Page 4 of Macaron Massacre
“Can I help you?” I say instinctively, forgetting momentarily all about the dual shindig about to take place next door. For all I know, she could be one of Rich Dallas’ daughters. He’s got two or twelve.
She bites down on her bottom lip as she cranes her neck past me while taking in the crowd.
“You wouldn’t happen to know a Judge Baxter, would you?”
I flick my wrist as I break out into an easy grin. “I sure do—in the Biblical sense, if you know what I mean.” I give a cheeky wink. “Everett is my boyfriend.”
Her eyes grow twice their size as her jaw unhinges.
I know what she’s thinking. What in the heck is Mr. Sexy doing with this church mouse? Mr. Sexy is actually an official nickname bestowed to Everett by baristas everywhere. And I happen to agree with it.
I hitch a thumb toward the back. “Would you like me to get him for you?”
Her shock quickly morphs to horror. “Oh God, I didn’t think—” She gives a quick look around. “I didn’t know… I’m sorry. I have to go.” She darts out the door before I can stop her.
“Ha,” a female voice honks from behind, and I turn to find my best friend, Keelie Turner, with her pale blue eyes cast in the direction of the mystery woman.
Keelie and I have been besties since preschool, and just last January we found out we’re related. Her grandma, Nell Sawyer, is my grandma, too, in a roundabout way. Nell was technically my birth mother’s aunt, but she raised her so I’m not sure what familial trajectory that lands us in, but I’ve been affectionately calling her my grandmother for as long as I can remember. Nell and I have been friends for as long as I’ve known Keelie. Up until last fall, Nell was the only one who knew about my supersensual standing. And then a few months after that, I found out that Nell was transmundane, too. But then she died, and here we are with her ghost milling around somewhere on the premises.
Keelie smirks as she ticks her head in the girl’s direction. “I bet she’s sorry she can’t hitch a ride on the Essex Express.”
“Maybe,” I say, twisting my lips in that direction. “But the funny thing is, she didn’t call him by that mattress-based moniker.”
Lily waves us over from the register. Lily Swanson is a brunette beauty who, aside from working dutifully for me, has in the past hated my guts. Lily and Keelie’s twin sister, Naomi, are best friends, and well, Naomi has harbored ill will toward me ever since OtisBearFisher chose me over her way back in high school. And how I wish Bear had chosen Naomi in retrospect.
Bear took my heart and ground it down to powder with his notorious cheating ways. I left Honey Hollow as soon as high school was over to attend Columbia University where I promptly had my heart ground down to powder once again by my then fiancé, Curt Vanderlin. But ample time has passed and I’ve mended fences with both the cheating louses. Noah was the third to crush my heart, and after that thorough pummeling, I’ve been a living mess ever since.
Keelie leans in. “Hey, doesn’t that man at the counter look familiar to you?”
I squint over at a man just a touch older than my twenty-seven years, wiry brown hair, a day-glow tan, dark blue polo and matching pants.
“Oh, I know him,” I say as I gleefully head over. “Well, if it isn’t Councilman Dushane,” I say cheerily as I head behind the counter to help Lily box up what looks to be the entire bakery. “Checking out the competition?” Scott Dushane is Mayor Nash’s only opponent in the mayoral race.
“Lottie Lemon.” He ticks his head from side to side. “You’re onto me, aren’t you?” He lets a dark laugh fly. “I’m having an official kickoff party of my own down the street at the Woodhouse Grill, but they just informed me they don’t have near enough baked goods to supply my future constituents with, so here I am. Why should Harry Nash get the best goods in town?” He gives a sly wink as he stacks enough pink boxes to make a precarious tower of his own.
“Well, good luck to you in the mayoral race. May the best man win,” I say just as I spot a sparkle of ethereal light coming from the kitchen in the back. “Keelie? Would you mind helping Lily carry these out to his car?” I head to the kitchen without so much as catching a breath, but it’s empty—no sign of Noah, Everett, or Nell’s ghost. Not even my tower of macarons is to be seen. I’m assuming Noah or Everett carried it over for me.
The celestial prickling of light starts up again, and this time I follow it right back into the Honey Pot.
I spot Noah near the bar talking to Cormack Featherby—more like being accosted by the bimbo. I’ve had about enough of her blonde ambition as she tries her best to trap herself a detective to call her own.
Everett is near the bar as well, and I see him having a conversation with a leggy redhead, Detective Ivy Fairbanks. I can’t help but make a face. Ivy is Noah’s official partner in crime. She doesn’t think much of me, but I’m pretty sure she thinks a whole lot about Noah in a less than platonic sense.
I’m about to move in that direction when a hand reaches out and clasps over my arm.
“There you are!” my mother chimes. “You, Lottie Lemon, are a slippery fish. I just introduced Lainey and Meg to Rich’s children. I’d like for you to meet them, too.”
“What?” I shake her loose as the burgeoning crowd presses up against us. “Why would I want to meet them? You’re about to break it off with their father. I’m shockedyouwant to meet them.”
Mom swats me on the arm. “I know that. But it’s good etiquette. Besides, his ex-wife showed up, and to make things worse, they think this entire crowd is here just for his birthday party.”
“If the posters of your new beau, and the patriotic party hats didn’t give away the true essence of this shindig, then they’re denser than their father. I guess the fruit didn’t fall too far from the hostile tree.” And I’m willing to bet Rich shook them loose before they were ripe. He’s just that mean.
“I don’t know what they think. But one thing is for sure. They all seem a little uptight. I’ve even plied them with your scrumptious macarons, but they’re unflinching in their rude behavior.”
“Maybe they’re still hoping their parents will reconcile?”
“Lottie, they’re grown women,” she says, navigating me through the crowd.