Page 10 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)
HATTIE
I cannot believe Rookie gets all the attention while I have to share mine with these pampered felines, Cricket complains.
Her furry little tail swishes with irritation as she surveys the other cats right here back at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club, more specifically in the Cottage Grill.
It’s species discrimination, plain and simple.
It’s because you hissed at that Persian last time, Rookie reminds her, his golden head resting on his paws under the table. You can’t just attack anything with a fluffier coat than yours.
That wasn’t a Persian. It was an animated dust mop with an attitude problem. And I didn’t hiss, I simply suggested—with my teeth—that she reconsider the direction in which her nine lives were headed in.
Can we please focus on who gets Jolly Beary tonight? Rookie whines. It’s my turn to sleep with him!
In your soggy dreams, fur brain, Cricket mewls back. Jolly Beary and I have a standing date with that patch of moonlight on Hattie’s bed.
That would be true.
And here’s something else that’s true. As it turns out, Autumn Harrington wasn’t at her beachfront restaurant, Sunrise & Cinnamon.
We called before making the trip, saving ourselves a wasted journey to Pelican Cove.
We then stopped by the precinct, but Killion wasn’t there either.
We were two for two in the striking-out department.
And even though I had all sorts of unholy visions of Killion and Venetta dancing through my head like sugarplum fairies from hell, I didn’t dare whisper a word to Peggy or Clarabelle.
If they got wind he might be two-timing me, they wouldn’t think twice before tarring and feathering him, possibly literally given Clarabelle’s recent interest in “colonial justice systems.”
Besides, that’s not like Killion. That’s why I invited him to dinner here at the Cottage Grill, and that’s exactly why I’m here now—waiting for Killion to arrive. Obviously, Venetta is keeping him late.
Kidding . I hope.
The Cottage Grill glows with ambient lighting that makes everyone look ten years younger and five pounds thinner, which explains its popularity with the country club set.
The vaulted ceiling with its massive wooden beams is festooned with autumn garlands, and each table sports a miniature pumpkin centerpiece with a tea light glowing inside. The air smells like seared steak, roasted root vegetables, and money—lots and lots of money.
Cricket and Rookie just darted off and are somewhere in the mix of designer pets that roam freely throughout the restaurant.
The Cottage Grill is possibly the only upscale establishment in three counties with a pets welcome policy, which just proves my theory that wealthy people love their furry friends almost as much as they love their money. Almost.
I spot Rookie schmoozing with a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel wearing what appears to be a pearl studded collar, while Cricket has cornered a sleek Siamese near the dessert cart. Mr. Jolly Beary sits abandoned on an empty chair and for a moment I actually feel sorry for him.
The hostess, Marjorie, seated me at my usual table in the corner. The perks of being an event planner for the country club include preferred seating even when the wait list stretches longer than the wine menu. I’ve hardly settled in when the front doors swing open and Killion walks in.
The man should come with a warning label.
He’s wearing a tweed blazer over a charcoal button-down and dark jeans, and the combination does dangerous things to his already unfair anatomy.
His dark hair is slightly windblown, and those verdant green eyes lock onto mine from across the room like he’s got some kind of Hattie-specific radar. And I sure hope he does.
I rise as he approaches, and he greets me with a kiss that’s just north of appropriate for a public setting.
“Hi,” I say brilliantly when we break apart, my vocabulary apparently on vacation.
“Hi, yourself,” he replies, sliding into the seat across from me. “You look beautiful.”
“It’s just jeans and a sweater.”
“My point stands.”
“Smooth talker.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Have you been practicing that line on someone else?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Nothing. Bad joke.” I reach for my water glass to hide the flush creeping up my neck. But you can bet your bottom dollar I’m doing my best to scour his mind—although at the moment nothing seems to be sailing through it. “How was your day?”
“Long. Complicated. Better now.” His smile has the wattage of a lighthouse. “Yours?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Looked into that dead body, interrogated a baker, tried to track down a suspect, got banned from a knitting circle. Tuesday stuff.”
“Banned from a knitting circle?”
“Clarabelle may have insulted someone’s choice of yarn color. After Peggy accidentally baptized their projects in maple syrup. It escalated quickly.”
His laugh rumbles through the space between us, and for a moment, all my suspicions feel ridiculous.
