T he Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery smells like chocolate cake wrapped in butter and sugar—a stark contrast to last night’s cologne-and-death-scented disaster at the Velvet Fox Hotel.
Snow piles against the windows in fluffy drifts, diffusing the light inside to a soft, pearly glow that makes the Christmas decorations seem to shimmer with their own inner magic.
The bakery is bustling as Lottie entertains Noah, Everett, and Carlotta who are all nibbling on a stack of donuts at the counter.
The espresso machine hisses and gurgles in the background, a homey counterpoint to the Christmas music playing at a mercifully reasonable volume. My hands move on autopilot, arranging snowflake cookies in the display case while my brain replays last night’s horror show in vivid, technicolor detail.
“Stop making that face,” Lottie says, nudging me with her elbow as she slides a tray of gingerbread men into the case beside me. “You look like someone who just realized they forgot to defrost the Thanksgiving turkey at three p.m. on Turkey Thursday.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, straightening a cookie that doesn’t need straightening. “But it’s hard to be merry and bright when you’ve got a dead geriatric fiancé on your conscience.”
Lottie’s expression softens. “Don’t feel too bad about that whole people dropping dead at your feet thing. It’s happened to me a time or two as well.”
“A time or two?” Noah Fox’s voice carries from the counter where he’s mid-bite into what appears to be his third cinnamon roll of the morning. The homicide detective—Cooper’s colleague and Lottie’s most devoted admirer—gestures with his pastry, sending icing flying. “Try a dozen at least.”
“Thirteen and counting,” Judge Essex Everett Baxter—her official plus-one—corrects, his deep voice carrying the authority of a man who’s both sentenced criminals and judged baking competitions with equal conviction.
He sits beside Noah at the counter, immaculate in his tailored suit despite the early hour, with his dark hair perfectly styled, and cheekbones that should require a license to display in public.
Lottie’s “main squeeze,” as the locals call him, has every woman in Honey Hollow sighing when he walks by.
“You’re keeping count?” Lottie arches an eyebrow at him.
“Someone has to maintain accurate court records.” Everett winks her way before taking a sip of his black coffee.
“Hear that, Lottie Dottie?” Carlotta chuckles as she sits next to Everett, hovering over a plate full of crullers. “You’re a veritable corpse magnet and everyone knows it. Heck, half the sheriff’s department thinks you’re running some kind of death cult out of the bakery basement.”
“We don’t have a basement,” Lottie points out.
“Details, details.” Carlotta waves dismissively at the thought.
Fun fact: Despite being Lottie’s biological mother, who abandoned her as an infant, Carlotta has somehow wheedled her way into both Lottie’s home and business.
“Remember when they found that guy stuffed in the dumpster behind the bakery?” Noah reminisces, a dreamy look crossing his face that would be disturbing if I didn’t understand the weird nostalgia crime inspires in law enforcement. “That was one of our first cases together.”
“Nothing says romance like shared garbage corpses,” I mutter.
“Or that Halloween festival double homicide,” Everett adds.
“The Valentine’s Day poisoning,” Noah counters.
“The Easter egg hunt strangling,” Carlotta contributes with glee.
“The Fourth of July—” Everett begins.
“Okay!” Lottie interrupts, a little too loud. “I get it. I attract trouble.”
“Like honey attracts bears,” Noah says with undisguised admiration, his eyes tracking Lottie’s every movement as she wipes down the already spotless counter.
“Speaking of trouble…” Lottie turns to me with a raised brow. “How are you holding up after last night’s fiasco? I can’t believe you were front and center again when it happened. That’s twice in one week! Not even I have managed to do that feat.”
I’ll admit, she does look rather impressed.
All eyes swivel my way and I resist the urge to duck behind the display case.
“I’m fine,” I lie, as if I didn’t spend half the night staring at my ceiling wondering if I’d somehow perfected my assassination skills to include telepathy. “Just another day in the life of Effie Canelli, a reluctant hitwoman and apparent death magnet.”
They all share a dull laugh despite the fact I meagerly outed myself. Of course, they don’t think I’m being one bit serious.
“Did Cooper say anything about how the old coot bit the dust?” Carlotta probes with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Noah shifts uncomfortably on his stool. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Which means they don’t know anything yet,” Everett translates while adjusting his silk tie. And boy, does that shade of navy bring out the bad boy in his eyes.
