Page 14 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

Her oxidized red paint job freckled with patches of rust and memories gleams dully in the morning sun.

She once belonged to my grandfather, then after he passed away, she sat in a barn collecting cobwebs and rodents until I convinced my father to let me take her on once I turned sixteen.

And here we are twelve years later still going strong—or more to the point, still sputtering along.

Sunrise & Cinnamon sits perched on a small cliff overlooking Pelican Cove, its rustic wooden exterior and cheerful yellow door beckoning like a lighthouse of breakfast goodness.

The scent of maple syrup and bacon drifts through the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea below—a combination that makes my stomach growl like thunder on a hot tin roof.

Where did that overgrown fur mop go now? Cricket mewls as she pokes her head from her tote bag and surveys the parking lot. He was right behind us two minutes ago.

“Rookie?” I call out, scanning the area for my golden shadow. He’d been keeping pace with us until we hit the restaurant’s parking lot, then vanished faster than my willpower in front of a fresh donut.

Peggy shields her eyes with one hand, her other clutching her homemade food critic badge that appears to be a name tag with the words culinary expert written with a purple glitter pen. “Maybe he spotted a squirrel. That dog has the attention span of my third husband.”

I turn toward the far end of the lot just in time to see a white pickup truck peel out of the exit, kicking up gravel in its wake. A sleek maroon sedan follows close behind, both vehicles moving with the urgency of tax evaders fleeing an IRS agent.

Wait a minute.

That truck looks exactly like Killion’s—right down to the small dent on the tailgate from when Rookie once got overexcited about a particularly entertaining tumbleweed. And that sedan... isn’t that the same maroon sports car Venetta Brandt drives? The one with a vanity plate that says GLAMBOSS ?

My stomach performs an impressive series of acrobatic maneuvers that would earn perfect tens from Olympic judges.

Found him! Cricket chirps and interrupts my spiral into relationship paranoia. Look—the traitor’s over by those bushes, probably burying Jolly Beary again.

I wasn’t burying him! Rookie’s indignant voice rings in my head as he bounds around the corner of the building, looking suspiciously guilty. I was just... showing him the local plant life.

“There you are,” I say, trying to push thoughts of Killion and Venetta out of my mind, but it seems impossible.

This can’t be happening. What if my brain is malfunctioning?

What if I’m having a series of not-so-grand delusions?

I shake all thoughts of the two of them out of my mind once again. “Rookie, what were you doing?”

Nothing! Nobody! I mean, nothing! Rookie’s thoughts are oddly frantic. I definitely didn’t see anyone you know. And I definitely wasn’t promised an extra bone to keep quiet about it.

Before I can dig deeper into that concerning bone bargaining deal, Clarabelle grabs my arm with surprising strength for someone whose bones should technically qualify as antiques.

“Stop dilly-dallying with the fur children,” she commands. “We have a suspect to interrogate and waffles to consume! Not necessarily in that order.”

Peggy nods emphatically. “My stomach thinks my throat is malfunctioning. Let’s move this investigation indoors where the syrup flows freely.”

We push through the cheerful yellow door into a restaurant that looks like autumn exploded inside and nobody bothered to clean up the festive shrapnel.

Every surface is covered in some combination of mini pumpkins, decorative gourds, and artfully arranged fall leaves.

The ceiling features hanging bundles of dried corn and wheat, while each table sports a centerpiece of sunflowers and more of those ubiquitous mini pumpkins—some painted, others au naturel, all aggressively seasonal.

A waitress with a name tag that reads Sunny greets us with a smile bright enough to require sunglasses. Her orange and yellow uniform perfectly matches the restaurant’s fall theme, right down to the turkey earrings dangling from her earlobes.

“Welcome to Sunrise & Cinnamon!” she sings, her gaze dropping to Cricket in my tote and Rookie at my heels. And yet her smile doesn’t waver. “I see you’ve brought some furry friends!”

“Is that a problem?” Clarabelle asks, her tone suggesting she’s prepared to stage a sit-in if the answer is yes.

“Not at all! We’re pet friendly,” Sunny assures us. “But we’ll need to seat you on our patio. It’s fully heated,” she adds quickly, anticipating objections. “And it has the best view of the water.”

“Perfect,” I say, relieved. The last thing we need is another establishment adding us to their “Do Not Serve” list. We’re running out of places to eat in this county.

Sunny leads us through the restaurant—a cozy space filled with the happy buzz of satisfied diners—and out onto a covered patio where heaters create invisible domes of much-needed warmth.

The view is nothing short of spectacular—the blue expanse of the Atlantic stretching to the horizon, with waves crashing against the rocky shoreline below.

Even the patio maintains the fall theme, with scarecrows lurking in corners, pumpkin-patterned cushions on the chairs, and twinkle lights shaped like autumn leaves strung overhead.

We settle at a table near the railing, Cricket immediately claiming my lap while Rookie sprawls under the table with his tail thumping against my ankles.

“Today’s special is our Pumpkin Palooza Brunch Platter,” Sunny informs us, distributing menus that feature more clip art of fall leaves than actual text.

“It comes with our signature pumpkin spice waffles, three eggs any style, maple-glazed bacon, sausage links, hash browns, and a side of cranberry-orange muffins.”

