I gesture to the chaos surrounding us. “What you see is what you get. Duncan Whitmore, age forty-two, heir to a chocolate fortune, was found dead at the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Festival with an antique knife buried in his chest.”
“Suspects?”
“His wife, Muffin, had a very public fight with him at the festival. Witnesses say she accused him of cheating, the worddivorcewas tossed around, the usual marital bliss. He publicly humiliated her. Sheclaims she was alone in her car when he was killed, but her alibi’s got more holes than a screen door.”
Ivy leans forward. “That’s it? The knife belonged to Lottie Lemon’s deceased grandmother. It went missing from her cakewalk supplies, andshe’sthe one who found the body. So your girlfriend is a suspect, too—in case you missed the obvious.”
I give her a wry look. “Technically, she’s not my girlfriend, and she’s certainly not a suspect. Wrong place, wrong time.” According to that Elvis impersonator who married us last month, Lottie is my wife, but I keep that little funny tidbit to myself.
“If you say so.” Ivy’s tone suggests she thinks I’m being deliberately obtuse. “I want in on this case.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Fox—”
“I’ve got this, Ivy. This is my investigation.”
She stands up with the kind of fluid motion that reminds me she’s trained in about six different martial arts. “You know Lottie Lemon is going to solve this before we can, anyway, right? She always does. Maybe we should just deputize her and save ourselves the paperwork.”
“Lottie is a baker, not a detective,” I reply, though we both know that’s not entirely true. “She just has a very concerning talent for being in the wrong place at the right time.”
“Or the right place at the wrong time, depending on how you look at it.” Ivy heads for the door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when she cracks this case while you’re still shuffling papers.”
The door closes behind her with more force than necessary, leaving me alone with my stale coffee and growing suspicion that Everett might be onto something.
I pick up the phone and dial forensics.
“It’s Detective Fox,” I say as soon as they answer. “I need you to run a full toxicology panel on Duncan Whitmore... Yeah, I know you already did the standard workup, but I want everything. Every drug, every poison, every substance known to medical science... Because mygut says there’s more to this story.” And my gut’s name happens to be Everett Baxter.
I hang up and dial the coroner’s office.
“I need you to re-examine the Whitmore body for any other potential causes of death... I know he was stabbed, but humor me... Thanks.”
I check my watch. Still early enough to make a few more stops before calling it a night. Time to track down Luke Lazzari and find out what the heck a mobster was doing at a family-friendly festival.
On second thought, maybe I should drop by the county courthouse first and pay Judge Baxter a visit. If Everett’s got theories about multiple causes of death, I want to hear them before I go chasing down men who make people disappear for a living. Then I may want to hear all of Lottie’s theories, too.
Besides, it’ll give me an excuse to stop by the bakery on the way home and grab a few more of those coconut cupcakes. For investigative purposes, of course.
EVERETT
Tuesday afternoon in my chambers at the Honey Hollow County Courthouse feels like a sanctuary after yesterday’s chaos of family dinner and supernatural lion rides.
The familiar weight of legal responsibility settles around me as I sink into my leather chair, surrounded by the dark wood paneling and law books that usually provide both order and clarity.
Though I have to admit, even the most complex legal case seems simple compared to navigating life with Lemon and the beautiful chaos she brings to everything she touches. Some might say I’m addicted, and they would all be right.
I’m reviewing case briefs for tomorrow’s docket when my secretary’s voice crackles through the intercom, interrupting my analysis of a particularly tedious property dispute.
“Judge Baxter? Detective Fox is here to see you.”
I frown at the stack of legal documents spread across my mahogany desk. Noah showing up unannounced usually means either family drama or some investigative complication he’s run into. Given recent events, I’m betting on both.
“I’m feeling generous,” I tell her, setting aside a motion for summary judgment. “Send him in.”
Noah walks into my chambers looking perturbed, which, when it comes to me, is his natural state of being, and vice versa.
“You’re feeling generous?” He raises an eyebrow as he settles into one of the leather chairs across from my desk.
