The rich burgundy leather and dark wood paneling of my chambers create an atmosphere of judicial gravitas that I’ve spent years cultivating. It usually intimidates people into behaving themselves.
Noah is not most people. It only seems to spur him in the opposite direction.
“What do you want?” I grunt, leaning back in my chair. “My generosity is quickly waning.”
“It’s about the case.” He shakes his head as if he’s been dealing with more than his fair share of bureaucratic nonsense. “I’m running a full toxicology panel on Duncan Whitmore and having the coroner re-examine the body.”
My chest thumps with what might be amusement if I were the type of man who found humor in murder investigations. “So, you’re finally doing what the public pays you to do. Is that the big announcement?”
“Very funny,” Noah replies, because obviously he doesn’t find me nearly as entertaining as I find myself. “I thought you’d want to know that I’m following up on your multiple cause of death theory.”
“My theory is that you should do your job thoroughly the first time instead of having to go back and fix your mistakes.”
“Says the man who’s letting his wife chase killers while nursing twins.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” I point out.
“So you admit I’m her husband.” He sheds an obnoxious grin.
“What’s your excuse for being here instead of solving crimes?”
“You.” Noah’s expression suggests he’s enjoying this verbal sparring more than he should. “How’s new father life treating you, anyway? Getting enough sleep?”
“Sleep is overrated when you have better things to do with your time.” I give him a look that clearly communicates we’re not discussing my personal life. “Besides, Lemon keeps me on my toes.”
“I bet she does.” Noah always seems to remind me that our situation is more complicated than most friendships. “She’s got a talent for finding trouble.”
“She’s got a talent for solving problems that the police can’t seem to handle.”
“Ouch.” Noah grins despite himself. “Are you questioning my investigative abilities?”
“I’m questioning everyone’s investigative abilities until this case is solved and my wife stops putting herself in danger.” I sigh hard. “Again, why are you really here?” I ask because Noah doesn’t make social calls during business hours, and I can tell there’s something else on his mind.
“Luke Lazzari,” Noah begins, but before he can continue, my secretary’s voice interrupts again.
“Judge Baxter? There’s a Mrs. Jolene Johnson here to see you.”
Noah and I exchange a glance that communicates our mutual understanding that this cannot possibly be good news. Before either of us can respond, the door to my chambers bursts open and a woman who looks like an older, more chemically enhanced version of Dash Johnson—Evie’s best friend— storms in with all the subtlety of a hurricane in heels.
Jolene Johnson has platinum blonde hair that’s been processed within an inch of its life, skin dyed a neon shade of orange that suggests she’s either been living in a tanning bed or has developed some kind of exotic medical condition related to carrots, and teeth so glowingly bright they look like they’re made of premium uranium and powered by their own internal lighting system.
She’s wearing a hot pink crop top that barely qualifies as clothing and matching leggings that appear to have been applied with a spray gun. The overall effect is like someone weaponized the color pink and aimed it directly at my retinas.
Jolene grins from ear to ear at both of us with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for people who’ve had too much caffeine and too little sleep. Or in her case, someone who spies two viable optionsfor the baby-making scheme she’s conjured up. I’d rather pose in that calendar with nothing but my gavel.
“Well, hello there, handsome!” she purrs at Noah. “You must be Detective Fox. Dashy sent me your picture, too.” Her gaze shifts between us with a touch too much hostile appreciation. “Are you two hot stuff or what? I feel like I just walked into a calendar shoot for Vermont’s Sexiest Public Servants.”
I sigh because the calendar thing seems to be haunting us.
“I just found out that insurance won’t be covering my little bun-in-the-oven project,” she continues with the cheerful tone as if discussing weekend plans. “So it looks like we’ll have to go at it the old-fashioned way!” She claps her hands together with carnal delight. “Which one of you bad boys wants to go first? I’m thinking we could set up some kind of rotation schedule. Very efficient, very organized. I’ve got a whole spreadsheet worked out.” She licks her lips as if she’s got a few other things worked out, too.
I stare at the woman—this walking, talking manifestation of everything that could possibly go wrong with Evie’s well-intentioned oddball matchmaking—and realize that being a respected judge who dispenses justice and upholds the law has not prepared me for dealing with a spray-tanned fertility enthusiast who wants to turn my life into some kind of reproductive lottery system.
This is what happens when you let teenagers make family planning decisions.
LOTTIE
Tuesday afternoon at the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery smells like happiness baked at 350 degrees.
