Lainey crosses her heart. “I won’t leave. And when I do, I’ll bring her straight to your house. Door-to-door delivery.”
I reluctantly agree, because what choice do I have?
“All right, Little Yippie,” Carlotta pipes up. “You go learn some new tricks. But don’t shove any crayons up your nose, don’t set anything on fire, and don’t off anybody. Save that for when you’re older and can lawyer up properly.”
“Carlotta!”
“What? I’m being supportive!”
Lainey heads for the door with Lyla Nell and Mom following in a rustle of lavender tulle.
“Bye, Lottie! See you later!” Lainey calls.
“Bye, Lottie! See you later!” Lyla Nell chirps, and my mouth falls open.
The bakery laughs again. But I’m not laughing.
“Did you see that?” I say to Carlotta. “She’s already learning inappropriate things. Pretty soon she’ll be calling Everett and Noah by their first names and asking you for dating advice.”
“Good. Someone in this family should benefit from my expertise.”
I shoot her a look.
“Now what?” Carlotta asks, brushing crumbs off her chest.
“I’m making a casserole.”
“Why?”
“Because Jell-O takes too long to set, and I’ve got suspects to grill at the community center in a few hours.” I stand up, grabbing the stroller. “Which means I need an entry that won’t embarrass me.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“I didn’t think I could stop you.”
“I need more gin.” Carlotta follows me to the door. “Plus, I heard there’s a new butcher at the grocery store. I’ve always had a thing for men who know their way around large cuts of meat.”
“Please don’t elaborate.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
We don’t get three steps outside—with me pushing the stroller and Carlotta chattering on about butchers and inappropriate comments about cuts of meat—when a spray of miniature blue stars erupts three feet in front of us.
That glorious blue peacock materializes on a bistro table outside the bakery in a shower of ethereal feathers andsupernatural drama.
He spreads his tail in full display with one glittering eye fixed on me.
“It looks as if we have a change of plans,” I say. “We’ve got someone else to question first.”
He gives what I swear is an approving nod, then hops off the table and struts down the sidewalk like he owns the place.
Which, given he’s got information about a murder, he kind of does.
I follow, pushing the stroller and wondering how my life became a series of increasingly absurd crime scenes punctuated by baked goods and ghosts.
Monday morning in Honey Hollow.
Where the banana pudding is legendary, the dress code is 1952, and the dead refuse to stay buried.
