Evie is indeed wearing what could generously be described as dental floss with delusions of being a swimsuit.
“Well, when we were at church, she did mention hitting the beach as soon as she got to the lake,” I point out with weary acceptance of the fact that teenage fashion choices are beyond my parental control. “All her friends are here. Oh, and look—there’s Conner and Kyle. The girls are with their boyfriends.” I say that last bit as if it’s supposed to bring comfort and instead, I can feel the temperature rising around us, mostly for the tempers that are starting to flare.
Everett’s expression darkens with territorial intensity. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I’ll be right back.”
He’s not too interested in Evie dating to begin with, let alone while scantily clad in front of her boyfriend, and well, all of Honey Hollow.
He takes off toward the lake with a determined stride, and I cantell he’s about to deliver an impromptu lecture on appropriate public attire and the legal consequences of teenage romance.
I swoop next to Noah. “Any more evidence turn up in Duncan Whitmore’s homicide investigation?”
He shakes his head, and his expression lets me know he’s hit an investigative wall. “Just what we discovered the other night. Duncan Whitmore had enough digitalis coursing through his veins to put down an elephant. He was probably about to drop dead just before he was stabbed to death.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, because death by poison followed by death by stabbing seems like overkill in the most literal sense. Digitalis is something we’ve both seen used before in a homicide. “And odd. Why use two different methods?”
“It could be the killer wanted to make sure he was really dead,” Noah suggests. “Or maybe they wanted to make it look like something else entirely.”
Noah’s phone buzzes with the urgent tone that suggests someone, somewhere, is having a very bad day. He frowns at the screen with a look of displeasure.
“It’s Ivy,” he says with a sigh. “She’s in the parking lot, and she’s well over her head,” he says, already moving in that direction. “A bunch of teenagers are warring it out over something probably involving social media and hurt feelings. I’d better go help out.”
He starts to walk away, then backtracks as if he just remembered something important.
“Lot, please head to your booth. At least that way I’ll know you’re safe.”
“Will do,” I reply, giving him a mock salute as he takes off toward whatever teenage drama requires intervention via the sheriff’s department.
“That way he’ll know I’m safe,” I mutter under my breath, because the illusion of safety and actual safety are two completely different things, especially when you’re investigating murders involving organized crime and family chocolate empires.
I turn toward my booth with every intention of following Noah’sinstructions and nestling in the safe confines of sugar and caffeine, but something to my left catches my eye and stops me dead in my tracks.
It’s Bunny’s wellness booth, and she’s laughing and chatting with a small crowd of customers who are probably getting lectured about the dangers of processed sugar while standing in the middle of a sugar tornado, also known as Easter. But it’s not Bunny’s anti-chocolate evangelism that puts my investigative instincts on high alert.
It’s the massive bouquet of gorgeous lavender foxgloves sitting prominently on the table at the front of her booth, displayed with the kind of pride usually reserved for prize-winning roses or championship trophies.
I gasp at the sight of them, because I’ve been around the homicidal block enough times to know that digitalis and foxglove are the exact same thing. Digitalis is just the fancy scientific name for a plant that can kill you with its beauty while stopping your heart with the efficiency of a cardiac assassin.
Every instinct I have is screaming that I should head straight to my booth, surround myself with witnesses and security cameras, and wait for Noah to come back before confronting a potential killer who’s apparently advertising her murder weapon as holiday decor.
But my feet have other ideas, and they’re taking me directly toward Bunny Whitmore and her bouquet of beautiful, deadly evidence, because sometimes the difference between solving a murder and becoming the next victim is nothing more than the courage to walk toward the very thing that terrifies you most.
LOTTIE
Bunny Whitmore’s crunchy granola booth is booming as women flock to it like it’s offering the secret to eternal youth instead of overpriced tea that tastes like lawn clippings.
The scent of lavender blends with a honey-soaked heaven, with undertones of essential oils that are either therapeutic miracles or very expensive air fresheners, depending on who you ask. The air carries the gentle sounds of festivalgoers discussing the healing properties of various herbs while children’s laughter echoes from nearby game booths, occasionally punctuated by someone winning a stuffed animal and shrieking with joy.
Bunny’s booth is a masterpiece of wellness marketing—beautifully arranged displays of raw honey still on the comb, essential oil bottles that catch the afternoon sunlight like tiny jewels, and enough herbal tinctures to stock a medieval apothecary.
And prominently displayed at the front of it all is that massive bouquet of gorgeous lavender foxgloves, sitting there with the innocent beauty of flowers that could kill you while looking absolutely stunning in the process.
A spray of blue stars materializes beside me, and Lenny appears, looking like he just got released from spectral prison.
“Well, that was entertaining,” he announces with dry amusement as if he just witnessed something memorable. “I’ve seen wildebeest stampedes with more order than that Easter photo session. Though I have to admit, watching small humans declare war on a giant rabbit was oddly satisfying.”
“How did you escape the chaos?” I ask, genuinely curious about his supernatural navigation skills.
“Carefully,” he replies with a little rumble. “I must confess, I’ve been trying to steer clear of Carlotta ever since last night when she offered to teach me about ‘interspecies tantric energy healing.’ I’m dead, not desperate.”
