The air smells like sugar, nostalgia, and enough Chanel No. 5 to put down an elephant. I love the Daughters of Honey Hollow, but they bathe in perfume as if they’re trying to embalm themselves early.
My cookie platters are currently being devoured by women who’ve spent the last hour dancing like their girdles depend on it. The soda fountain is doing brisk business, with ice cream floats and root beer floats flowing like the fountain of youth itself.
Carlotta has already made three laps around the room, chatting up anyone who’ll listen and gathering enough gossip to fuel a small publishing empire.
I’m plotting my approach to Gigi when a spray of miniature blue stars erupts right in front of me, followed by a shimmer of ethereal feathers that materialize into Percy in all his spectralglory with his gleaming teal plumage and those sapphire spots that look like eyes on his magnificent tail, which fans out six feet in every direction.
He lands on the back of a nearby chair, fanning his tail feathers with the dramatic flair of someone who knows he’s fabulous and wants everyone, living or dead, to appreciate it.
“Lottie Lemon,” he says, fanning his feathers as tiny stars spark all around him. “I see you’ve managed to infiltrate the enemy’s lair. How very espionage of you.”
“It’s a sock hop, not a lair,” I say, giving his cute little head a quick scratch.
“Tomato, tom-ah-to.” He flaps a wing, and an entire solar system worth of stars sprays all around us. “Though I must say, if Mother Vivi could see this sad attempt at recreating the fifties, she’d rise from the grave just to redecorate. These streamers are tragic.”
“Focus, Percy. We need to talk to Gigi.”
“Ah yes, the woman with the fraudulent pedigree.” He hops to the table, eyeing a bowl of punch with disdain. “Do be careful. She’s got more armor than a medieval knight. All that elegance? It’s nothing but a fortress, honey.”
“Noted.”
I take a breath, smooth my dress, and make my way across the room toward Gigi Wentworth-Crane, who’s standing near the windows with a glass of punch in one hand and an expression of polite interest that probably took years to perfect.
“Gigi,” I say, approaching with what I hope is friendly confidence instead of awkward desperation. She turns, and I’m reminded again how striking she is—tall and willowy, dramatic auburn hair streaked with silver and swept into an elegant French twist, sharp cheekbones, and those deep-set green eyes that always make me feel like I’m being assessed. “I’m Lottie Lemon. We haven’t officially met, but I own the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery downtown.”
She turns, and her smile is warm but measured. “Of course. I was hoping I’d get a chance to chat with you. Your cookies are divine. They disappeared in under ten minutes.”
“Oh, thank you! That’s high praise coming from the woman who probably knows every caterer in a fifty-mile radius.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She gestures to the room. “So what do you think? Authentic enough?”
“It’s like stepping into a time machine. Minus the polio and Cold War anxiety.” I bite down on my lip, unsure if I should be joking about either of those things. Although I’m not wrong.
She offers up a genuine belly laugh, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Exactly. Everyone romanticizes the fifties, but I’m betting it was hard for women back then, too. I mean, dressing up each day, wearing heels and pearls just to vacuum and cook dinner? That’s quite a production. Not to mention those poor women must have been exhausted, and yet at the end of the day they were expected to serve their husbands and rub their feet.” She shakes her head. “I’m glad women and men have much more balanced roles and expectations today.”
I nod enthusiastically. “If all the cooking were left to me, my poor family would starve or live off chocolate cake. After baking all day, the last thing I want is to put on a pair of kitten heels and make a five-course dinner. We’re frequent flyers at both Mangias and the Wicked Wok.”
Gigi laughs again, raising her punch glass. “I knew I liked you.”
Percy makes a gagging sound from his perch. “Oh, please. This is excruciating. Get to the murder, Lottie Lemon.”
I was thinking the exact same thing, minus the excruciating part.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” I say, shifting my tone to something softer and far more sincere. “Vivienne seemed like an amazing woman.”
Gigi’s smile falters just slightly. “She was, andshe was twice as complicated. She was brilliant, driven, and absolutely ruthless when it came to the Daughters. This organization was her baby. She built this organization into something formidable.” She pauses, swirling her punch. “But she also had a talent for making enemies.”
“So I’ve heard.” I wince as I say it. “Did the two of you get along?”
“Most of the time.” Gigi’s gaze drifts toward the dance floor, where women are laughing and spinning to “Johnny B. Goode.” She sighs deeply. “Vivi and I understood each other. We both came from founding families. We both valued tradition and legacy. But Vivi…” She hesitates. “Vivi liked control.Andshe liked leverage.” She tips her head as she says it.
Percy’s feathers rustle. “Oh, here we go. The vault is opening.The vault is about to swingwideopen. The Jell-O is jiggling, and the secrets are about to slide right out of the mold.”
Here’s hoping.
“Leverage?” I prompt.
Gigi offers me an assessing glance, then takes a deep breath as if she’s just made a decision. “Vivi kept files. Detailed records on everyone in the Daughters. She called itpreserving history, but really it was ammunition. If you had a secret, Vivi knew it. And she wasn’t above using it.”
