“Well, it’s just another day of the week for you, isn’t it, Lot? You do realize most people give it a rest on the Lord’s Day. But I guess there’s no time like the present when it comes to teaching someone a permanent lesson.” She sniffs at the poor woman on the floor. “So how’d you do it this time?”
“Carlotta,” I hiss as Noah quickly drops to one knee beside Vivienne with an efficiency that comes from years of being first at the scene of a crime—and well, from hangingout with me. He tucks two fingers to her neck, pressing for a pulse he already knows he won’t find.
His face tells me everything before his mouth does.
“She’s gone.”
Everett pulls me close, and I can feel his heart hammering against mine—the only indication that he’s not as composed as he looks.
“Lemon.” His voice is low, controlled, steady. “What happened?”
“I just walked in, and she was already—” I gesture vaguely at everything because words feel insufficient to describe the scene currently occupying poor Vivienne’s sunroom. “I didn’t touch anything.”
“Okay.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “Noah’s got this.”
I can’t help but wrinkle my nose at the thought. I know Everett’s intention is to keep me safe. But there hasn’t been a single homicide in recent years that Noah Fox didn’t need my help with. Not that he ever asks for my help, or wants it. But let’s call a spade a spade, I’m the one who catches the killers around here. I guess you can say, the proof is in the pudding.
Noah whips out his phone and quickly calls it in. “This is Detective Fox. I need units and the ME at Lakeshore Drive. Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke’s residence. Homicide. Female victim, blunt force trauma...” He rattles off details with the kind of calm that makes me feel slightly hysterical by comparison.
Everett pulls back a notch and locks those cobalt blue eyes of his onto mine. “I’m going to check the property for anyone suspicious. Donotleave Noah’s side.”
It’s not a question or a request. It’s a statement delivered in that tone that makes defense attorneys reconsider their next breath.
He takes off with a start, and I try not to focus on how his presence made the room feel safer and how his absence makes everything feel colder.
“Lottie!”
I barely have time to brace myself before my mother barrels into the sunroom, takes one look at Vivi’s prone position, and belts out a scream.
“Is she?—?”
Noah offers a grim nod. “I’m so sorry, Miranda. She’s gone.”
Mom sucks in a never-ending breath. “Lottie Lemon!” She whirls my way. “How could you?! We are GUESTS in her home!”
“Mother! I didn’t?—”
“Miranda.” Noah steps between us, gently pulling my mother back with one hand. His voice drops into that authoritative register, the one that makes drunk frat boys sit down and pay attention. “Lottie didn’t do this.”
Mom deflates slightly, but her glare remains aimed my way, which I’m pretty sure violates some kind of maternal support code.
“Come on, Randy Mirandy.” Carlotta steps up to offer my mother unsolicited assistance and a quasi-inappropriate nickname. “If Lot Lot was going to murder someone, she’d use one of her poison pies. It’d be much tidier and much more her style.”
“I’m not murdering anyone,” I say, bewildered as to why I have to keep repeating myself. I might stumble upon a corpse on the regular, but still.
“Not with that attitude, you’re not,” Carlotta crows.
Before I can strangle my own biological mother—which would really validate my real mother’s concerns—Noah’smotherbarrels through the doorway like a freight train in a navy blazer.
Suze Fox is stocky, practical, and perpetually looks like she’s mentally calculating whether she can get you to switch to the generic brand. I should know, she happens to work for me down at the bakery.
Her short blonde hair is streaked with gray and sweeps across her eyes, giving off that boy band of yesteryearappeal, and her sensible shoes squeak against the hardwood as she steps in deeper into the room to take in the scene.
“Noah, what happened?” Her eyes land on poor Vivienne. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Lottie, you’ve gone and done it again. Can’t you find a way to control those homicidal urges?” She offers my mother a look, and it’s the kind of solidarity only two women who find me exhausting can share. “You really should consider locking her up for the safety of the general public.”
Mom gives an aggressive nod as if she’s genuinely interested in the logistics. “Believe me, I’m considering it.”
“Mother.” The word comes out somewhere between a hiss and a growl, and I definitely meant it, too.
