For once, I agree with him. Actually, Noah and I often agree on this very point. Not that it means anything to anyone.
I clear my throat, recognizing the signs of an impending Lemon-Fox territorial dispute. In my professional opinion, Noah has approximately zero chance of keeping Lemon out of this investigation, but I admire his optimism.
“Never mind the dead.” Carlotta waves off Noah before turning to me. “So, Hot Stuff with a gavel,” she grins my way, “got something you want to confess? Are you ready to drop your drawers for a charity spread in the upcoming calendar?”
The question hits me with the force of a surprise motion from opposing counsel. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, please, don’t act so innocent,” Carlotta continues with unholy glee. “I overheard Muffin talking to Foxy here about the photo shoot. Something about seeing him in nothing but—what was it again, Foxy?”
Noah takes a moment to glower at her. “She may have mentioned something about a deerstalker cap and a strategically placed magnifying glass.”
Lemon gasps so hard she nearly drops her donut. “A STRATEGICALLY PLACED WHAT?”
“For the detective theme,” Noah flexes a brief smile. “I’m sure it will be ‘artistically authentic.’“ He winks her way as if to egg her on, and my frown deepens as I take a moment to glare at him.
“Authentic to what?” Lemon demands. “Sherlock Holmes Gone Wild?”
I tip my head his way. “Well, that’s one way to solve the mystery of what you look like naked.”
“Your Honor,” Noah shoots back, clearly desperate to deflect. “What exactly is Muffin planning for your judicial theme? A gavel and good intentions?”
“I’m hoping I can keep my robe on.” Though given how this week has gone, I should probably just accept that my clothing is purely decorative at this point.
“On but open,” Carlotta adds with a hopeful gleam in her eye. “The contrast between formal and scandalous really sells calendars. Ask me how I know.”
Lemon grunts, “Carlotta, maybe we should discuss this later?—”
“Why later? It’s for a good cause.” Carlotta waves dismissively once again. “Besides, we both know Sexy here has nothing to be ashamed of. Those shoulders, that jawline. With those steamy pictures, he’s going to sell calendars faster than hotcakes.”
“Daddy pictures!” Lyla Nell chimes, holding up a donut hole. “Pretty Daddy!”
I feel my composure slipping slightly. The idea of posing for photographs while the photographer is involved in a homicide strikes me as ethically questionable at best. But before I can formulate an appropriate response, the bakery door chimes and Evie bounces in, followed closely by her best friend Dash.
Evie has inherited my height and her mother’s energy, a combination that makes her formidable in ways I’m still learning to navigate. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing what appears to be beach attire—shorts, a tank top, and the kind of enthusiasm that only college students possess.
“Hey, guys!” she calls out before wrapping her arms around both Lemon and me for a quick hug. “We’re ready to hit the lake!”
Dash, a petite blonde with enough energy to caffeinate a city, nods enthusiastically. “It’s like the perfect day for it. Plus, the killer already got their victim, so we should, like, be totally safe.”
I frown at her without meaning to. I’m not buying that logic by a landslide. Whoever killed Duncan Whitmore might just be hungry for fresh blood this morning.
“Never underestimate a killer,” Lemon says.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say, toasting her with my coffee.
Carlotta harumphs. “Who cares about killers?” She nods to the girls. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t hang out at Honey Lake. The weather is warm enough to melt the mascara right off your eyelashes. Just bring a radio, a tub of margarine to slather all over your bodies, your best boy toys, and you’re all set to go.”
The mention of boy toys makes me growl. Evie has been dating Conner Saint for years—and the jury is still very much out on the saint part of that equation—while Dash has been seeing Conner’s best friend Kyle for approximately the same amount of time. The idea of these young men spending the day at the lake with my daughter and her friend, all of them in bathing suits, makes my blood pressure spike.
I’m a man. I know exactly where a guy’s mind tends to wander when presented with young women in bikinis. All the time.
“Just be careful,” I manage, employing the same tone I use when instructing juries on reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt disappears faster than good sense when hormone-drunk teenage boys are involved.
Evie waves off my concern with the casual dismissal that only teenagers can master. “Dad, relax. We just drove past the lake. The place is crawling with sheriff’s deputies. We’ll be fine.” Her expression brightens even further. “Actually, we have great news!”
Lemon’s eyes widen a notch, her expression caught somewhere between fascination and terror. It’s the same look she gets when supernatural warnings appear.
“Great news?” she asks cautiously.
