Solving Duncan Whitmore’s murder is starting to look easy compared to preventing Carlotta from accidentally becoming Vermont’s most notorious chocolate-covered exotic dancer.
Some things are just inevitable.
Like Carlotta landing in a puddle of chocolate.
And me catching a killer.
LOTTIE
Wednesday morning arrives with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, because nobody who resides under my roof slept last night.
The twins still think that nighttime is for amateur sleepers, and they spent the dark hours tag-teaming their assault on my sanity and Everett’s with the precision of tiny torturers who’ve been studying advanced interrogation techniques.
Lyla Nell joined their nocturnal rebellion by wandering into our bedroom at three A.M., asking if we could make pancakes “for the ghost kitty” because apparently our supernatural visitor has developed opinions about breakfast service. Then, around five in the morning, Carlotta started shouting something in her sleep about those leashes being too tight and someone moving too fast—at least I hope it was a dream. I don’t really want to know what happens behind closed doors in her bedroom.
And on top of all that, the bakery was absolutely bonkers busy today. I couldn’t keep my coconut bunny cupcakes in stock no matter how fast I baked them. Part of it is my mother’s fault. She owns and runs the Honey Hollow Bed and Breakfast, which just so happens tobe haunted. And you can bet yourbettingbritches that Miranda Lemon has capitalized on that haunted fact with a capital C.
So once she finishes with tourists for the Haunted Honey Hollow B&B Tour, she sends them my way for what she calls The Last Thing They Ate Tour. Suffice it to say, whatever baked good unwittingly participated in a recent homicide sells like hotcakes—or in this case, adorable little Easter bunny cupcakes with their coconut fur and chocolate chip eyes.
Yes, that whole murder-victim-found-noshing-on-one-of my-sweet-treats thing has happened before, and for some reason, I can’t seem to stop it from happening again and again. And again.
Suze has spent the entire day razzing me about my “murder pastries” and suggesting I add a crime scene section to my display case.
“You could call it Death by Chocolate,” she says with a cackle. “Or Killer Cupcakes. Think of the marketing potential!”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Who cares about dessert,” Lily says. “I want to know who you met up with in a dark alley.”
I glance at my reflection in the stainless steel pastry refrigerator next to the counter and grunt. No amount of foundation could hide this purple welt. In fact, it somehow made it look worse.
Effie sniffs my way while putting together a tray of sugar cookies decorated to look like Easter eggs. “Who do I have to kill, Lottie?”
“Did Noah and Everett finally duke it out over you?” Suze asks. “Because that’s a serious shiner.”
“Did you step into the middle of their love triangle brawl?” Lily adds with a sigh as if it was the height of romance.
“I got kicked in the face by Carlotta swinging from a chandelier,” I’m quick to tell them.
All three women blink at me.
“That’s actually worse than stepping in the middle of two men duking it out for you,” Effie says.
“Way worse,” Lily agrees. “Getting punched breaking up a lovetriangle sounds heroic. Getting kicked by your own mother during aerial stunts just sounds like your life.”
“Pretty much,” I mutter.
The afternoon drifts by, and oddly, Noah and Everett receive texts from Muffin asking them to stop by after work for some kinky calendar photography—my words, not hers, but I’m betting the thought wasn’t far from her mind. Talk about creative ways to take your mind off your grief. But then, with a husband like Duncan, especially after the way he humiliated her, I gather she’s not grieving much anyway.
But I digress. Noah and Everett invited me along, because watching my “husbands” pose for what amounts to beefcake photography seemed like an excellent way to spend a Wednesday evening.
Carlotta tags along because she never misses an opportunity to watch attractive men remove clothing, regardless of the circumstances or appropriateness of the situation. My mother and Wiley graciously offered to babysit at my house, which makes everything a thousand times easier and spares me from dragging three small children to what will inevitably become a crime scene—with me as the killer. Hey, it’s not my fault. I’m not too keen on other women ogling my men.Man. Okay, fine, I meant men.
The Whitmore Estate holds the scent of expensive horse feed, luxury leather, and the lingering scent of money that’s been cultivating itself for generations. The air carries hints of fresh hay mixed with whatever imported cologne wealthy people use to mask the reality that they still live in Vermont. Sounds of horses neighing in the distance blend with the gentle evening breeze rustling through maple trees, and believe me, that’s about the only wholesome thing brewing around here.
The Whitmore Estate is exactly what you’d expect from a chocolate empire built on Swiss precision and American excess. The main mansion rises from the landscape with the confidence of architecture that’s never had to worry about mortgage payments, while working ranch elements—stables, paddocks, and rustic barns—spread acrossthe property with the kind of authenticity that only serious money can buy.
Muffin greets us at the front entrance wearing what can only be described as photographer chic—expensive camera equipment draped around her neck, hair pulled back into an artfully messy bun, and an outfit that suggests she’s either about to document wildlife or seduce it. And seeing that Noah and Everett are the wildlife in question, I’m betting it’s the latter.
