Page 1 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

“ I ’ve eaten four pumpkin spice waffles and I’m still standin’,” Peggy declares, patting her stomach with a not-so-surprising touch of pride. “Take that, you ninnies,” she teases.

Clarabelle snorts and her gray hair practically vibrates with indignation. “Four? That’s amateur hour, Toots. I’ve eaten six and I’m contemplating a seventh.”

“You are not!” Peggy’s Southern drawl stretches the words into the next state. “Your dentures would’ve popped out by waffle number five!”

“My dentures are state-of-the-art, thank you very much. New money buys excellent teeth.”

The Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival is in full swing here at the Brambleberry Bay Fairgrounds.

Red and gold leaves dance across the pathways, and the air smells like a cinnamon stick had a wild night with an apple orchard.

Vendor booths stretch as far as the eye can see, each one more harvest-themed than the last.

Pumpkins of every size are stacked in precarious towers, and the distant view of the Maine coastline provides a misty blue backdrop to all the orange and gold festivities.

Above us, the sky has turned a moody shade of mottled gray-purple clouds that look ready to rain their wrath down on our little fall celebration.

But not even threatening skies can dampen the spirits of two eighty-something women with a waffle vendetta.

“I believe we had a bet about who could eat the most pumpkin spice waffles,” I remind them, checking my watch. “And I believe the time limit has expired.”

Rookie darts between my legs, his golden fur catching the light from the string of paper lanterns overhead.

His teddy bear, Mr. Jolly Beary, bounces against his back in a little carrier that my sister Winnie converted from a baby Bjorn infant carrier.

The fuzzy brown bear has seen better days, but Rookie wouldn’t go anywhere without him.

People are dropping food EVERYWHERE! This place is a goldmine! Rookie’s thoughts come through loud and clear as he circles around us with his nose twitching at approximately ten thousand miles per hour.

My sweet cat Cricket weaves her way through the crowd with impressive agility for a little beige tabby. She hops onto a nearby bale of hay with her whiskers twitching with judgment.

You really are a rookie, she mewls in his direction. I’ve already convinced three different vendors to give me treats. No running required.

“Remember, no chocolate for either of you,” I say a touch too loud. “I mean it. Cricket, I saw you eyeing that fudge booth.”

I was merely appreciating the architectural integrity of their display, she sniffs, looking away with a look of innocence that, believe me, is as contrived as can be.

Clarabelle adjusts her oversized pumpkin brooch before waving a gnarled finger at Peggy. “You owe me twenty dollars. Cash. None of those fancy credit cards.”

“I most certainly do not!” Peggy tosses her bright red curls with her Southern Belle routine on full display for all to see.

Let’s just say she doesn’t leave home without it.

That’s because she is a true-blue Southern Belle who originally hails from Georgia.

“Hattie, tell this Yankee hooligan that I won that waffle-eating competition fair and square.”

Clarabelle Harper is a frazzled vision in autumn tones.

Her wild gray hair sticks out in every direction at once beneath her orange beret, and her outfit—a brown pantsuit with gold embroidered leaves that screams, “I have money and I want you to know it . ” Ever since she came into her fortune umpteen years ago, she’s been the wealthiest woman in Brambleberry Bay and has never let anyone forget she’s new money from Yonkers.

In fact, she wears it like a badge with pride.

I can’t blame her. I probably would, too.

Peggy Ebersol, on the other hand, is all Southern sophistication wrapped in a leopard-print coat.

Her red hair is suspiciously vibrant for a woman pushing ninety, and her makeup is applied with the precision of a battlefield general.

She has a constant hankering for two things: men and money—and not necessarily in that order.

“Y’all are makin’ a scene,” Peggy drawls, then narrows her eyes at me. Good Lord, Hattie, can you believe this woman? Six waffles, my perfectly toned derriere. I think she hid at least two of ’em in her purse.

I bite back a smile. Only a handful of people know about my little mind-reading gift or curse as it were—with Clarabelle and Peggy being two of them.

Killion, my hot detective boyfriend, is another.

And, of course, Cricket and Rookie, my sweet pets, because you can’t hide much from pets anyway.

