Flip stands between them like a deer in very flattering headlights—visibly overwhelmed, mildly panicked, and still absolutely not mad about the attention.
“Ladies,” he tries to interject, “there’s no need to?—”
“Don’t youladiesus,” Loretta Salami snaps, pointing one of her weapon-grade nails in his direction. “I’ve been single for a whole three months, and I deserve some male attention!”
“Three months?” Nona Jo scoffs. “Try three decades, you expired deli special. I waited for the right man to come along because some of us have standards!”
Cooper sighs with a sense of resignation that lets me know he’s witnessed this particular drama before with his not-so-sweet baby sis. “And I thought finding a dead body was going to be the worst part of my day.”
Watson barks once, as if agreeing with Cooper’s assessment, then trots over to investigate whether either of the arguing women might have food hidden in their purses.
I watch the chaos unfold and can’t help but think that between murder investigations and family feuds, this festival is turning into exactly the catastrophe I should have expected.
In Honey Hollow, we don’t simply handle situations—we upgrade them into disasters.
CHAPTER 7
The morning sun streams through the windows of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery like liquid patriotism, illuminating enough holiday decorations to make Uncle Sam himself explode with pride.
It’s eight in the morning, the day after Larry Rocket made his final culinary critique, and apparently the entire population of Honey Hollow has decided they need emergency baked goods to process their trauma.
The bakery looks like the Fourth of July blew up in the most delicious way—American flag garlands drape from every surface, star-shaped twinkle lights blink from corners, and miniature flags sprout from potted plants like freedom flowers.
The air smells like vanilla frosting mixed with fresh coffee while “America the Beautiful” plays softly from speakers that are mercifully not trying to rupture anyone’s eardrums.
The espresso machine hisses like an angry snake, oven timers ding with alarming regularity, and the morning rush chatter creates a background noise that suggests everyone’s had way too much caffeine and not nearly enough sleep—and I fall firmly in that category.
Through the opening that connects us to the Honey Pot Diner, I can see Niki taking orders in a star-spangled apron that makes her look like she’s auditioning for the role of Sexy Betsy Ross. She’s flirting with a customer who’s old enough to have personally known the Founding Fathers, but hey, tips are tips.
“I swear, if one more person asks me if our freedom fries come with a side of democracy, I’m defecting to Canada,” Suze mutters, arranging a display of flag cakes like she’s taking her aggression out on them. Her hair is dusted with powdered sugar, and she’s wearing a perky red apron that clashes with her general attitude toward morning people.
“The customers are out of control,” Lily counters, wiping down tables while dodging people who seem to think holiday baked goods require inspecting from every possible angle. “Someone just asked if our apple pie is as American as apple pie—which doesn’t even make sense—and if it comes with a side of freedom. I’ve heard about seventeen terrible holiday-themed jokes since we opened.”
“Seventeen?” I ask, boxing up an order of stars and stripes forever cookies for a woman whose outfit suggests she raided a flag factory. “That’s a rookie number. I’m up to twenty-three bad holiday jokes, and it’s not even nine o’clock.”
The display cases are practically pulsating with festive sugar overload. Our flag cakes—vanilla layers with strawberry and blueberry filling that creates red, white, and blue stripes when sliced—are disappearing faster than my will to live at a family reunion.
The cupcakes look like tiny edible fireworks with their red, white, and blue swirled frosting, and I’m pretty sure we’ve sold more Liberty Bell brownies in the past hour than the actual Liberty Bell has seen tourists all year.
Customers line up like they’re waiting to vote, clutching orders for July Fourth parties that apparently require enoughsugar to fuel a small army. One woman just ordered six dozen Declaration of Independence donuts for her neighborhood block party, while a sweet old man seems convinced he needs four flag cakes for a family gathering of twelve people. Either his family has serious appetites or he’s planning to use cake as furniture. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn’t have been left in charge of ordering the baked goods.
I’m trying not to think about yesterday’s disaster at the lake, but my brain keeps replaying the image of Larry Rocket collapsing with that half-eaten ramekin of Julia’s Paul Revere’s patriotic corn pudding clutched in his dead fingers like accusatory evidence. The man went from food critic to food victim faster than you can say “lethal corn pudding,” and somehow, I managed to be standing right there when it happened.
Because, of course, I was. It’s almost as if it were mandatory.
Add to that the tiny matter of Uncle Jimmy’s assignment to take out Mayor Nash before the Fourth of July, and I’m basically living in a stress sandwich with a side of impending doom.
The things I do to keep a roof over my head would make a normal person question their existence, but I gave up being normal around the same time I traded my tech career for a gun named Buttercup. Named after my favorite flower because even murder weapons deserve a cute moment.
“Earth to Effie,” Lottie’s voice cuts through my internal doom spiral. “You’re frosting that cupcake like you’re trying to suffocate it.”
I look down to see that I’ve indeed created what appears to be a cupcake burial mound with enough frosting to construct a small igloo. “Sorry. I’m still processing yesterday’s excitement.”
Lottie Lemon appears at my elbow like she owns the place—because she does, and signs my checks to prove it—her caramel hair perfectly coifed despite the hour and her apron still spotlesswhile the rest of us look like we took a direct hit from a flour explosion. She’s got that unfair kind of pretty face that makes you side-eye your own reflection, paired with the instincts that built this bakery from nothing into a full-blown sugar empire.
“Speaking of yesterday,” Lottie says, her voice taking on that excited tone that usually means either good news or imminent disaster, “we should talk about the festival.”
Suze and Lily pause their customer service ballet to listen, while I try to redistribute my frosting catastrophe into something that won’t require medical intervention.