This is Killion.
My Killion. The straightest arrow in the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department, a man who once returned a wallet with five hundred dollars inside and then refused the reward because “it’s just what people should do.”
“I stopped by the precinct to bring you some donuts, but you weren’t there,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around obviously checking up on you .
Killion freezes mid-sip of water and his expression shifts like someone just changed the channel. “I had a very important follow-up on the Maple case.”
I try to read his thoughts once again, but all I get is white noise—that static fuzz that usually means he’s thinking something naughty and/or trying to shield me from whatever is truly going on up there.
Killion wouldn’t be doing that, would he? That’s diabolical. Although he has been known to do it now and again. It’s a protective mechanism he’s developed, like mental earmuffs for my mind-reading abilities.
It turns out, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual.
Apparently, there are other supernatural abilities that fall under the transmundane umbrella, like peering into tomorrow, time travel, and even seeing the dead.
But I’m not seeing the dead, although Killion might be a dead man if he’s hiding something from me.
The waitress arrives—Tiffany, a college student who’s working here to pay off her student loans sometime before retirement age. “The usual for you two?” she asks with her pen poised over her pad.
“Please,” Killion says, handing her the menus we haven’t even opened.
“One burger, medium-rare with extra pickles and sweet potato fries, and one grilled chicken salad with the dressing on the side because someone’s pretending to be healthy even though I know she’s going to steal half his fries,” Tiffany recites with a grin.
“You know us too well.” I laugh.
“That’s why I get the big tips.” She winks before bouncing away.
I lean across the table, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. “Well, are you going to keep me in suspense? What did you learn about the case?”
Killion’s brow furrows. “What case?”
“The Maple case. The very important follow-up you just mentioned.”
“Oh, right.” His eyes dart like he’s reading an invisible teleprompter. “Actually, toxicology said they would be contacting me shortly.”
I lean in farther, my elbows firmly planted on the table in a way that would make my mother reach for her smelling salts. “That’s why you left the office?”
His eyes widen just as his phone chirps from his pocket. He extracts it with the careful precision of someone handling nitroglycerin, glances at the screen, and nearly fumbles it onto the floor as if it suddenly transformed into a live lobster.
“I’m sorry, Hattie. Please excuse me. I have to take this,” he mutters, rising from his chair so fast it almost topples backward.
I watch him take off toward the entrance, and I’m completely baffled. He has to take a text ? Since when does anyone take a text message like it’s an urgent phone call?
I shake my head, but before I can tumble too far down the Venetta Brandt redheaded rabbit hole, a whirlwind of blonde hair and designer perfume crashes into the seat Killion just vacated.
“Hattie-goes-batty,” Bunny purrs, as if we haven’t seen each other in years instead of hours. “You’ll never believe who I’m with tonight. Only the most delicious investment banker from Portland. He has a yacht the size of a cruise ship,” she says this as if he’s discovered the cure for cancer.
“How very nautical of him,” I offer. “Where is this seafaring Prince Charming?”
“Taking a call outside.”
“It must be a catching condition,” I say. “Apparently, that’s where Killion is, too.”
She rolls her eyes while simultaneously checking her reflection in a butter knife. “Men and their calls, am I right? Like, who even talks on phones anymore? Just text like a normal person.”
I nod, thinking of Killion rushing off to take a text and it makes me frown.
Bunny launches into a detailed description of her date’s financial portfolio, which I’m pretty sure violates several privacy laws, but she’s interrupted by Killion’s return. He slides back into the seat next to her, looking flushed.
“Well, hello, Detective Delicious,” Bunny purrs. “Solving any crimes tonight besides the one your jawline is committing against my composure?”
Killion is more than used to Bunny’s unique brand of flirtation.
He holds up his hands in surrender with a chuckle. “I’m just here having dinner with my girlfriend.”
“Hint received and roundly ignored,” Bunny chirps, standing. “But I should probably get back to my date before he falls in love with someone else. It happens alarmingly often.” She blows us both kisses. “Toodles!”
Once she clip-clops away, I turn back to Killion. “So, what did toxicology have to say?”
He stares at me blankly. “About what?”
“About Vivian Maple. The reason you just took a text message like it was the president calling with launch codes.”