Killion and I happen to share custody of Rookie, and let’s just say Rookie had a big part in our romance to begin with.

I guess you could say there would be no Killion and me without Rookie.

My name is Hattie Holiday. I have long dark hair, the color of maple syrup caught in a stream of November sunlight, eyes the color of a clear autumn sky after the first frost, and the ability to read people’s minds.

I can read the minds of animals, too, and you can bet dollars to pumpkin-glazed donuts that they have much better things to say.

“Ladies, we’ve got more important things to do than argue about waffles,” I say, gesturing toward the row of booths up ahead. “The baking competition is about to start, and we need to figure out which entries are worth trying.”

There’s a man giving away turkey jerky by the cider stand! Rookie barks and jumps as he nods to the left, but there’s no swaying me from the goodies at hand at the moment.

Please, Cricket yowls. I’ve already secured VIP access to the seafood booth. Her tail swishes with smug satisfaction. Henry is saving scraps.

Henry would be my brother, who just opened a new restaurant on the beach called Holiday Lobster House.

He’s not exactly known for his desserts.

I bet Cricket ran into him at one of the vendor booths and managed to manipulate him into giving her a bite out of whatever he was noshing on.

Cricket is a pro at getting just about anyone to sacrifice a morsel her way. Especially me.

We make our way through the festival, tasting everything from pumpkin cookies to apple crumble.

The booths are decorated adorably with hay bales, corn stalks, and enough artificial leaves to reforest Maine twice over.

Strings of orange and gold lights crisscross overhead, ready to illuminate the grounds once darkness falls.

It’s November and just a week from Thanksgiving.

As it turns out, this Pumpkin Palooza is Brambleberry Bay’s last hurrah as far as fall festivals go.

And lucky for me, it’s not an event I had anything to do with.

I just so happen to work as an event planner at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club, so it’s kind of nice to go to a shindig that I didn’t have to put together myself.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Clarabelle stops so suddenly I nearly crash into her. “Would you look at that?”

I follow her gaze to a booth bearing the familiar Holiday Lobster House logo. And sure enough, my brother Henry is standing behind the counter, looking surprisingly comfortable in a chef’s hat, serving up something that makes absolutely no sense.

Henry is my oldest sibling, the oldest of four, with the rest of us being girls.

He shares my dark hair and blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities stop.

He was a budding attorney up until a few months ago when he shocked us all by giving up law to open the aforementioned Holiday Lobster House.

The career change was unexpected, but seeing him now—relaxed and in his element—makes me think he made the right choice.

Oh, he happens to be hot and heavy with Tipper Luxemburg, a woman from my murder club, but I push both his quasi-questionable choice in girlfriends and my murder club to the back of my mind for now.

“Are those”—I squint over at the dessert being advertised—“apple-cinnamon lobster rolls?” I ask as my voice rises an octave.

“With pumpkin aioli,” Henry confirms with a grin as he waves us over. “Try one before you judge, Hattie.”

“That sounds about as appetizin’ as my third husband’s cookin’,” Peggy declares, but she’s already reaching for a sample.

Clarabelle snags one, too. “Stranger things have happened. Remember when the minister’s wife put pickle juice in the communion wine?”

“That was you, Clarabelle,” I remind her, cautiously accepting my own lobster abomination.

“Was it?” She shrugs. “Well, it certainly livened up the service.”

To my shock and mild horror, the sweet-savory combination actually works. The tender lobster meat balances with the warm spices, and the pumpkin aioli adds a creamy richness that ties it all together.

“Oh my word,” I moan through a bite. “Henry Holiday, you’re either a culinary genius or completely insane,” I tell him. “Quite possibly both.”

He winks. “Tipper helped with the recipe.”

Before I can ask about his new girlfriend’s influence on his cooking—or the rest of his life—a familiar warm hand slides around my waist. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is—the clean scent of cedar and something distinctly his own gives him away.

“Sampling the competition?” Killion asks, his breath warm against my ear.

I spin in his arms and happily take in the sight of him.

Killion Maddox is caustically handsome in a way that should be illegal—or at least comes with a warning label.

