Just another day in paradise.
LOTTIE
The bench between the Cutie Pie Bakery and the Country Pantry is one of those wrought-iron contraptions that looks charming but feels like it was engineered to punish the human spine.Still, it’s got a decent view of Main Street, and the spring morning is cooperating—sixty degrees, sunshine streaming through the maple trees, a light breeze carrying the scent of fresh cut grass mixed with the fresh scent of warm cinnamon rolls from my bakery.
The cute peacock is perched on the armrest as if he’s posing for a picture. His feathery plumage catches the light and shimmers in impossible shades of blue and green. He’s magnificent, dead or alive, and he knows it.
Carlotta gawks openly at him. “Well, well, well. Look what the afterlife dragged in. You’re almost pretty enough to make me reconsider my stance on dead men. Are you single, hot stuff? Or are you haunting someone already?”
“Carlotta,” I hiss.
“What? If that’s what the afterlife is churning out these days, sign me up.”
“Sign-ups are in the cemetery,” I’m quick to tell her. “Death is a requirement. And that can be arranged.”
I adjust the double stroller so the twins are in the shade. Ozzy is happily gurgling and working his fist like it’s a Thanksgiving drumstick, while Corbin stares into the middle distance with a serious concentration that suggests he’s either solving a major philosophical problem or plotting something mildly alarming. Probably both. Everett’s genes are strong with that one.
“Hello, I’m Lottie Lemon,” I say to the peacock, who’s twitching his cute little head my way, trying to get a better look at me. “This is Carlotta, my—never mind. And these are my sons, Ozzy and Corbin.”
“Percival,” the peacock announces in a voice that sounds like it should be narrating a British period drama. “Though Mother Vivi called me Percy. I’ve been waiting for you, Lottie. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “My reputation has officially reached the afterlife. Just what every girl dreams of.”
“You’re the most infamous baker-slash-body-finder in Vermont. Of course, I’ve heard about you.” Percy ruffles his spectral feathers. “Though I must say, that cardigan you’re wearing is doing absolutely nothing for your complexion. Spring calls for brighter hues, dear. Think pastels. Perhaps a nice coral?”
Carlotta hoots with laughter. “Oh, I like him already! He’s got taste, he’s got style, and he’s got opinions. That’s the best kind of man.”
“I’m a peacock, madam, not a man. And if we’re about anything, we’re about style.”
“Even better,” Carlotta chirps. “You can dress me, and then you can date me.”
I shoot her a look that could land her on the dating list of every man currently six feet under.
As it stands, Carlotta and I are something called transmundane,further classified as supersensual. The long and short of it—we can see the dead. Not all the dead, thank goodness, because that would be a nightmare of Biblical proportions. Just a select few. Mostly, the ghosts that come back to help solve murders, and usually it’s the person or sweet creature the deceased loved most.
Which means this sassy peacock was Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke’s most beloved companion.
That tells me something about Vivienne right there. All good things.
Lyla Nell can see the dead, too, though she’s still figuring out the rules. Last week, she tried to ride the ghost of a cat named Thirteen like a skateboard, which was both adorable and deeply concerning. Thirteen happens to be a cute black kitty who just so happens to be one of the ghosts who lives at my mother’s happily haunted B&B. It’s twisted, I know.
“So, Percy,” I lean his way as tiny blue stars glitter and spark all around him, “tell us about Vivienne.”
Percy’s entire demeanor shifts. His tail feathers droop slightly, and something that might be grief flickers across his avian features.
“Mother Vivi was wonderful. She had high standards, certainly, and she didn’t suffer fools. But she loved me fiercely.”He pauses, fluffing his sparkling wings. “Her mother, Cordelia, started the peacock tradition in the 1950s. She brought the first breeding pair to the Pemberton estate when she was a young bride. We roamed the gardens freely—magnificent creatures, all of us. The estate was famous for it. People would drive up from Boston just to see the peacocks.”
“Wait—the peacocksweremagnificent?” Carlotta asks, picking up on something in his tone. “Don’t tell me they’re finger-licking good.”
Shewould go there.
“They’re not, are they?” I ask, twice as horrified.
“The current generation is still there, but they’re skittish. Nervous. Mother Vivi’s death has unsettled them.” Percy pecks my way. “Someone murdered her in cold blood, Lottie Lemon. In her own home. During a celebration she was hosting!”
Ozzy chooses this moment to let out an impressive growl as if he were just as incensed by the thought. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he’s out for justice.
“Do you know who did it?” I ask.
