Page 13 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)
KILLION
T he aroma of maple syrup, butter, and freshly ground coffee permeates every molecule of air inside Sunrise & Cinnamon.
The restaurant buzzes with the quiet hum of morning conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware against plates and the sizzle of batter hitting hot griddles from somewhere in the kitchen.
Sunlight streams through the wall of windows facing the ocean, casting long, golden rectangles across polished wooden floors.
Under different circumstances, I might enjoy the ambiance of this place.
The beachfront location offers a postcard-perfect view of waves crashing against the shore, and the rustic-chic décor strikes that perfect balance between upscale and comfortable that’s hard to achieve.
Everything from the reclaimed wood tables to the nautical-themed artwork screams wealthy coastal New England without being pretentious about it.
But I can’t focus on any of that because sitting across from me is Venetta Brandt.
She’s wearing a dress that can only be described as aspirational—as in, she aspires to make me forget I have a girlfriend.
The neckline plunges to depths that should require safety equipment, and she’s applied so much makeup she’d make a kabuki girl look plain as a pancake.
Her red lipstick is so bright it practically requires sunglasses to look at directly, and her perfume—something expensive and overpowering—wages chemical warfare with the pleasant breakfast aromas.
I stare intently at my half-eaten waffle, hoping the maple syrup might spell out solutions to my current predicament.
This was a mistake. A colossal, relationship-endangering mistake. I should have found another real estate agent the moment Venetta answered my inquiry. But I was desperate for housing, and she responded immediately with extensive options to discuss .
Now I’m stuck in this beachfront restaurant with a woman who’s made it abundantly clear that her interest in me extends well beyond the professional.
The memory of Hattie’s face last night at dinner, suspicious and hurt, flashes through my mind.
If she gets wind of this breakfast meeting, it could cost us our relationship.
No rental property is worth that.
“So”—I clear my throat, attempting to steer us back to business—“about that list of available places. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Venetta’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches upward.
“What’s the rush, Detective? Don’t tell me there’s been another murder in sleepy little Brambleberry Bay.
” She leans forward, placing her hand distressingly close to mine on the table.
“Or are you just eager to get to the next part of our day—or perhaps our night ?”
I pull my hand back under the pretense of reaching for my coffee. “Just a busy schedule. The Maple case has everyone at the department working overtime.”
“Ah yes, the baker who dropped dead. Tragic.” Her tone suggests she finds it about as tragic as a paper cut. “But I’m specifically interested in your needs.” She licks her lips methodically and lets me know exactly which needs she’s talking about.
“And I’m specifically interested in rental properties in Brambleberry Bay,” I say, bypassing the opportunity to correct her about Vivian’s occupation or discuss an active investigation. “Anything available there?”
Venetta’s crimson lips curl into a smile that reminds me of documentaries I’ve seen about predatory animals. “You’re in luck. I have several places, all in the Ocean Heights neighborhood of Brambleberry Bay.”
Ocean Heights—the upscale area with million-dollar views and price tags to match. My sheriff’s department salary laughs hysterically at the mere suggestion.
“Don’t you live there?” I ask, although I already know the answer.
Her smile widens, revealing teeth so white they probably glow in the dark. “Why yes, I do. In fact, two of those places are within walking distance of my place.”
My stomach sours faster than milk left in the summer sun. That would be a nightmare on many levels—not least of which would be explaining to Hattie why I moved into Venetta’s neighborhood. I’d sooner live in my truck and shower at the department gym.
A thought hits me.
“Do you have anything in Moonlit Meadows?”
Venetta’s expression shifts like someone just handed her a glass of that aforementioned sour milk. The neighborhood where Hattie lives—with its quaint cabins, moderate price points, and distinct lack of Venetta Brandts—clearly doesn’t interest her.
“I haven’t checked,” she says as her voice cools several degrees.
“Well, check, please,” I tell her, my tone sharper than I intended.
She opens her mouth to respond but freezes, her eyes focusing on something behind me. Before I can turn to look, I feel a familiar nudge against my leg. A cold nose pushes insistently at my hand.
I glance down to see Rookie’s golden face looking up at me, his tail wagging with enough force to potentially generate electricity. For a split second, joy floods through me at the sight of my dog—then a horrified realization crashes down like a tidal wave.
Rookie is here. Which means...
I scan the restaurant frantically, expecting to see Hattie’s unmistakable dark hair and hurt expression at any moment. This is exactly the scenario I’ve been trying to avoid—being caught with Venetta in what looks suspiciously like a date.
I look Rookie directly in the eyes. “Go back and find Hattie and Cricket,” I whisper urgently. “And not a word to Hattie about seeing me. I’ll give you an extra bone to keep this to yourself.”
Rookie tilts his head, his expression suggesting that even he finds my attempt at canine bribery pathetic.
I throw enough cash on the table to cover the bill and a tip, generous enough to make up for our abrupt departure. “We need to go. Now.”
Venetta balks at the thought. “But we haven’t even finished our?—”
“Emergency,” I cut her off, already standing. “Detective business.”
I usher Venetta toward the door opposite from where Rookie entered, hoping to avoid a collision course with Hattie. Venetta’s high heels click against the hardwood floor at a pace that suggests she’s both annoyed and intrigued by my sudden urgency.
As we reach the exit, I cast one final glance over my shoulder.
Through the large front windows, I spot them—Hattie, Clarabelle, and Peggy approaching the restaurant entrance.
Hattie is wearing the blue sweater I gave her for her birthday, the one that matches her eyes perfectly.
She’s laughing at something Peggy said and her face lights up with that smile that never fails to make my heart skip.
And yet here I am about to sneak out the back door with another woman.
The guilt sits in my stomach like a lead weight. This isn’t about cheating—I’d never do that. But I’ll admit, this secret house-hunting mission has spiraled into something that looks damning from the outside. Something that could hurt Hattie deeply if she saw it without context.
I should just come clean. Tell her about losing my rental. Ask for her help finding a new place that isn’t anywhere near Venetta Brandt. Be honest about everything.
But first, I need to make a clean getaway.
Because explaining why I’m having breakfast with a woman who dresses like she’s perpetually en route to the Met Gala while actively hiding it from my girlfriend is not a conversation I want to have in the middle of a crowded restaurant.
Especially when that girlfriend can read minds.
And mine is currently screaming “RETREAT!” at a volume that could probably be heard in the next county.