I’ve always suspected they both have questionable taste, and now it’s been undeniably confirmed.
Corbin starts fussing again, squirming in my arms and making those pre-cry sounds that mean he’s about three seconds away from a full meltdown.
I look around. It’s all women. And Meg’s nursing Piper right out in the open like she’s at a La Leche League meeting.
What the heck.
I find a relatively quiet corner, whip out a boob, and start feeding Corbin, who immediately latches on and settles down like I’ve just solved all his problems.
Which, to be fair, I have.
From this angle, I have a perfect view of theentire room. The casserole table. The Jell-O table. The clusters of women in vintage outfits gossiping behind their hands while pretending to admire each other’s dishes.
And standing by the casserole station, preening like an actual peacock in a powder blue tea-length dress and matching cardigan, is Midge Thornbury.
She’s arranging her banana pudding cups with a focus that suggests she’s displaying crown jewels rather than dessert. Her honey brown curls are perfectly set, her dimpled smile is firmly in place, and she’s accepting compliments from passing women like she’s holding court.
My banana pudding nemesis.
And quite possibly a killer.
Time to shake her down and find out if her perfection extends to getting away with homicide.
LOTTIE
I’m standing in the middle of the Honey Hollow Community Center dressed like a 1950s housewife with one strategic wardrobe malfunction—my left boob is currently flopping outside the Peter Pan collar of my baby blue vintage dress while Corbin goes to town like it’s happy hour at a dairy bar.
The dress has a cinched waist that’s making me rethink every life choice that led to wearing a girdle, a full skirt that keeps trying to fly up like I’m in a Marilyn Monroe nightmare, pearls that are digging into my neck, and kitten heels that are slowly murdering my feet.
But my boob is out for a good reason—Corbin was fussing, and desperate times call for desperate milky measures.
Around me, fifty women in vintage costumes are taste-testing casseroles and Jell-O molds like they’re judging the Miss America pageant. The air smells like cream of mushroom soup, melted cheese, and whatever toxic combination of ingredients went into that terrifying fish-shaped Jell-O situation.
I spot my target across the room.
Midge Thornbury stands by the casserole table like she’sposing for aBetter Homes and Gardenscover shoot. She’s got soft honey brown curls framing a heart-shaped face, warm hazel eyes that crinkle when she smiles, rosy cheeks, and a dimpled smile that makes her look incapable of swatting a fly, let alone bludgeoning someone to death with a cast-iron skillet named Big Bertha.
She’s slightly curvy in that bakes-cookies-for-the-whole-neighborhood-and-samples-every-batch kind of way, and her vintage dress is so authentic it looks like she raided June Cleaver’s closet. Powder blue shirtwaist with tiny white polka dots, matching cardigan with pearl buttons, a crisp white apron embroidered with her monogram, and kitten heels that somehow look comfortable.
She’s holding a blue velvet box, about the size of a takeout container, in her hands. Odd. I bet it contains her secret recipe for that outstanding banana pudding of hers. I’ll see if I can’t pry it out of her hands while I’m at it.
I make a beeline toward her, adjusting Corbin’s latch as I walk because multitasking is my superpower.
I’m about three feet away when a spray of miniature blue stars erupts in the air between us.
Percy materializes in a shower of ethereal feathers, landing on the edge of the casserole table with all the drama of someone who knows he looks fabulous.
“Lottie Lemon,” he says, eyeing my exposed breast with what I can only describe as avian judgment. “Bold choice. Though I must say, the color of that dress does complement your complexion beautifully.”
“Thanks, Percy,” I mutter. “Can we focus on the murder suspect?”
“That’s precisely why I’m here, honey.” He ruffles his spectral feathers and fixes his glittering eye on Midge. “Let’s see if our little homemaker has a dark side beneath all those pearls andpudding cups.After all, the sweetest frosting often hides the bitterest cake.”
I’ll agree with him on that one.
Midge looks up as I approach, and her smile snaps into place like someone just flipped a switch—bright, sharp, and about as warm as her ice-cold pudding.
“Lottie Lemon! So we meet again.” Her toothy smile broadens before her eyes drift toward my boob. “Oh my goodness, you look absolutely adorable going all Mother Earth on us.” She sets the blue velvet box down on the table beside her banana pudding display. “And your little sweet angel is twice as adorable.”
