I turn in time to see Midge Thornbury descending upon us in a cloud of floral perfume and passive aggression. She’s the picture of 1950s homemaker perfection—honeyblonde victory rolls, a smile that looks pasted on, and a strand of pearls that suspiciously look investment-grade.
“Do you two know each other?” Mom seems delighted by the revelation—far more delighted than I’ll ever be.
“Oh, Lottie and I have met plenty of times.” Midge winks at my mother, giggling in a way that makes my eye twitch. “My banana pudding just keeps beating hers at just about every county fair, time and time again.”
Everett tenses beside me. Have I mentioned what a loyal husband he is?
“It’s okay, Lottie.” Midge pats my arm with all the warmth of a viper. “You have the entire bakery. I just have this one little culinary victory.” She winks once again, and I can’t help but frown.
Carlotta barks out a laugh and pats my arm as well. “Don’t worry, Lot Lot. You’re still the best banana hammock slinger this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. That’s gotta count for something.”
I gasp at the woman who bore me. For her sake, I hope not a single woman here knows what kind of banana hammock Carlotta is referring to. Let’s just say she spends her not-so-hard-earned dollars making the bad boys holler down at the male strip club. And for the record, I can’t even make heads or tails of what she’s talking about.
“Indeed, it does count for something.” Vivi’s smile falters as she turns to Midge. “Perhaps you should focus less on pudding and more on keeping your own house in order. I hear things have been unsettled lately.”
Midge’s entire body goes rigid, but she recovers quick enough. “Oh, Vivi. You always did like to listen to other people’s stories a little too much. I just hope you remember who’s been loyal to you all these years. Loyalty is so important, don’t you think? Especially for someone in your position.”
Vivi’s expression flickers with something ice cold and, dare I say, dangerous, before someone calls her name and she trots off without so much as a wave.
“Well, that was fun,” Midge sings a touch too brightly. “I’d better go check on my pudding. I brought several backups—mine always goes so quickly.” She shoots me one last look. “Yours looks a bit lonely over there, Lottie. Hardly touched and oh-so-pale.”
She skitters off, and I fantasize briefly about dunking her head into my “oh-so-pale” pudding.
“That was fun.” Dolly glances my way. “Someone should knock both of those women over the head with Big Bertha. That would solve a lot of problems,” she trills with a laugh before making a beeline to the buffet table.
“Well, Lemon.” Everett’s voice is dry as he continues to stare at Midge. “I can see who your next victim is. I’ll call off Noah, and we’ll help bury the body.”
Mom swats his arm. “Don’t you dare joke like that! You know darn well—where Lottie Lemon goes, bodies follow.”
“Mother!”
The twins choose that moment to start fussing, their cries rising above the crooner music. Ozzy and Corbin are tucked side by side in their double stroller, dark hair and bright blue eyes blinking up at the world as Mom gently rocks the stroller back and forth like she’s steering a tiny, slightly grumpy parade float. I reach for Ozzy, but Mom waves me off.
“I’ve got this, Lottie. The last thing I want is my sweet grandsons near you at a public gathering.” She winces as she says it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I’d better go find Wiley. He promised to help with the kids.”
Wiley would be Noah’s no-good louse of a father who, inexplicably, treats my mother like gold. She trots off with the twins’ stroller, and I watch her herd Lyla Nell and the rest of the kids toward the back of the property, where Wiley is presumably hiding from the estrogen extravaganza.
Everett’s phone buzzes, and he glances at thescreen and frowns.
“Noah found something in the house.” He lands a quick kiss on my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
He takes off toward the estate, leaving me with Carlotta.
I’m about to take off myself in search of Lyla Nell when I notice the confrontation near the topiary garden.
A fiery redhead is giving Vivi an absolute earful, complete with animated gestures, barely contained fury, and all the angry works. Vivi stands rigid, and her expression is downright murderous.
“Who’s that giving Vivi the business?” I ask Carlotta.
“That would be my mother,” a chipper voice says from behind, and we turn to find a woman about my age with strawberry-blonde hair pinned in an elegant updo, watching the argument with weary familiarity.
“Ronnie Crane.” She extends a hand. “And that tornado over there is Gigi, my sweet yet spicy mama. She and Vivi have been at each other’s throats since before I was born. Something about a man, a secret, and a casserole recipe theft back in ’72.” She shrugs. “I stopped keeping track.”
“A man and a casserole?” Carlotta’s eyes light up. “Now that’s my kind of scandal—complete with dinner and dessert. And the man would be the dessert.”
“We get it,” I grunt. Because with Carlotta, the punchline is always of the male variety.
“Oh, there are plenty of men in that story.” Ronnie laughs. “They might look wholesome now, but honey, the things these women were up to would make a sailor blush.”
