creation. They share the same reddish hair, same green eyes, same dimples, same tendencies to destroy their meals before gobbling down every last bite.
“How did it go with Muffin?” Lemon asks Noah, wiping chocolate from Lyla Nell’s face with efficiency despite the fact that she claims she’s given up on keeping toddlers clean.
Noah’s expression shifts to his detective face—the one I’ve seen in court when he’s about to deliver crucial testimony. “She seemedhonest. Innocent, even.” He pauses, frowning. “And decidedly vague about her whereabouts after Duncan’s announcement.”
“Vague how?” Lemon presses, leaning forward with that look that means she’s already mentally investigating.
“Lot.” Noah’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “You need to steer clear of this case. I mean it.”
The temperature in the bakery seems to drop several degrees. Even Carlotta stops mid-bite of her fourth cinnamon roll to watch this exchange.
“You can’t be serious,” Lemon says, her voice dangerously quiet.
“Dead serious,” Noah replies, matching her tone. “This isn’t some small-town drama. The Whitmores have money, connections, and someone just stuck a knife in Duncan’s chest. You have three kids to think about.”
