Page 12 of Poison Apple Crisp

“It’s the least I can do. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve already made a note of the apple crisp,” she says it slow and measured. “I have a tour coming in tomorrow, and I’ll be sure to send them your way. Gird yourself. They’ll be hungry.”

My mother offers tours of her haunted B&B for eighty bucks a pop, and once she—or more to the point, the ghosts that live there are through scaringandscarring the masses, she piles the poor people on a bus and sends them to my bakery for what she’s dubbed as The Last Thing They Ate Tour.

Sadly, every single homicide in Honey Hollow, over the span of the last two years, has involved my sweet treats, and even more chilling than that is the fact those morbid so-called tours sell whatever the deadly dessert du jour is right through the roof. That being said, it’s time to kick the production of my apple crisps into high gear.

Rachelle pops up. “I’m ready to help, Miranda.” She presses her hand to her chest as she looks my way, and I notice the fact her long sleeves are pulled nearly down to her knuckles. Poor thing is probably shivering with fear. “Isn’t this the worst? I hope they figure out whatever happened to her. I’m sure her fiancé wants answers.”

Mom shakes her head. “I don’t think this was natural. But don’t you worry. Lottie here is a great detective. She’ll have this case buttoned up in no time. She has a knack for hunting down killers.” She gives my cheek a pinch. “Now that I’ve considered it, I think the Ashford Sherriff’s Department should put you on payroll.”

“Mother.” My head bobs side to side. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s her job, Lottie.” Rachelle rides her eyes up and down me a moment. “I’ve got a mother, too. It never ends.” She glances back to where poor Brenda lies and shudders. “I guess I’ll see you around school.”

Both Rachelle and my mother get to the task of clearing off the tables, and you better believe my mother snatched up that gilded birdcage first.

I give a quick scan of the vicinity and spot Everett and Noah locked in what looks to be an intense conversation, and intermittently they offer stern looks in my direction.

Odd.

But it’s the sight just past them that has my blood running cold. It’s Cokie speaking with Brenda’s fiancé, and they seem to be nodding and sharing a private smile. Cokie looks down where Brenda lies splayed out for all to see, and a dull laugh thumps through her as she says something. The man next to her nods and smiles as if agreeing.

Just what is it that those two find so funny, so very satisfying at a dark hour like this?

It’s clear they’re up to no good.

But are they up to murder?

Chapter 4

Last night at the fundraiser gone awry, I inadvertently ended up putting that book,Justice Served Cold: The Story of Desmond Meadows, into my tote bag and brought it home with me.

I suppose it doesn’t matter. I can pass it along to my mother in plenty of time for the new fundraiser. That is, once I’m finished with it. I’ll admit, I picked it up this morning, and it was darn hard to pull myself away from it in time to open the bakery. I would have started it last night, but Everett and I had to finish whatwestarted.

Apparently, Desmond was having an affair with a woman by the name of Irene Collins. Shortly after he stepped out on his wife, Robin Meadows, he made it official and they filed for divorce. But they were warring over the children—three little boys all under eight. Robin feared for her life. She told anyone who would listen that if anything happened to her, Desmond would be to blame. And sure enough, she went out for a jog one morning after the nanny took the kids to school and was never seen or heard from again.

A forensics team entered his home with luminol and lit up the living room like a Christmas tree. Blood evidence was everywhere in that house, albeit seemingly invisible to the naked eye. Later, security footage surfaced near a refinery where Desmond worked, and it showed him hauling an oversized duffle bag just out of the frame of the camera. Bloodhounds scoured the area, but no evidence of a body was ever found.

Robin Meadows is missing, and Desmond Meadows is dead. Robin’s mother now has custody of those three little boys. Sad all the way around.

It was creepy knowing that Desmond touched the very book that’s in my home now. And what’s even creepier—I found an envelope tucked in the back of it, sealed shut. I didn’t dare open it myself, but you can bet your bottom snooping dollar I’ll be right there when Noah steams it open. It could be a vital clue as to where Desmond hid the body. Or it could be aconfession. If I had found it last night, I might have been tempted to open it myself.

Last night swims through my mind—the part where Everett and I finished off that argument the right way in my bedroom

As much as I hate to admit it, Carlotta was onto something. Let me set the record straight. By no means does Everett have a temper.

Does he have a reputation as a tough judge? Yup.

Can he be ornery and tough as nails with the worst of them? Double yup.

But he has a heart of gold, and that man has never said a cross word to me. That is, up until last night. And to be truthful, those words he spoke were given in the spirit of protecting our child.

I get it.

But that didn’t stop this wild surge of hormones inside of me from rearing its ugly head, and boy, did things get even uglier once he stepped into my home, but after about two minutes of sharp disagreement, we spent more than two hours engaged in the urgent tug and pull of limbs. On an ordinary day, Everett is a warrior of the highest caliber in the bedroom—his moves have got moves—but last night he was a tiger.

And no matter how many times we’re together, he’s forever able to surprise me with something new. And heaven help me, did he ever bring new things to table—or rather the mattress last night. Big, breathtaking, animalistic, soul-rendering new things that sent me to the edge of my existence in the best way possible. I may never share another nice sentiment with that man again.

I sigh hard as I stare off dreamily at the Hobart mixer taking up a third of the kitchen in my bakery. I’ve got a new batch of individual apple crisps just about ready to pull out of the oven, and the scent of warm cinnamon and brown sugar is pulling everyone right off of Main Street and landing them inside my sweet shop. Lily is up front helping the masses load up on the crisp apple treats because, true to my mother’s word, she sent the folks from her tour over and they gobbled up just about every last apple crisp we had, thus landing me in the kitchen once again to mass-produce more.