“Boys,” Lottie reprimands without an ounce of menace behind it.
“See?” Lyla Nell says, like this proves her point. “They don’t listen to Lottie either.”
I blink. “Did she just call you Lottie?”
“She’s been doing it all day.” She groans. “I don’t know where she got the idea, but she won’t stop.”
“Dat’s your name!” Lyla Nell chirps proudly. “Hi, Lottie!”
“See?” Lottie says helplessly.
Carlotta waves a hand. “But thatisyour name, Lot. And frankly, it’s better than some of the other things she could be calling you.”
“Like what?” I ask warily.
Carlotta grins in a way that makes me immediately regret it. “Booby McMilk Bar. The Dairy Queen of Honey Hollow. Or—my personal favorite—Madam Two-Tap.”
“Booby Milk Bar!” Lyla Nell says cheerfully. She notices something on the coffee table, a blue velvet box, and reaches for it. “Ooh, what’s this?”
Everett leans forward. “Whose is that?”
“It belongs to Midge Thornbury,” Lottie says,watching as Lyla Nell opens it. “She left it behind at the community center after we chatted.”
I pick up my pizza again. “So that’s who you spoke with.”
Lottie gasps as if I’ve just accused her of high treason. “I was trying not to mention it.”
Lyla Nell pulls out five smooth, round rocks from the box. They’re polished, almost white with a hint of gray-blue, about the size of large walnuts.
“Is that all that was in there?” Lottie takes the box, peering inside. She shakes her head, looking disappointed. “I was sort of hoping it contained her secret recipe for her infamous day-glow banana pudding.”
Lyla Nell tosses one of the rocks to Toby, who catches it in his mouth and immediately looks confused about what he’s supposed to do with it.
“Lot,” Carlotta says from her chair. “I believe you’re the one with the infamouskillerbanana pudding.”
“That’s a detail I’d rather not remember.” Lottie waves her off. “Anyway, Midge is interesting. She’s a professional homemaker, lifestyle blogger—has like eighty-five thousand followers—and she’s the Daughters’ beloved hospitality coordinator. She organizes all the potlucks, coordinates casserole chains, the whole domestic goddess nine lives. Plus, her banana pudding has won eighteen consecutive bake-offs.”
“Eighteen?” Everett’s eyebrows rise. “That’s suspicious.”
“Or she’s just really good at banana pudding,” Lottie says. “She also recently published a cookbook that became a regional bestseller.”
“So she’s successful, well-liked, and has no obvious motive,” I say, already making mental notes. “What did she tell you?”
“She pointed to Dolly Hatchett.” Lottie gives us the ultra-brief rundown—Vivienne’s public humiliation of Dolly, the viral video, the threat in the parking lot.
I pull out my laptop from my bag. “Makes sense. Could be amotive for murder or it could be a red herring.” I glance at Everett. “Speaking of which, I did some digging on my other case.”
Everett nods, his expression shifting to something darker as we both dive into the rock-throwing incident. I’ve compiled a full report—official vandalism charges filed, complete with photos of Lottie’s cracked windshield, statements from both of us, and a detailed background check on the Pickens family that makes my blood pressure spike every time I look at it.
“Wait.” Lottie’s eyes widen. “You filed actual charges? Oh wow, I sort of feel bad. Those kids have no idea what they did.”
“They’re not kids,” Everett says, his voice flat and hard. “They’re young men. And if we let them travel down this wayward road unchecked, they’ll end up in juvie or worse. Better they learn consequences now than after they kill someone.”
I nod. “Agreed. I filed the report this afternoon. And I also got an estimate for replacing your windshield—it’s not cheap.”
“Sorry, Lemon,” Everett says, his expression softening slightly when he looks at her. “You’ll have to drive Carlotta’s minivan until it’s fixed. Noah dropped by my office and gave me the invoice, so I walked the bill over to the Pickens family this evening before I came home.”
Lottie’s eyes go wide. “You what? What happened? What did they say?”