“Or they know and they’re not telling,” Carlotta suggests while shoving another cruller into her pie hole and I’m tempted to do the same. Lottie’s chocolate on chocolate crullers really are the best thing ever.
Dreamy sigh.
“Since we have the lead homicide detective right here”—Lottie says, sliding a fresh cup of coffee toward Noah with a smile that would make stronger men confess to crimes they didn’t commit— “maybe you could share a tiny tidbit of information? You know, just between friends?”
Noah melts under Lottie’s attention like butter on a hot pan. “Well...”
“ Noah ,” Everett warns and the threat in his voice manages to evoke another dreamy sigh from me.
“Are the two dead brothers—Nicholas and Lorenzo—somehow related?” Lottie asks, leaning closer to Noah. “I mean, besides being actual brothers.”
Noah straightens his shoulders, trying to regain some professional composure. “We’re looking into all possibilities. Cooper and I are running toxicology screens, checking connections, the whole nine yards.”
“In other words, you really don’t know,” I translate.
“Yet,” Noah adds defensively. “We don’t know yet .”
Everett glances at his watch and stands. “And on that note, I’ve got a job to get to.” He comes over and drops a kiss on Lottie’s cheek. “Try not to find any more bodies before dinner, Lemon.”
“No promises,” Lottie shoots back.
“You either,” he says while pointing my way and I practically hop with the command.
“Yes, sir.” I’m quick to salute him just as Noah stuffs the last of his glazed donut into his mouth.
“I’d better get going, too,” he says, jumping to his feet. “Cooper isn’t going to be impressed if I’m late to the briefing,” he mumbles through a bite. “Thanks for the sugar rush, Lottie. I’ll call if I get any updates.”
They take off and the bell above the door jingles as they exit, leaving a momentary lull in the bakery’s morning bustle. Lottie heads off to help a customer while Carlotta wastes no time sliding into the stool Noah just vacated.
“So what’s the real story?” she asks. “You can pipe up now that the boys in blue have gone their way.”
“What real story?” I ask, before popping a snowflake cookie into my mouth.
Mmm , so buttery and soft. Lottie really does know what she’s doing.
“Please,” Carlotta scoffs. “I’ve known Jimmy Canelli since he was stealing candy from corner stores. You think I don’t recognize a family hit when I see one?”
My blood turns to ice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, fine. We both know it wasn’t you. You’ve got the survival instincts of a lemming with a death wish.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I grumble, though I can’t exactly argue with her assessment of my assassination skills.
“If I were investigating, which I’m not saying I am, I’d be at square one.
The only lead I’ve got is that Holly Bellini mentioned Stella Martinelli might know something, but I don’t know where to find her. ”
Suze appears from the kitchen with flour dusting her arms and a streak of chocolate on her cheek. “Did I hear you mention Stella Martinelli?”
“You know her?” I ask, perking up.
“I don’t run in the same social circles as that woman,” Suze says that woman as if it means something. “But doesn’t she work at the Jolly Holly Tree Lot? You know, the Christmas tree farm on the edge of town? I think she volunteers there during the holidays.”
“Oh, wait a minute,” I say when the memory clicks into place—Stella at the bakery, ordering donuts to take to the tree lot. “That’s right!” I exclaim, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically for someone who’s just remembered where an elderly woman spends her free time.
Lottie hitches her head toward the door. “Go on. We’re overstaffed today anyway, and you look like you’re about to jump right out of your skin.”
“Thanks, Lot!” I’m already untying my apron, mind racing with questions I need to ask Stella Martinelli about two dead brothers and a possible poisoning, when I rush out the door and nearly collide with Niki, who has a blonde ball of fluff in her arms.
The happy little canine jumps right into my own arms with that bright red bow still secured around his neck.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Niki asks, steadying herself and me.
“No fire,” I say, scratching Watson behind the ears. “Just a potential lead. Do you want to help me interrogate a senior citizen at a Christmas tree lot?”
“Is the Pope Catholic? Do bears?—”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I interrupt, heading for the parking lot. “Come on, we’re going to get a tree and maybe a killer.”