“Well, well,” she purrs, batting eyelashes so hard I can feel the breeze. “If it isn’t Honey Hollow’s finest law enforcement officers. I don’t suppose you boys would be interested in donating a little piece of yourselves to a worthy cause?” She winks suggestively. “Via a very big delivery system, no doubt because as fate would have it, I’m ovulating!”
Both Noah and I groan in unison.
“Jolene,” Noah says with the tactful tone of someone defusing a biological weapon. “I have a favor of my own to ask you, and I can probably speak for Everett with this one as well. Would you please help me out and ask Evie to cover up for a bit? We don’t want the big guy here dropping dead. He just had twins.”
I give an approving nod his way. I wouldn’t have thought to ask Jolene any such thing, mostly because the woman doesn’t know how to cover herself up. But if it works, hats off to Noah.
Jolene chuckles as she looks me up and down like I’m a prime cut of beef. “Oh, hon, we all know you’re bound to drop dead sooner or later. My baby girl told me that men and women alike drop dead at Lottie Lemon’s feet on the regular. It’s exactly why I won’t get within three feet of the woman, and I’ve instructed Dashy to do the same.”
Note to self: stay within three feet of Lemon at all times.
“Anyway,” she continues, adjusting her hat and nearly falling out of her bikini top in the process. “I’m a big believer in letting a woman wear however much orlittleshe wants. It’s called bodily autonomy, sweetie.”
Knew it.
I pull out a hundred-dollar bill, wave it in front of her, and she snatches it faster than a bailiff collecting evidence.
I hold back the smile wanting to curve on my lips, because I also know exactly what makes most people tick.
“Make sure that girl is wrapped up like a Christmas present,” I tell her, my paternal instincts overriding any sense of fiscal responsibility.
Jolene grins as she tucks the bill into her bikini bottom. “Now you’re speaking my language, Your Honor.”
Noah does a double take to his left and, without warning, takes off toward the festival with the urgency of someone who’s just remembered he left the stove on.
“Where’s the fire?” I call out as Ivy and I follow in his wake.
Noah moves faster as he glances back at us. “Wherever Lottie Lemon is.”
And knowing my wife, that’s exactly where the next disaster is about to unfold.
LOTTIE
The Whitmore Chocolatiers booth is brimming with bodies, each one anxious to get their hands on one of those milk chocolate bunnies with the candy blue eyes and marshmallow nose.
I won’t lie, I can hardly wait to bite into one of those innocent ears myself.
The entire booth holds the scent of cocoa dreams and capitalist nightmares, with a side of impending doom that’s becoming my signature scent at this festival. The air around the lake carries Easter cheer—children shrieking with sugar-fueled joy, the distant thump of terrible music that sounds like someone put “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” through a blender, and somewhere nearby is the unmistakable sound of Carlotta’s voice approaching at maximum volume.
Pink and purple streamers flutter overhead like manic butterflies, and chocolate Easter eggs are scattered across every surface as if someone had the idea that more is always better. Giant inflatable bunnies loom over the booth, their plastic grins slightly unnerving in the late afternoon light, as if they know something the rest of us don’t.
“There you are, Lot Lot.” Carlotta strides this way, snapping up a chocolate bunny off a display, pulling back the foil as if she werepeeling a banana before taking an obnoxious bite as she severs off both ears at once.
My stomach growls on cue because I happen to envy her.
Lenny rubs his mane over my side and purrs. “Once this is through, I say we celebrate with a mountain of chocolate.” He blinks those big brown eyes my way, and I can hardly resist him, let alone deny him anything. So I lean down and land a kiss on his big fuzzy nose instead.
“Don’t tell me you’ve roped another man into your reverse harem,” she says, trotting up behind Lenny and me with all the subtlety of a fire truck in a library. “First, you’ve got Foxy and Sexy fighting over who gets to babysit you, and now you’re collecting supernatural wildlife? What’s next, a geriatric bear? Maybe a deceased dolphin with commitment issues?”
“Keep it down,” I mutter, scanning the chocolate booth for signs of our suspects. The place is drowning in Easter cheer, and hundreds of chocolate bunnies are arranged in tight little ranks as if they’re preparing for a cocoa-based uprising.
“Oh, come on, Lot Lot,” she continues, while ignoring my growing irritation. “I need to know if I should start charging admission to your romantic circus. We could make a fortune. You’re collecting hot men and cold corpses at the same pace. I’m thinking we could get sponsorship deals. I can just see your face now on one of those metallic beasts they drive at NASCAR. Not to mention the Lottie Lemon death merch would be a big hit at Halloween.”
Lenny snorts, his ghostly form crackling with amusement as he prowls beside me. “The woman has a point, Lottie. Your love life does require its own schedule. And possibly its own HR department.”
I frown his way for participating in the madness, and after he flirted so proficiently with me.
“Can we focus on the murder investigation, please?” I whisper, looking around for either Fairbanks or Gina, but neither of them is anywhere near the booth. Instead, I spot Fairbanks near the edge of the woods, deep in what looks like a heated conversation with Luke Lazzari. Even from here, I can see Luke gesturing wildly, his face redenough to make a tomato jealous, while Fairbanks looks as if he’s trying to negotiate with a very unhappy mobster—perhaps negotiating for his life.