“Do the waffles come with a side of immediate cardiac arrest, or is that extra?” Peggy teases.

Sunny laughs at the thought. “The Palooza also comes with your choice of our famous pumpkin spice latte or an almost-a. That’s our mocktail version of a mimosa?—

sparkling water and fresh-squeezed orange juice served in a crystal flute.”

“We’ll take three Paloozas,” Peggy announces before any of us can speak. “And two real mimosas for me and my partner in crime here.” She jerks a thumb at Clarabelle. “The youngster is driving.”

“Make that three real mimosas,” Clarabelle corrects. “The youngster can handle one drink.”

“I’m driving,” I remind her.

“Fine”—Clarabelle grunts—“two mimosas and one almost-a. But make it in the same glass as the real ones so she doesn’t feel left out.”

I give a little chuckle as Sunny scribbles our order and bounces away. “I’m not five years old. I don’t need a fancy cup to feel included.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Clarabelle mutters. “You still sleep with a teddy bear.”

“That’s Rookie’s bear. And Cricket’s. I’m just the bed they use.”

Correction, Cricket interjects from my lap. It’s MY bear that I generously allow Rookie to borrow because he’s emotionally fragile.

I am NOT emotionally fragile! Rookie protests. I just appreciate stuffed animals on a deeper level than most.

Twenty minutes and one intense debate about the optimal syrup-to-waffle ratio later, our food arrives.

The Pumpkin Palooza Brunch Platter lives up to its name.

Each plate requires its own silver dome, piled high with food in various shades of orange, brown, and beige.

The pumpkin spice waffles form the foundation, a golden throne upon which the rest of the breakfast kingdom is built.

Peggy takes one bite of waffle and lets out a moan that makes a couple at the next table glance over with concern.

“Sweet heavens to Betsy,” she declares after swallowing. “These waffles are so good they make me want to slap my mama, Heaven rest her soul.”

Clarabelle, not to be outdone, takes an enormous bite and nods solemnly. “If these waffles ran for president, I’d vote for them twice. And I haven’t done that since Kennedy.”

I sample a bite myself and have to admit they’re extraordinary—light and fluffy inside, crisp on the outside, with just the right balance of pumpkin and spice. Not too sweet, not too savory. It’s the kind of waffle that makes you question all other waffles you’ve ever eaten.

After we’ve made suitable dents in our mountain ranges of food, Peggy dabs her mouth with her napkin and raises her hand like she’s hailing a taxi in New York.

“Excuse me!” she calls to Sunny. “We demand to speak to the owner about this meal!”

Sunny’s smile falters slightly. “Is there a problem with your food?”

“You bet your autumn-themed apron there is,” Peggy says with such conviction that for a moment, even I believe something is wrong.

Sunny scurries away, returning moments later with a tall, slim woman with sleek honey-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that somehow looks both casual and perfectly calculated.

Her amber eyes survey us with the sharp assessment of someone used to spotting trouble before it erupts.

She’s wearing chef whites with Autumn embroidered in a burnt orange thread over the pocket.

“I’m Autumn Harrington, the owner,” she says, her voice carrying the crisp professionalism of someone prepared to comp a meal or call security, depending on how this conversation goes. “I understand there’s an issue with your brunch?”

Peggy pushes back her chair and stands, raising her mimosa as if she’s about to deliver the Gettysburg Address.

“The issue, my dear woman, is that I have spent eighty-seven years on this earth eating breakfast foods, and these waffles”—she pauses dramatically—“are the finest culinary creation these taste buds have encountered since my grandmother’s biscuits, and she had hands blessed by the butter gods themselves! ”

For a moment, Autumn stares at Peggy as if she’s speaking in tongues.

Then Clarabelle starts clapping, and I join in, followed by Rookie barking enthusiastically and Cricket letting out an approving meow.

Within seconds, the entire patio has erupted in applause, though most of the other diners probably have no idea what they’re applauding for.

Autumn’s professional mask cracks, a genuine smile warming her features. “Well, that’s certainly not the complaint I was expecting.”

“It’s not a complaint, it’s a celebration,” Peggy declares. “You’ve made some of the best food this side of the Mason-Dixon Line—and probably the other side, too.” She gestures to our table’s empty chair. “Won’t you sit a spell and join us?”

Autumn trills a laugh, her amber eyes lighting up at the unexpected praise. She glances around the restaurant, which seems to be running like a well-oiled breakfast machine, then back at our table where three women, a dog, and a cat are staring at her expectantly.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she says, sliding into the empty chair with the grace of someone accustomed to being the center of attention. Her perfume—something expensive with notes of vanilla and amber—wafts across the table. “It’s not every day I get a standing ovation for my waffles.”

As she settles in, I can’t help but wonder if those perfectly manicured hands recently measured out a fatal dose of yew for Vivian Maple’s final meal. Behind that charming smile and chef’s uniform sits either an innocent business owner or a killer with a penchant for poisonous plants.

Either way, she’s about to get a three-course serving of subtle interrogation, with a side of Clarabelle and Peggy’s unique brand of elderly nosiness.

The real special of the day? One murder suspect, served hot.