Page 7 of Christmas Fudge Fatality

“Noel?” Mom parrots as she and Chrissy exchange a confused look. “I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

“It was aher,” I say quickly, losing the pretty little poltergeist amongst the crowd. “It was Tamara Gray. Someone pushed her off the overlook. We’re pretty sure it was her soon-to-be ex-husband.”

Chrissy gasps. “Scott?”

Mom tosses a hand up and nearly drops Pancake. “Say it isn’t so! What is this world coming to? And all of this at Christmas, of all times.”

“I know.” I glance to Everett a moment. “So, Mom, I need to be here in case they need me for questioning.” I take Waffles from Everett and hand him to Chrissy. “Please take the cats back to my place. Mom, you have the key. If you could leave the lights on for the cats, I’m sure I’ll be home soon.”

“Will do.” Mom pulls me in for a quick embrace and the scent of lilacs permeates my senses. “Oh, and before I forget, Chrissy and I are hosting a speed dating event at the B&B weekend after next. Would you mind catering the event for us?”

“Please, Lottie.” Chrissy leans in. “The chocolate fudge they served here is amazing. You must give me the recipe.”

“I sure will. And I will certainly cater the desserts for the event. But speed dating? Are you sure about that?”

Mom is quick to wave off my trepidation. “It’ll be fine, Lottie. And who knows? We might just walk away with a beau apiece.” She shakes her shoulders suggestively—a move she’s more than perfected. “We’ll see you both later. Oh, and Judge Baxter? We would be delighted to have you attend the event yourself.”

“Mother.” I make a face at her as the two of them scuttle off for the parking lot.

“Don’t worry, Lemon.” Everett wraps an arm around my waist. “I’ll go as your assistant.”

“Thank you.” I reach up and give the scruff on his cheek a quick scratch. Everett’s dark hair and blue-eyed combination has had the ability to melt me right from the start.

A series of quick barks disrupt the moment as an adorable, yet long since passed on to the other side French bulldog scampers this way.

I take up Everett’s hand in case Noel feels the need to speak. A while back I discovered that if I’m touching someone, they, too, can hear the dead speak. I guess you could say I act like a natural conduit.

“Noel!” I reach down and give his head a quick scratch, and he feels every bit as solid and real as my two cats. It never fails to amaze me at how real the dead can feel when they want to. “Hello. My goodness, you are beautiful.” I stroke his back with my open palm. “My name is Lottie Lemon, and I’m so sorry about Tamara.”

He whimpers as his head writhes. “She was my mother.” Another sad whine comes from him, and it breaks my heart. “We need to find the killer, and we need to do so quickly. I plan on spending Tamara’s first holiday in paradise right alongside her.”

My heart wrenches with both grief and a spike of joy at the thought that holidays might be celebrated in paradise. My father is there and I’d like to think he’s having the best time, even if we aren’t with him just yet.

The rustling sound of a small crowd heading this way garners my attention, and I look back to see Noah and Ivy shuttling Scott along.

Everett helps me rise and we watch as they head toward the parking lot.

Stacy comes running from behind. “You didn’t have to do this, Scott! We could have had everything.” She breaks down sobbing, and Lainey is right there to comfort her with a hearty embrace.

I blow out a hard breath as I look to the worried little poltergeist next to me. “It looks as if you’ll be back to paradise sooner than you think, Noel. I think they just arrested the killer.”

Noel looks up and shakes his head as if he were disputing the idea.

His ears pique. “Then why am I still here?”

I look to Everett as a shiver runs up my spine.

Why is he still here, indeed?

Chapter 4

The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery is warm and toasty inside compared to the frigid arctic blast just outside its doors.

I glance out the window and watch as the snow swirls through the air like powdered sugar shaken from the sky. Evergreen boughs of garland are strung all up and down Main Street, and every few feet they’re dotted with cherry red bows. A wreath hangs on every door as far as the eye can see, and, at night, the entire street is lit up with twinkle lights that cascade from one shop to the next.

“’Tis pretty,” Noel muses with half his ghostly body protruding out of the window and half his adorably pudgy body inside the bakery.

“It is. There’s no place like Honey Hollow in December.”