“Oh sure, blame me. I stumble over a few dead bodies, and suddenly I’m the Julia Child of Crime. Believe me, if I could control the chaos, my kids would sleep through the night, and Carlotta would obey traffic laws.”
After the initial rush dies down, I head to the front of the booth where Everett and Noah are standing with the suspicious absence of small children. They both look relaxed and are holding a cup of coffee, which immediately makes me question their parenting responsibilities.
“Where are the boys?” I ask, because two small children don’t just disappear without either supernatural intervention or questionable babysitting decisions.
Carlotta materializes beside them like the annoying apparition she is. “Foxy and Sexy got smart and sold them on the black market. Turns out, there’s a hot demand for adorable little yippies, especially ones with judicial and law enforcement genes.”
“Carlotta,” I hiss. “Human trafficking is pushing the boundaries of appropriate Easter Sunday humor, and you know it.”
Not that it’s stopping her. Not that anything could ever stop her.
“Your mother put them all in the stroller,” Everett assures as he pulls me in and lands a kiss on my lips. “Lyla Nell included. They’re off enjoying the festival under Miranda’s supervision.”
“Oh, good,” I say with relief. “Because nothing says responsible parent quite like not knowing where your children are during an active homicide investigation.”
“Lottie! Noah! Everett!”
We turn around, and Noah tips his head. “Speaking of which…”
Muffin Whitmore approaches our booth with the kind of determined smile that suggests she’s either genuinely happy to see us or has been practicing her widow-in-public face in the mirror. She’s wearing a lovely navy dress that strikes the perfect balance between Easter celebration and appropriate mourning attire, and her red curls bob in time with her every step.
“Happy Easter!” we all sing her way, because despite the fact that she’s a murder suspect, it’s still Easter Sunday, and we have manners.
“Happy Easter to you, too,” she replies warmly. “I’m helping with the games today. It really does help get my mind off things.”
“I’m so glad,” I say and genuinely mean it. Murder suspect or not, I really like her.
“But I also wanted to let you know,” she continues, her expression brightening with a touch of excitement, “that I’ve narrowed down a few shots for the calendar. You boys really outdid yourselves! It’s going to be really hard to narrow it down to just one shot each.”
Everett and Noah exchange a look that suggests they’re both remembering exactly how much dignity they sacrificed for charity.
“Forget narrowing it down,” Carlotta is quick to say. “Each of these Honey Hollow Hotties should have their own calendars! Twelve months of Sexy, twelve months of Foxy.”
I wouldn’t object—that is, of course, if I were the only owner of those calendars.
“Think of the marketing possibilities,” Carlotta goes on. “And the tie-in with our new baby hatching venture.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea!” Muffin shouts with glee as if Carlotta just shared the winning lottery numbers with her. And let’s face it, a calendar with those two men would provide a waterfall of cash year-round. “We could do themes for each month,” Muffin goes on. “Maybe some seasonal wardrobe changes, or different settings, or you could dress up... or dress down, as it were.”
Both men shake their heads as if they just realized their actions will haunt them forever.
“We appreciate the offer,” Everett says kindly but firmly. “But I think posing for one calendar per lifetime is more than sufficient.”
“Agreed,” Noah adds quickly. “I’ve hit my lifetime cap on posing shirtless for charitable causes as well.”
Muffin laughs with genuine amusement. “Well, I’ll email you the options so you can weigh in on the final selections. No point in publishing something you both hate.”
“Could you email us, too?” Carlotta nearly accosts the woman as she asks it. “I want to make sure you pick the shots that show off their best assets.”
“And I want to make sure you don’t,” I add firmly.
“Sure thing,” Muffin agrees. “I’ll send them to everyone who might have opinions worth considering.”
She excuses herself to return to managing the games, leaving us to contemplate the horrifying possibility that our family Christmas card might soon feature Noah and Everett in strategic poses with farm equipment.
I’m about to say something when Everett does a double take toward the lake, his expression shifting to something akin to parental panic. “I don’t think Evie is wearing any clothes.”
I follow his gaze and spot our daughter by the water with Dash and what appears to be half the teenage population of Vermont. And once I spot her, I let out a gasp.