His dark hair is slightly tousled from the wind, and those verdant green eyes shine like beacons.

He’s wearing his usual attire of dark jeans and a button-down shirt under a leather jacket that hugs a body that looks like it could stop a freight train, let alone a bullet.

In a word, Killion Major Maddox is hot . And in another word that describes him best, he’s mine .

“Henry has created a fall lobster roll monstrosity that’s actually delicious,” I tell him. “You might want to hurry and try it before your detective taste buds get a tad too suspicious.”

He takes a bite of the one I offer and his expression moves from skeptical to surprised. “That really is good.” Killion looks stymied by this, as he should. Lobster isn’t typically found in most bakeries.

“Don’t sound so shocked.” Henry laughs. “Some of us have talents outside of arresting people.”

“Oh hon.” Peggy waves him off. “Killion doesn’t arrest people unless Hattie tracks them down first,” she teases with a wink.

“Very funny.” Killion gives a short-lived smile, although we both know it’s true.

A tiny laugh bubbles from me as I rise up on my toes and kiss the poor man, tasting cinnamon and apple on his lips.

It’s brief but sweet enough to make my heart skip.

Killion has a way of doing that despite the fact we’ve been dating well over a year now.

And as soon as I pull back, Killion lands his lips to mine once again and kisses me as if he’s leaving for battle in the morning.

Peggy lets out a wolf whistle that would put actual wolves to shame. “Now that’s what I call a greetin’! Clarabelle, why don’t any men kiss me like that anymore?”

“Because you scare them off with your vulture-like approach to dating,” Clarabelle says without missing a beat. “You swoop in, pick them clean, and leave nothing but bones.”

“Oh, they like it and you know it,” Peggy shoots back. “You’re just jealous because I’ve had four husbands and you’ve only had two.”

Clarabelle belts out a belly laugh. “Quality over quantity, my dear.”

Peggy opens her mouth to retort, but suddenly stops, her head tilting like a hunting dog catching a scent. “ Shhh! ” She holds up one bejeweled hand. “Listen to that. I think that’s a Southern accent in distress.”

We quiet down enough to hear something floating this way, and it sounds like raised voices coming from around the corner of the cider booth. And sure enough, one has a distinctive Southern lilt to it.

“That’s my people,” Peggy declares, already moving toward the commotion. “Why, I think someone needs savin’ from a Yankee.”

Peggy takes off and we follow, rounding the corner to find two women locked in a heated argument beside a display of elaborate pastries.

One of the women is plump with auburn curls going gray at the temples, her vintage cat-eye glasses sliding down her nose as she gestures emphatically.

The other stands ramrod straight—sleek, polished, and wearing designer clothes that probably cost more than my truck and insurance combined.

Everything about her screams, “I’m important and I know it,” from her perfect brunette bob to her immaculate manicure.

Those sharp red talons of hers look so sharp they could double as a can opener.

“You stole my technique and you know it!” the woman with auburn curls shouts as her Southern accent gets thicker with each word. “That lattice pattern is my signature!”

“Please,” the polished woman scoffs, looking down her perfect nose. “As if I would need to steal anything from your little bakery. My pumpkin spice cheesecake has won this competition five years running.”

Killion gives a quiet chuckle before leaning close to my ear and whispering, “I think I can take ’em. I am armed, you know.”

“You are hilarious,” I say, giving his ribs a tweak.

“No need to escalate to firearms over a simple pastry dispute. Watch and learn.” I clear my throat as I take a step forward.

“Excuse me, ladies,” I sing with a wave and the two women stop arguing abruptly when they notice our little group approaching.

Their expressions transform in an instant with perfect pageant smiles stretching across faces that just seconds ago were twisted with rage.

Clearly, I’ve missed my calling because I’ve managed to turn both of their frowns upside down in record time—which is an improvement even if neither of them means it.

Killion gives me the subtlest of nods. I’ll save the bullets for later, he says internally with a wink my way.

Now that sounds like a hot date.

The two women take a moment to glare at one another for the briefest of moments. And something tells me, deep in my bones, that beneath those picture-perfect smiles lies something far more dangerous than a rivalry over pumpkin spice recipes.