The Pickens boys are officially on my list. Right below murder suspects and right above people who put raisins in cookies and call them chocolate chips.
But I can’t think about that right now because I’ve got abakery to run, twins to wrangle, and hopefully a suspect to question later this afternoon.
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery welcomes me with open butter yellow arms as I wheel the twins inside, and the scent of sugar, and spice, and everything nice washes over me like a warm hug that just so happens to contain 700 calories.
Percy materializes in a spray of tiny blue stars and hops right onto the stroller handle the moment I cross the threshold, his spectral plumage shimmering faintly as if he’s auditioning for a one-bird Vegas revue.
Neither Ozzy nor Corbin so much as blink.
Sweet mercy.
I wasworriedfor a minute there while feeding them last week that Ozzy was tracking something invisible. Turned out, he was just fascinated by a dust particle illuminated by sunlight.
As it stands, my beautiful boys have zero ghost detection, and yet they’re ten out of ten when it comes to adorably chubby arms and legs. There is nothing yummier than a baby with rolls.
But I digress. The fact that they can’t see through to the other side is enough to make this supersensual mama weep with relief.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being transmundane. It’s given me purpose. I can help solve murders, and it connects me to my Grandma Nell in ways I never expected, now and again. But the idea of my baby boys growing up seeing the dead? Watching them navigate preschool while also dodging ghosts who may or may not harbor warnings about impending doom?
I’ll take a hard pass on that, thanks. It’s bad enough that Lyla Nell shares my supernatural quirk.
Outside, clouds are rolling in—thick, gray, heavy with the promise of a spring shower. The air smells like rain and fresh cut grass, and the temperature has dropped just enough that I’m grateful for the warmth radiating from the ovens.
The bakery smells like heaven decided to take up residence in Vermont. Chocolate chip cookies cooling on racks, cinnamonrolls glazed and glistening under the display lights, banana pudding cups lined up like little soldiers of deliciousness. The espresso machine hisses and gurgles behind the counter, filling the air with that rich, dark coffee aroma that makes early mornings slightly less painful.
Suze is working the register, wearing yet another pastel wonder circa the 1950s. Evidently, she’s committed to winning that Golden Whisk if it kills her. Today’s ensemble is a powder blue vintage dress with white polka dots, pearls, and her pin curls shellacked into submission.
Lily is at the decorating station, icing about a hundred cupcakes in a manic spree that suggests she’s either highly caffeinated or mildly unhinged. Possibly both. Working in a bakery can do that to a person.
Effie is restocking the pastry case, moving efficiently and quietly, her dark ponytail swishing as she arranges croissants in perfect geometric patterns.
And Carlotta? Carlotta’s holding court at one of the bistro tables near the front, regaling anyone within earshot with the harrowing tale of this morning’s glitter bomb.
“And I’m telling you, Sexy looked like the hottest vampire this side of the underworld,” she shouts, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten bear claw in her hand.
I’ll admit, that whole sexy vampire thing never gets old. In fact, I might just buy him a pair of fangs to wear to bed tonight. Suffice it to say, neither of us will be getting any sleep, not that we do. And well, with my naughty intentions, we might just end up with a baby vampire out of the deal if we play our cards right, or very, very wrong.
“It was glitter everywhere,” Carlotta goes on as a crowd of women gathers. “In his hair, his suit, and his dignity. I haven’t seen a man that defeated since my third husband found out I was also dating his brother.”
“Carlotta,” I warn from behindthe counter.
She waves me off. “The point is, these punk kids have declared war. And Sexy and Foxy are about ready to declare martial law.”
Oh good gravy. Now the entire town knows our business.
Suze looks up from the register, eyes wide. “Did someone really have the nerve to glitter-bomb Essex?”
I wrinkle my nose her way. Usually, only the vast sea of women who Everett slept with before he met me call him by his proper moniker. It’s safe to say he was a bit of a playboy. But there are other women like Ivy, Suze, and, well, Everett’s mother and sister who use his proper name as well. I’ll admit, it’s a bit unsettling.
“That’s right. They rigged it above the front door like a booby trap,” Carlotta confirms. “Fishing line, a bucket, the whole nine wicked yards. And Sexy thinks they might have disabled the Ring cam because it never went off. I tell you, these kids are escalating.”
Lily snorts without looking up from her icing. “Teenagers are the worst. They’ve got just enough brain cells to be dangerous and not enough to understand consequences.” She looks out the window and sighs. “Best years of my life.”
“They let the air out of Noah’s tires, too,” I add, pulling a tray of cookies from the oven. “All four. He couldn’t even drive to work.”
Effie straightens, and her expression darkens. “You want me to handle it?”
I freeze. “Handle it how?”
