I glance down. It’s a text from my mother.Lottie! Could you please bring a few cookie platters to the Sock Hop Social this afternoon? Evergreen Manor, 2p.m. You’re a lifesaver!
I stare at the text.
Sock Hop Social.
Evergreen Manor.
That’s where Gigi Wentworth-Crane will be. Gigi, who’s been paying Vivienne to keep quiet about her mother’s rejection fromthe Daughters. Gigi, who had everything to lose if Vivienne exposed her at that retrospective she planned.
Gigi, who might just be a killer in kitten heels and pearls.
I text right back.You bet! See you at 2.
Carlotta leans over my shoulder. “Ooh, a sock hop. Are we going undercover?”
“I’m delivering cookies.”
“Undercover cookies,” she clarifies. “Even better.”
Percy ruffles his feathers. “Do try not to get yourself killed, Lottie Lemon. I’m rather enjoying our little investigative partnership.Death is permanent, darling. Rather like burnt Baked Alaska—once it’s ruined, there’s no bringing it back.”
“Noted.” And he is so right.
I glance out the window at the gray clouds gathering overhead, threatening rain, and mentally prepare myself for an afternoon of vintage dancing, passive-aggressive small talk, and interrogating a woman who may or may not have bludgeoned someone to death with a cast-iron skillet.
Just another May day in Honey Hollow.
Time to prove that sock hops aren’t just for moving and grooving—they’re also for catching killers.
Look out, Gigi Wentworth-Crane.
Here I come.
LOTTIE
Evergreen Manor sits on the edge of Honey Hollow, looking as elegant as ever. Lush green ivy climbs the brick walls, tall windows catch the afternoon light, and the circular driveway curves up to the entrance with that old-world charm that never gets old.
I park Carlotta’s minivan—still mine by default since my windshield is being replaced—and grab the three platters of cookies from the back. Chocolate chip, snickerdoodles, and my signature lemon butter cookies that Mom specifically requested because apparently nothing says 1950s nostalgia like citrus and sugar.
Carlotta climbs out of the passenger side in full vintage glory. She’s donned a cherry red wiggle dress that hugs every curve she’s earned over the decades, paired with black patent leather heels and a matching clutch. Her hair is swept up in victory rolls, her lips are crimson, and she looks like she’s about to sell war bonds or seduce a sailor. Possibly both.
I went slightly more modest with a soft pink fit-and-flare dress with cap sleeves, white polka dots, and a sweetheart neckline that Everett called dangerously distracting after I sent him apicture while I was doing a quick change. I’ve got my hair curled and pinned back with a white headband, and I’m wearing kitten heels that are already making me regret every life choice that led me here.
The twins are strapped into their double stroller, both miraculously content for the moment. Ozzy is chewing on a teething ring while Corbin is staring at a bird like he’s plotting its demise.
“Ready to infiltrate a sock hop?” Carlotta asks, adjusting her neckline.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We push through the heavy oak doors into the main foyer, and I’m immediately hit with the smell of fresh flowers, lemon furniture polish, and that expensive candle scent that ritzy places like this always seem to have.The foyer has high ceilings, a grand staircase that curves up to the second floor, and enough dark wood paneling to build a small village.
To the right, the doors to the grand ballroom are propped open, and I can hear music drifting out—“Rock Around the Clock” plays at a volume that suggests the DJ either doesn’t understand speaker settings or is actively trying to cause hearing damage.
And standing just inside the doorway with her arms crossed like a bouncer at a very judgmental nightclub is Naomi Turner.
Keelie’s twin sister.
Naomi used to be blonde, but she dyes her locks a deep shade of midnight these days, unlike my bestie, who keeps her mane the yummy creamy blonde she was born with. Where Keelie wears hers in soft waves, Naomi’s is pulled back into a sleek, severe bun that screamsI run this place, and I don’t have time for your nonsense.
