Bunny glances over with mild concern, but thankfully continues our conversation. “Duncan was always driven. Sometimes I worriedhe was too focused on business and not enough on family relationships.”
“Speaking of relationships,” I say, deciding to dive into murkier waters, “I understand Duncan’s wife Muffin writes romance novels? I witnessed that whole spectacle yesterday. I really felt bad for your sister-in-law, but I could hear the hurt in your brother’s voice, too.”
Bunny’s expression shifts to something I can only describe as scandalized amusement mixed with the guilty pleasure of someone who’s discovered a particularly juicy secret. “Oh, that woman and her books! I have to admit, I’ve read every single one of them—all twelve novels, plus the three novellas she published under yet another pseudonym. I read them purely for research purposes, you understand.” She leans in closer, once again. “At first, I thought I should read them to make sure she wasn’t writing anything too scandalous about our family. But then I got completely hooked! The woman writes like she’s documenting her own personal experiences, and she is. Those affairs in her books? They’re not fiction. She’s writing what she knows.” She nods assuredly. “I’ll be the first to tell you, she has some very creative ideas about what constitutes marital fidelity.”
Bunny glances around to make sure no one’s listening. “Her latest series,Passion in the Provinces,features a chocolate heiress who has affairs with her tennis instructor, her personal trainer, and her husband’s business partner. Sound familiar? Because I recognized the country club where she sets most of the steamy scenes, and that business partner character drives the exact same car as her ex-boyfriend Marcus.” She shakes her head with a mixture of admiration and horror. “The woman has turned her extramarital adventures into a profitable literary career. I have to respect the entrepreneurial spirit, even if I question the moral compass.”
Lenny’s ears perk up. “Muffin was trouble from day one. Even Richard warned Duncan about her, but he was too smitten to listen.”
“The current boyfriend situation is particularly interesting,” Bunny continues. “She’s been carrying on with her ex-boyfriend for months. Duncan knew, of course. And you said yourself you heard him confront her about it yesterday at the festival.”
“Do you think Muffin did this?” I ask, watching her reaction for any clues.
Bunny considers this for a moment. “Maybe. She certainly had motive—Duncan was threatening divorce, which would have cost her millions. I’d say her boyfriend did it, but he’s on a cruise for his brother’s bachelor party.”
I make a mental note to double-check that cruise alibi. In my experience, convenient alibis usually aren’t what they seem.
“That woman has secrets darker than midnight,” Lenny adds ominously. “Don’t trust her tears when you question her.”
A loud crash interrupts our conversation, followed by Carlotta’s voice booming across the tent. “Poop on a poop cracker!” she honks. “It’s raining dandelion tea!”
“What?” I practically shout as I turn that way and nearly unlatch both the twins from their milk guzzling posts, and sure enough, brown rain is coming down on a majority of the crowd huddled near what was the refreshment table.
Women start screaming about their clothes and purses getting soaked. And Bunny looks torn between maintaining our conversation or managing the crisis unfolding before us.
“That’s my... uh,friend,” I explain with the resignation of someone who’s learned to accept chaos as a constant companion—one named Carlotta Sawyer. There’s no way I’m claiming Carlotta as a family relation right now. “She means well, but she has a talent for turning peaceful situations into disaster zones.”
“Your so-called friend is causing quite the stir,” Lenny growls. “I can hear her from here, and I’m dead.”
Bunny excuses herself briefly to check on the commotion, and I strain to hear the disaster management unfolding across the tent.
“Ladies, please remain calm.” Bunny’s soothing voice carries over the chaos. “Dandelion tea is completely organic and actually quite beneficial when absorbed through the skin?—”
“Beneficial?” a woman shrieks. “I look like I’ve been mud wrestling with a hippie!”
It’s true. The tea seems to be soaked into the dirt on the ground, and for some reason, it’s created a splash zone of muddy proportions.
“Now, now.” Carlotta’s voice booms once again, and I cringe because of it. “Mud wrestling builds character! Plus, you’re getting a free exfoliation treatment. Do you know how much fancy spas charge for mud wraps?”
“This isn’t a spa!” the woman protests. “And this mess is all over my white linen pants!”
“Think of it as tie-dye with health benefits,” Carlotta explains cheerfully. “You’re pioneering a whole new fashion trend—wellness couture!”
Bunny tries to regain control. “Perhaps if we just blot gently with some clean towels?—”
“Blotting is for amateurs!” Carlotta announces. “I’m implementing the full-coverage approach.” She scoops up a few handfuls of mud off the ground and raises her fists like the muddy threats they are. “If we get everyone’s clothes the same poopy hue, then it becomes a group aesthetic choice instead of a laundry disaster!”
She does have a point, right before doing a little old-fashioned mudslinging.
Oh, good grief. How has she not been arrested by now? Or murdered. Mostly murdered.By yours truly.
“Stop attacking me with that terrible tea!” someone pleads as the sound of splashing echoes through the tent.
“I’m not attacking, I’m revolutionizing,” Carlotta shoots back. “This is better than any coffee scrub I’ve ever used, and I once paid fifty dollars to have someone rub espresso grounds on my thighs and call it cellulite therapy. I’m still lumpy and bumpy in case you were wondering.”
I can attest to that.
“That’s completely different!” another voice wails.
