He’s not wrong. And sometimes, Carlotta isn’t wrong either.
Corbin starts squirming against my shoulder, making little grunting noises that suggest he’s either uncomfortable or plotting something. This kid has Everett’s intensity—even his baby frowns look like he’s mentally reviewing case law, the case laws of breastfeeding. Much like their father, the boys are definitely boob men.
“Midge,” I say, steering us back on track, “do you have any idea who might have wanted to land Big Bertha over Vivienne’s skull?” Okay, so I could have said that with a little more finesse, but let’s face it—subtlety left the building the moment my boob made its public debut.
Midge’s expression darkens. “Well, I hate to speak ill of anyone, but...” She leans in a notch. “Dolly Hatchett had a very public falling-out with Vivi three weeks ago.”
“Dolly? What happened?”
“Vivi announced at a Daughters meeting that Dolly’s catering wouldn’t be welcome at official events anymore.” Midge’s voice drops lower. “She said that Dolly’s food was pedestrian at best, and her presentation was an embarrassment to the organization. She called her famous deviled eggs ‘the devil’s work’ and her potato salad ‘a crime against culinary decency.’ She was right on both counts, of course.”
I wince. “In front of everyone?”
“Forty-seven women,” Midge confirms. “Someone recorded it. The video made it to the Honey Hollow Facebook group. Dolly’s business has taken a serious hit.” She pauses. “Dolly wasoverheard in the parking lot afterward screaming, ‘You’ll regret this, Vivienne! Mark my words!’”
“That’s quite the threat,” Percy observes, fanning his tail feathers thoughtfully.“The social pot is clearly boiling over. One can almost smell the burnt sugar and simmering grudges.”
Simmering grudges, indeed.
“Poor Dolly,” Midge continues, shaking her head. “But you have to understand—when someone threatens you publicly, and then you turn up dead? It doesn’t look so good. I wouldn’t be surprised if the detectives weren’t knocking down her door as we speak.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I suppose they would be.”
A howl goes off across the room, and I look over to see Carlotta engaged in what appears to be a passive-aggressive standoff with Suze. They’re standing on opposite sides of the Jell-O table, arms crossed, glaring at each other like gunslingers at high noon.
“Your coconut monstrosity looks like it’s melting,” Carlotta announces.
“Your face looks like it’s melting!” Suze retorts.
“Honey, I’m old. Everything is melting. But at least I don’t sprinkle toenail clippings on my desserts and call it a winner!”
The crowd gasps.
“They’re toasted coconut shreds!” Suze shrieks, throwing her arms up in frustration.
“Ladies!” Mom appears between them, hands raised. “This is a celebration, not a cage match!”
The bell chimes from the front of the room.
“Attention, Daughters!” Mom calls into the microphone, looking slightly frazzled. “The judges have made their decisions! For the casserole competition, the winner is... Midge Thornbury’s green bean supreme!”
The room erupts in applause.
Midge’s face lights up. “Oh my goodness!What an honor!”
I can’t help but make a face. Of course, she brought a casserole. The woman is determined to beat me at every turn.
“And for the Jell-O Jubilee,” Mom continues, “the winner is... Suze Fox’s coconut delight!”
More applause, though I notice several women exchanging skeptical glances.
Suze beams triumphantly. “I’d like to thank the Academy?—”
“It’s not the Oscars, Suze,” Carlotta mutters.
“And I’d like to thank?—”
“Literally no one cares,” Carlotta adds louder.
