“We all know we’re running the booth at the lake for the Fourth,” Lottie says. “Noon to eight—prime time, right into the fireworks. This is our moment—half that crowd already knows us; the other half is about to.”
“We’re basically sugar pushers,” Suze snips. “Just what the world needs.”
“Think of it as spreading democracy through dessert,” Lily suggests. “It’s very American.”
“And it keeps us employed,” Lottie points out. “We’re going to be stretched to capacity all week,” Lottie continues, ignoring Suze’s editorial commentary. “We really need to lean into special July Fourth menu items, extra inventory, and patriotic presentation. This is our chance to really make an impression on the community.”
Before I can point out that I’ve already made quite an impression by being adjacent to another dead body, the bakery door chimes as someone enters our sugar-coated domain.
Mayor Harry Nash walks in, treating our bakery like his official campaign headquarters, and considering how many times he stops by in a week, it might as well be. He’s wearing a red polo shirt that makes him look like a golf instructor, and his smile could ignite the town’s Fourth of July fireworks display.
My stomach drops at the sight of him.
“Good morning, ladies!” he calls out with an aggressively cheerful energy that screams he’s already had enough coffee to float a small boat. “Beautiful day to be alive, isn’t it?”
It is for those who plan on remaining that way.
“Good morning, Mayor Nash,” Lottie replies with the polite warmth she reserves for important community figures who aren’t quite family. Despite the fact that he’s technically her father—thanks to his on-again, off-again relationship with Carlotta—he wasn’t the man who raised her, so their relationship exists in that complicated space between respectful and affectionate.
I try to make myself invisible behind a display of Founding Fathers fritters, but Mayor Nash spots me anyway.
“Effie! How are you holding up after yesterday’s unfortunate incident?” he asks with genuine concern. “That must have been quite a shock.”
“I’m fine,” I manage to croak, though internally I’m screaming because this is the man I’m supposed to assassinate in less than a week, and he’s being nice to me. “It was just one of those things.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” he says warmly. “And I have some exciting news that might cheer everyone up!”
He pauses dramatically, like a politician about to announce free ice cream for everyone.
He nods. “I’m pleased to announce that we’re holding a contest for the most festive booth at the Fourth of July celebration! The winner receives a one-thousand-dollar gift certificate to Williams Saltonoma plus a feature spread inVermont Lifemagazine!”
The collective gasp from Lottie, Suze, and Lily sucks half the oxygen out of the room. A thousand dollars at Williams Saltonoma is like Christmas morning for people in the food business, and a magazine feature would put the Cutie Pie on themap in ways that would make our cash register sing patriotic songs all year long.
Williams Saltonoma is a knock-off of the OG store that makes everyone drool with envy, but this is the cozy Vermont version.
“Oh my,” Lottie breathes, her eyes taking on a glazed look while imagining even more professional stand mixers and artisanal baking tools. “Wow, that’s wonderful news, Mayor Nash.”
“I thought you’d be interested.” He grins. “May the most festive booth win!”
He heads off to spread his contest news to other unsuspecting business owners, and Lottie turns to me with a wild look in her eyes.
“Effie,” she says with the solemnity usually reserved for wedding vows or contract killings, “I’m putting you in charge of booth decoration.”
“Me?” I squeak. “But yesterday I hung our banner upside down!”
“That was creative artistic interpretation.” Lottie waves dismissively. “Besides, you clearly have an eye for unique presentation. Here.” She reaches into her apron and produces the bakery’s business credit card like she’s handing me the keys to her culinary kingdom. “Go crazy at the craft store. I want our booth to be so star-spangled it makes the Statue of Liberty wish she could relocate.”
I stare at the credit card as if it might blow up. Being trusted with business finances while simultaneously plotting to assassinate the contest judge feels like an irony that should disqualify me from the general population.
Before I can protest my obvious conflict of interest, another commotion draws our attention to the front door. Judge Essex Everett Baxter walks in like he’s starring in his own legal drama,and I swear half the female population of the bakery forgets how to breathe. Me included.
Everett, who Carlotta has dubbed Mr. Sexy for reasons that become immediately obvious upon visual contact, is a man who makes smart women do stupid things. He has dark hair that never has a bad day, piercing blue eyes that could cross-examine a jury into submission, and a commanding presence that lets us know he’s used to getting his way both in courtrooms and bedrooms. He’s wearing a navy suit that was probably constructed by top Italian designers, and his mere presence seems to make several customers forget their own names.
“Morning, Lemon,” he says in that deep voice that makes civil proceedings sound like foreplay.
Lottie immediately zeroes in on him like he’s the only item on the menu that matters.
“Everett,” she purrs, her professional demeanor melting faster than a triple scoop of rocky road ice cream in July. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning.”
