It’s a harbinger of murder.
Mom gestures toward the peacocks with obvious pride. “These magnificent birds have been a cherished part of the Pemberton-Clarke estate since the 1950s. Please be mindful not to feed or touch them. They’re beautiful, but they can be quite temperamental.” She raises her crystal punch glass, and dozens of gloved hands follow suit. “Join me in a toast. To mothers and daughters. To the women who came before us, who built this community with casseroles and determination and a whole lot oflove. And to the wonderful daughters who carry that legacy forward.”
“To mothers and daughters!” the crowd echoes.
I don’t know if it’s the May sunshine, or the fact that I’m running on three hours of sleep and a prayer, or the sight of my own mother up there honoring the grandmother I never got to meet, along with my Grandma Nell, but my eyes suddenly sting with tears.
Carlotta clucks her tongue my way. “Come on now, Lot Lot. Don’t you get all weepy on us.”
“I’m not,” I lie, blinking rapidly. “It’s just allergies. Pollen or something, or peacock dander.”
Noah chuckles. “Peacock dander isn’t a thing.”
“It is now.”
The applause dies down, and Mom appears at my elbow so fast I’m pretty sure she teleported with the twins in tow as they coo away in their stroller.
“Lottie! There you are!” She’s already grabbing my arm, already dabbing at my cheek with a lace handkerchief that appeared out of nowhere. “Come—you simply must meet our hostess properly.”
She steers me, the stroller, and the boys by proxy, toward Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke, who’s holding court near the buffet table with a chatty brunette I don’t recognize. Everett follows, because apparently, he’s decided I need a judicial escort. And with a potential killer on the loose, he’s probably right.
“Vivi, this is my daughter Lottie,” Mom announces with far more pride than I’ll ever deserve. “She owns the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery here in town. These sweet little angels belong to her, and this strapping gentleman is Judge Everett Baxter, one of Lottie’s handsome husbands.”
I shoot my mother a look for venturing into questionable matrimonial territory. I only have one husband,and she knows it.
Mom blinks my way with a question in her eyes, and for a split second, I’m not so sure she is in the know about my stance on monogamy.
Vivi’s ice-blue eyes sweep over Everett with undisguised appreciation. “A judge. How authoritative.” She extends a hand dripping with diamonds. “Charmed.”
“And this is Dolly Wainwright,” Mom continues, gesturing to the fidgeting brunette. “She handles our charitable fund coordination.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Dolly says with fluttering hands and an apologetic smile, and she strikes me as the kind of person who probably says sorry to furniture when she bumps into it. She’s petite and pleasantly plump with dark hair teased into a perfect bouffant that looks as if it hasn’t changed since she discovered Aqua Net. She’s wearing rhinestone-studded cat-eye glasses, has freckled cheeks that are currently flush pink, and she’s donned both floral prints and gingham. She looks like she stepped out of a vintage cookbook illustration—wholesome, cheerful, and completely incapable of violence. Here’s hoping she’s not the killer, although with this crowd, just about every pearl-clutcher in attendance is on my preliminary suspect list. Not that the killer has to be a woman, but then, the odds are certainly in favor of it. “Your twins are just adorable,” she coos at them as if they’re the cutest things she’s ever seen, and they might be.
“Thank you. I happen to agree, but I’m partial. It’s so lovely to meet you both,” I tell them. “Everything looks so wonderful here today. And it all seems to be going so smoothly. I certainly hope it stays that way.”
I’d hate to ruin it by stumbling over a body, but I keep that homicidal tidbit to myself. Yet I can’t help but give the side-eye to Everett, who looks less than amused by my inadvertent nod to deadly deeds to come.
“Nice to meet you, ladies.” Everett nods while Carlottamumbles something unintelligible through a mouth full of banana pudding—Midge’s day-glow banana pudding, no less.
She’s such a traitor. Come to think of it, I really should start charging her rent. Carlotta happens to be mooching off Everett and me going on two years now. Although let’s face it, it feels more like two decades.
Vivi lifts her chin. “Well, things certainly would go more smoothly if certain people remembered their place.” She bats her lashes at the brunette before her.
Dolly’s smile freezes solid, and the tension between them crackles like static electricity on a wool sweater.
“However, I do worry about the foot traffic,” Vivi continues, surveying the crowd with distaste. “I wasn’t kidding. Lord knows what this will do to my Persian rugs in the sunroom. They’re antiques. Completely irreplaceable. I’ve also set up my vintage kitchen display in there—and I have the commemorative 1952 Griswold among the collection.” She nods my way. “As a baker, you might be interested in it.”
“Oh wow, I’d love to see it. I’m more than familiar with those. They’re collector pieces, you know.”
“I’m well aware,” she says. “Of course, she’s not for sale. I call her Big Bertha. I love her more than my own children. You simply must have a look. I’ve been collecting those pieces for years.”
“I’ll be sure to check it out.”
For some reason, I think that whole Persian rugs repeat slash Big Bertha reveal was just a cover for the barb she tossed at Dolly a second ago.
Before I can respond, a new voice cuts through the conversation like a knife through one of my cream puffs.
“Lottie Lemon! I thought that was you!”
