“I might have to shut you down, too,” I tell him. “If I keep having your babies, I may never sleep again.”
“Speaking of children,” Everett says, reaching for his own breadstick, “Easter Sunday is this weekend. Are you ready?”
“Not quite,” I confess. “I’m going to spend the next few days putting together Easter baskets,” I say, mentally calculating how much chocolate I’ll need to purchase to properly celebrate the resurrection through sugar consumption. “And that includes baskets for Ava and Olivia, too.”
Everett’s expression softens at the mention of his twin daughters. “They’re planning to be at the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Festival on Sunday. It’ll be great to see them.”
Noah nods. “Rumor has it, there’s going to be a hundred-dollar golden egg hidden somewhere on the festival grounds.”
“That’s right. There will be!” Mayor Nash pipes up from the next table, having overheard our conversation despite being distracted by Carlotta’s animated discussion about who’s secretly dating whom in town and which couples she predicts will crash and burn before Memorial Day.
“What’s the age limit on the egg hunt?” I ask, only half-teasing.
“There isn’t one,” Mayor Nash replies with a grin. “May the best hunter win.”
We all share a quick laugh at the mental image of grown adults diving through bushes in pursuit of golden eggs.
“Knowing Carlotta, she’ll come up with the prize,” I say. “And if I get in her way, I’ll have another black eye.”
“Hey now,” Carlotta protests. “That black eye was an accident of momentum and poor spatial awareness. This time it would be intentional. Totally different.”
Everett growls her way.
“Hold your horses, Sexy. I only assault family members from chandeliers on Tuesdays. Your wife is safe until next week.”
Our food arrives with the perfect timing of Italian restaurants that have mastered the art of comfort and carbs. The pizza is exactly what my soul needs—thick crust swimming in pepperoni and enough cheese to trigger a dairy warning. The lasagna looks like it was constructed by architects who specialize in edible masterpieces.
Carlotta keeps firing quips about how Foxy and Sexy should really be photographed under better lighting— “preferably shirtless andpantless, preferably now”—while Lenny appears to be finishing off Mayor Nash’s chicken marsala.
“I’m eating awfully fast tonight,” Mayor Nash muses to himself with a look of confusion. “Geez, I must be inhaling my food. I don’t even remember taking half these bites.”
Lenny pauses mid-supernatural dining. “For someone who is engaged to a woman like Carlotta, the man is more observant than I gave him credit for.”
Though thankfully not observant enough to realize his dinner is being consumed by a ghost.
“Lemon, how is the case going?” Everett asks before shoving half a slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth. I probably shouldn’t have found that as seductive as I just did. Heck, anything this man does is seductive. Everett turns to Noah. “Or should I ask the detective at the table?”
Noah chugs down half his beer. “Fine. I give up. Tell us what you’ve got, Detective Lemon.”
Noah and I share a laugh. Everett growls.
I take a sip of my iced tea and organize my thoughts, because we’ve gathered enough information to either solve this murder or start our own chocolate empire with questionable business practices.
“Well,” I begin, “Bunny has basically declared war on the family business. She’s been telling her wellness clients to avoid all Whitmore products, wrote a book,Death in a Designer Wrapper, and managed to drop their sales by thirty percent.”
“Ouch.” Noah winces.
Everett lifts a brow. “Keep her away from the bakery, Lemon.”
“Duly noted,” I say. “But it gets worse,” I continue. “She’s been spreading rumors about unethical labor practices and actively sabotaging their supplier relationships. She actually contacted their Madagascar vanilla supplier and told them the company was planning to switch to artificial flavoring.”
Everett pauses before snapping up another slice of pizza. “That’s not just family drama—that’s deliberate business destruction.”
“Then there’s Gina’s information about the timing,” I add, taking a bite of my lasagna because murder investigations require proper fuel and fair amounts of Italian cheeses. “Duncan filed for divorce the week before the festival. The prenup was ironclad. If they divorced, Muffin got nothing. But as a widow, she inherited millions plus controlling interest in the company.”
“Classic murder motive,” Noah agrees. “What about the boyfriend?”
“Marcus has been pressuring Muffin to leave Duncan for years. He’s supposedly on a bachelor party cruise.”
