“This is my Lottie,” Mom says, glowing with maternal pride. “Owner of the Cutie Pie Bakery and mother to these two delicious boys and that precocious little doll we call Lyla Nell. And she even has one in college. Everett’s daughter, whom she adopted.”
Blanche gives me a once-over that takes in everything from my sensible flats to the flour smudge I just then notice on my sleeve. “You need a haircut,” she declares. “And some color. You want to look like a washed-out throw pillow when you’re my age?”
“Um… no?”
“Good answer.” She snaps her gum. “You sitting for the pageant, cupcake?”
“I’m more of a spectator,” I say quickly. I might be transmundane, but I am not brave enough to see what Blanche might do to my hair. I need my curls for emotional support.
“Suit yourself.” Blanche turns her attention to a woman waving frantically from under a dryer. “Youmove that pin one more time, Midge Thornbury, and I’m shaving your head. And I mean it.”
I follow her glare.
There, under one of the hood dryers, sits Midge, hands folded in her lap, curls meticulously pinned to her scalp like little golden coins. Even in foil and rollers, she radiates domestic goddess energy. I can’t help but frown.
A refreshment table beside the front window groans under the weight of finger sandwiches, deviled eggs, and, of course, a positively obscene amount of banana pudding.Day-glow orangebanana pudding.
It’s a sea of Midge’s banana pudding, courtesy of Midge, and apparently, everyone’s invited.
I spot at least four dishes of the stuff, all glowing that mysterious color that has been haunting my professional baker soul for years.
Carlotta elbows me. “Looks like Banana Queen brought offerings to the hair gods.”
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure she traveled here on a chariot made of vanilla wafers,” I whisper back.
As if sensing she’s being discussed, Midge lifts her gaze and meets mine. Her smile flickers, then smooths back into place. I offer a polite wave, despite the fact that I’m not feeling all that polite.
The second Midge’s perfectly curled head turns my way, a truly horrifying realization slams into me. I still have her husband! Well, her husbandin rock form—sitting in a cardboard box in the middle of my living room.
Bernard Thornbury. The pebble edition.
My stomach tries to exit through my toes.
Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.
Because nothing pairs better with a murder investigation than the knowledge that I am currently harboring a box of a woman’s pulverized spouse like it’s a decorative centerpiece.
For one wild second, I almost blurt out something catastrophically ill-timed like,“Hey, Midge! Speaking of curls, I’ve got your husband’s gravel on my coffee table!”Or, “Your husband is rocking out in my living room!”Or perhaps even better yet,“Your husband really ties the room together.”
But I clamp my mouth shut so hard my molars protest.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I’m not letting a box of haunted husband-rocks derail this investigation.
Bernard can wait. Preferably until the end of time.
Midge beams at me, blissfully unaware her beloved’s geological remains are lounging next to my TV remote, and I force myself to beam right back like I’m not one panicked heartbeat away from committing a felony involving a box of rocks.
Later. I’ll deal with Bernard later.
Mom shifts Ozzy to her hip and claps her hands like a cruise director. “All right, Daughters! Now that most of us are pinned, permed, and properly shellacked, let’s get this party officially started.”
The ambient hum of gossip dims. Even the hair dryers seem to hush.
Mom makes her way to the center of the salon, where Blanche has dragged a rolling stool to serve as a makeshift podium. Mom steps onto it, managing not to topple despite the fact she’s holding my squirmy son and wearing heels that look medically inadvisable.
Oh, good grief. She’s going to drop my sweet son on his head, and I’ll never hear the end of it from Everett—or myself. I dash over and relieve her of Glam Glam duties.
