“Oh, that’s foul,” I say, covering my nose.
“The Pickens strike again,” Noah says flatly.
A shower of bright blue stars rains over Noah’s mailbox as Percy materializes on top of it, writhing his poor head right and left as if trying to escape the odor himself. “Even I find this offensive, and I’m deceased.”
“It gets worse,” Everett says, pulling out a handful of envelopes. “Look at this.”
I glance at the mammoth stack. Magazines with subscription confirmations adhered to each one—at least twenty of them.Cat Fancy.Modern Taxidermy.Quilting Quarterly.Ferret Enthusiast Monthly. Three separate timeshare presentation invitations. A brochure for cemetery plots. And another for estate planning seminars.
“They signed you up for burial plots?” I ask.
“Both of us,” Noah says, holding up his own pile of mail. “And apparently, a free Caribbean cruise presentation in Tampa next weekend.”
Carlotta hops over on one leg while holding her nose andtakes a look at the situation. “I gotta hand it to these kids, they’re creative little terrors.”
“For once, I agree with you,” I say.
Percy floats over to our mailbox and takes a gander himself. “Vandalism with this much commitment is rather like overcooked custard, darling—dramatic, messy, and someone’s going to have to clean it up.”
Both Everett and Noah exchange a dark glance, and I’m terrified that there might be a felony buried in the subtext somewhere. So I do the only thing I can think of. I distract.
“Let’s go inside. I have something to tell you that might make this day slightly less terrible. I also have a box of fresh chocolate chip cookies, waiting to make things better.”
Five minutes later, we’re in the kitchen. The twins are in their bouncers. Lyla Nell is immersed in a coloring book at the coffee table while a blue bear runs amok on the television. Carlotta is making herself a gin and tonic that’s approximately ninety percent gin. The dead fish have been disposed of, and the mountain of junk mail is sitting in a box like evidence at a trial.
“So,” I say, pulling out the black business card Ronnie Crane gave me. “I got invited to a meeting tonight. At a place called The Velvet Lounge in Leeds. Seven o’clock.”
Both Everett and Noah frown at me.
“Leeds?” Noah’s radar goes up at the mention of that dicey town that sits just south of Honey Hollow.
“Who invited you?” Everett asks.
“Ronnie Crane. Gigi Wentworth-Crane’s daughter. She said she knows where all the bodies are buried, literally and figuratively, and she’ll tell me anything I want to know about anyone in the Daughters of Honey Hollow.”
Noah’s eyebrows hike a notch. “In exchange for what?”
“Playing a game with her and her friends.” I pause. “She specifically said to bring my two husbands.”
There’s abeat of silence.
“I’m in,” Noah says.
“Obviously, I’m coming,” Everett says. “I’m the only husband you have.”
“Legally speaking,” Noah mutters.
“In every way that matters,” Everett corrects.
“Oh, this is going to be good.” Carlotta appears in the doorway, eating what looks to be a cold meatball straight from the fridge. “I’m coming, too. Someone needs to supervise.”
“No,” all three of us say in unison.
“Excuse me?” Carlotta looks genuinely offended. “I am an asset to any investigation.”
“You’re a liability with a pulse,” Noah says.
“You say liability, I say entertainment.” She takes another bite of meatball. “Besides, you need someone to keep things from getting awkward when Foxy and Sexy start their territorial caveman routine.”
