I think for a moment, running through the mental list of people who might have wanted Duncan Whitmore dead. “I guess that would have been Muffin, but she already spoke to Noah.” I shake my head, feeling that unfortunate tingle that means I’m about to ignore everyone’s advice and investigate anyway. “Hey, I bet Duncan’s hippie sister can tell us a thing or two.”
Even if that thing or two leads right back to Muffin, and sadly, I’m afraid it might.
“Bun Bun, who’s no fun fun?” Carlotta asks, perking up with interest. “Why, I know where we can find her.” She wastes no time in diving into her purse with enthusiasm as if she were about to produce a rabbit from a hat.
“Where’s that?” I ask, though I’m slightly afraid of the answer.
Carlotta pulls out a crumpled flyer that looks like it’s been through several washing machine cycles and possibly used as a coaster. “Right here. She’s at Honey Lake giving a lecture on her granola-crunching ways. Wellness and Wisdom from the Wild Side, apparently. Probably teaching people how to commune with nature while avoiding carbs.”
I study the wrinkled paper, which features a photo of a woman who looks like she gets her fashion advice from Mother Earth herself and her nutritional guidance from tree bark.
Well, I’m definitely in the mood to hear all about her granola-crunching ways, and hopefully get an earful about who—other than Muffin—might have wanted Duncan dead enough to make him a permanent resident of the chocolate factory in the sky.
LOTTIE
Monday afternoon at Honey Lake smells like abandoned cotton candy and the faint scent of funnel cake clinging to the breeze.
The fairgrounds stretch out before us in all their post-festival glory—looking like the morning after a particularly enthusiastic sugar binge. Everything sits exactly where it was left yesterday after the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Festival, because apparently, the cleanup crew decided not to stick around after a killer showed up.
The lake shimmers in the afternoon sun, loaded with boats and water toys of every variety. Jet skis bob next to paddle boats, while inflatable Easter bunnies drift aimlessly between fishing boats. The woods beyond the lake look verdant and glorious, standing watch over the water like leafy guard dogs with serious boundary issues.
But what really catches my eye are the mansions scattered along this side of the lake. One in particular makes me do a double take—it’s the size of a small hotel and probably costs more than my bakery will hope to earn in revenue for its entire existence. This just so happens to be where Gina mentioned she and Fairbanks purchased their new “home.” If you can call something the size of a resort hotel a home. Isuppose when you’re drowning in chocolate money, square footage becomes just another number on the tax bill.
It’s funny because I don’t remember seeing the mansion there before, but then if you have enough money, things like that can go up overnight.
The twins are squirming to life in their stroller, making noises that suggest they’re either hungry, uncomfortable, or plotting their next assault on my sleep schedule. Probably all three.
Lyla Nell turns around to get a better look at them. “Shh, shh,” she whispers, patting their tiny hands. “Be good little boys. Or I’m going tospankyou!” she says that last part with a bite. And a bite she seems to relish.
“Atta girl, Little Yippy!” Carlotta announces with the satisfaction of a woman who has just successfully corrupted a minor. For the life of me, I have no idea why Carlotta insists on referring to children as Little Yippies. “From here on out, it’s your job to keep the rest of the Little Yippers in line.”
I elbow her as we move along. “Carlotta, try not to do anything to draw unwanted attention to yourself, would you?”
“Me?” She blinks with exaggerated innocence. “When have I ever drawn unwanted attention?”
“Would you like the list alphabetically or chronologically?” I mutter, already regretting bringing her along. “Just... try to blend in with the wellness crowd. Pretend you care about chakras or something.”
“Oh, honey, I care deeply about certain chakras.” Carlotta unleashes a wicked grin. “Especially the ones located in the lower regions.”
I close my eyes and count to three, reminding myself that murder is wrong even when it’s justifiable.
Sometimes I wonder if nature or nurture is responsible for my talent for finding dead bodies. Looking at Carlotta—who could find trouble in a convent—I’m definitely leaning toward genetics.
“As I said,” I sigh hard at the lake, “try not to do anything to drawanyattention to yourself.”
“You’re the one whipping out her boobs for all to see wherever you go. If I did that, you’d have me arrested.”
“You made a habit of that long before I ever started nursing,” I point out. “And you’re right—I so should have had you arrested.” Like the day she walked back into my life.
Lenny materializes beside us in his usual spray of blue sparkles, because evidently ghostly lions don’t believe in subtle entrances. Carlotta’s eyes immediately light up with the kind of interest that means trouble for everyone involved.
“Well, hello there, gorgeous,” she purrs at him. “You know, the way the sunlight hits your mane is making me want to?—”
“Lottie?”
I’ve never been so glad to hear an interruption.
A familiar voice calls my name, and I turn to see my mother hopping our way with enough chipper energy that can only mean trouble. Yes, she and Carlotta have lots and lots of trouble in common.
