“Cheesy hashbrown heaven casserole,” I announce. “Potatoes, cheese, sour cream, onions, and enough butter to make a cardiologist very, very rich.”
“Sounds divine,” Mom beams. “Bring it inside! The competition is about to begin!”
The Honey Hollow Community Center underwent renovations last year, and the result is something between a vintage postcard and a time capsule someone forgot to bury. The main hall has polished hardwood floors, expansive picture windows that let in floods of natural light, and exposed wooden beams across the ceiling that give it a rustic-yet-elegant vibe.
But right now, it looks like someone detonated a time bomb set to 1952.
A massive banner stretches across the back wall:WELCOME TO THE DAUGHTERS OF HONEY HOLLOW CASSEROLE COMPETITION AND JELL-O JUBILEE!The letters are hand-painted in cheerful pastels with little illustrations of casserole dishes and Jell-O molds scattered throughout.
Long tables line both sides of the room, absolutely groaning under the weight of casseroles on one side and Jell-O molds on the other. The air smells like a collision between a church potluck and a 1950s housewife magazine—cream of mushroom soup, melted cheese, vanilla pudding, and something vaguely tropical that might be canned pineapple.
And the women.
Oh, the women.
There must be fifty of them, all dressed as if they’ve just stepped out of a time machine. Poodle skirts twirl as womenmove between tables. Pin curls are shellacked into submission. Creamy pearls catch the light. Cat-eye glasses perch on noses. One woman is wearing white gloves while serving herself lime green Jell-O, which seems both impressive and deeply impractical.
The whole scene is so aggressively wholesome that it loops back around to being vaguely unsettling.
“This is either charming or a cult,” I mutter to Carlotta. “I haven’t decided which.”
“Why not both?” She grins, setting my casserole down on the nearest available spot. “I’ve been in a few charming cults myself. In fact, I’m in a few now.”
I frown because I happen to believe her. Also, because I think I might have inadvertently wandered into one myself.
I’m pushing the twins—both still blessedly asleep, thank heavens—when a dark-haired beauty pops up between us like she’s been summoned by a séance.
“Speaking of sisters,” I say.
It’s Meg, my younger sister by a year. She’s dyed her naturally blonde locks a shocking shade of midnight. She dresses exclusively in black despite the spring weather, and her combat boots look wildly out of place among all the saddle shoes and kitten heels. In other words, she looks exactly like her ordinary self, a modern-day Goth princess.
Meg happens to work down at a gentleman’s club in Leeds, where she teaches the strippers their money-making moves—or as she prefers to call it, empowerment choreography. But right now, she’s nursing her four-month-old baby girl Piper, and we’re all being treated to a pale globe of a boob sitting outside her neckline while tiny Piper munches away like she’s at an all-you-can-eat mommy buffet.
“Nice to see you’re embracing the 1950s aesthetic,” I say, gesturing to her Gothic nightmare ensemble.
“I’m going for beatnik poet, not Stepfordwife,” Meg replies without hesitation. “Also, you’d better cool it with the murder spree. People are starting to talk.”
I shoot her a look. “I didn’t murder anyone. I just keep finding the bodies.”
“Semantics,” Meg says, adjusting Piper’s latch without breaking eye contact. “You’re still Honey Hollow’s angel of death.”
“That’s what I keep telling her!” Carlotta chimes in, utterly unfazed by the public breastfeeding display. “But does she listen? No. She just keeps stumbling over corpses like it’s a hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby,” I mutter.
“Could have fooled me,” Meg snorts. “You’ve got more dead bodies on your résumé than most funeral directors.”
Carlotta cackles. “I’ve always liked this one.” She slaps Meg on the shoulder. “She’s got edge. And she’s not afraid to whip out a boob in public. You’re my kind of woman, Spicy Lemon.”
“Thanks.” Meg grins. “I’ve been working on my shamelessness. It’s coming along nicely.”
“I can see that,” I say dryly. And for the record, Meg has been shameless since the day she was born.
“Literally.” Meg juts out her boob, completely unbothered. “Piper’s gotta eat. If people don’t like it, they can avert their delicate Victorian sensibilities elsewhere.”
“Amen to that,” Carlotta says. “This place could use more public nudity. Really liven things up.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” I beg. “Or yourself.”
