Page 17 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)
HATTIE
I still don’t understand why humans insist on seasonal décor, Cricket meows from her perch atop my bookshelf, where she’s been systematically knocking down my collection of miniature pumpkins one by one. It’s like they’re afraid nature won’t notice it’s fall unless they bring the outside in.
I love it! Rookie gives a happy little bark with his tail thumping against the braided rug as he sniffs at a turkey-shaped candle. Everything smells like cinnamon and dead leaves. It’s glorious!
Cricket gives a heavy sigh at the thought. Your standards are depressingly low. You also love the smell of that questionable spot behind the mailbox on Pine Street.
That spot has HISTORY.
Cricket might be right. I do tend to go overboard when it comes to decorating for the holidays.
My tiny A-frame cabin looks like the autumn fairy godmother had a sneezing fit inside it.
Every available surface hosts some combination of miniature pumpkins, gourds, or decorative turkeys.
Garlands of preserved leaves snake along the ceiling beams, fairy lights shaped like acorns cast a warm glow over everything, and no fewer than three different pumpkin-scented candles battle for olfactory dominance—my favorite is pumpkin and butterscotch.
The black-and-white checkered curtains I installed last spring are now accessorized with burnt orange tie-backs, and the braided rug—which takes up approximately 83% of the available floor space—has been joined by a smaller turkey-shaped accent rug by the door.
Since it’s a studio, the living room is essentially the bedroom.
In addition to the trundle bed tucked against the wall, I do have a sofa, albeit the thing is so small it makes a loveseat feel the size of a 747.
At this point, I’m convinced the manufacturer designed it specifically for very affectionate Hobbits.
A sharp knock at the door signals the arrival of the evening’s entertainment. I open it to find Peggy and Clarabelle on my doorstep, each balancing foil-covered dishes as if they were walking a tightrope without a safety net.
“We brought sustenance,” Peggy announces, shoving a casserole dish into my hands. “Sweet potato and marshmallow casserole with a bourbon glaze. The bourbon is for flavor, mostly.”
“And this”—Clarabelle says, lifting the foil on her dish to release a cloud of steam—“is my famous corn pudding. The secret ingredient is more corn.”
Before I can thank them, Chevy Von Champs glides up behind them in an outfit that looks ripped off a Parisian runway—because let’s face it—it probably is. Her glossy dark boots click against the wooden steps, and she carries what appears to be a charcuterie board the size of a small coffee table.
“I brought adult Lunchables,” she says, somehow making processed cheese and deli meat sound like a delicacy. “And information on our victim. The woman had more enemies than my second husband had excuses.”
They file in just as Tipper’s Jeep pulls up, followed closely by Bunny’s sleek convertible.
Tipper emerges clutching a pie tin, her brassy blonde hair caught in the evening breeze.
She’s wearing what appears to be one of my brother Henry’s flannel shirts over skinny jeans and boots, looking impressively put-together for someone whose previous adventures required bail money and a good lawyer.
And I’m starting to soften to her being with my brother just because of it.
“Pumpkin cheesecake!” she calls out, hurrying up the steps. “Henry helped, which means he stirred once and then claimed half the credit.”
“That sounds about right,” I tease as she breezes past me.
Bunny sashays up the path in heels that should technically qualify as weapons, a tiny dress that seems to have forgotten it’s November in Maine, and enough perfume to qualify as a chemical weapon in some countries. She’s lugging a bag that clinks ominously with each step.
“I brought the social lubricant,” she announces, extracting three bottles of wine from her bag. “One for every course, including dessert, gossip, and regrettable confessions.”
Just as I’m about to close the door, a final car pulls up—a sleek black SUV that practically screams corporate expense account. And seeing that I know who’s in it, I totally know which expense account it’s coming out of.
Peyton Blakey emerges with her chestnut hair pulled back into a severe ponytail that looks painful just to look at. She’s dressed like she came straight from a board meeting, complete with a blazer and heels that could double as ice picks.
“I brought dip,” she says without preamble, thrusting a container of what looks suspiciously like store-bought hummus into my hands. “And the final headcount for the Gilded Gratitude Gala. Which I still need from you, by the way.”
Within minutes, my tiny cabin transforms from cozy to sardine can as seven women, a dog, a cat, and enough food to sustain a small army occupy every available inch of space.
The combined scents of perfume, home cooking, and pumpkin spice create an olfactory experience that could probably be weaponized by the military.
And it smells so good it probably should be.
Chevy wastes no time. While the others arrange food on my tiny kitchen table, she heads straight for the trundle bed, pulling it away from the wall to reveal her pride and joy—the murder board.
It’s an easel with a large corkboard that she meticulously updates for each case we tackle.
Tonight, it features a glamour shot of Vivian Maple that looks like it was taken for a business feature, complete with a power suit and a smile that suggests she eats competitors for breakfast. And from what I’m learning about the woman, she just might have.
“Ladies, take your seats. The court of amateur investigation is now in session,” Chevy announces, uncapping a red marker with the enthusiasm of a conductor raising a baton.
We arrange ourselves around the board like disciples around a prophet.
Peggy and Clarabelle claim the loveseat, squeezing together so tightly they look like conjoined twins.
Tipper perches on the edge of the trundle, Cricket immediately claiming her lap with the entitlement of royalty—which she so is.
Bunny drapes herself artfully across my reading chair like she’s posing for a nude painting—and I have no doubt her boobs will be out in a minute.
This is Bunny we’re talking about. Peyton reluctantly lowers herself onto one of the dining chairs we’ve dragged over and her posture suggests that she’s afraid my furniture might be contagious.
“The wine needs to breathe,” Bunny declares, uncorking a bottle like a seasoned pro. “And so do I, in this crowd. My seasonal allergies are acting up.”
“The only thing you’re allergic to is monogamy,” Peggy quips, reaching for a glass. “And oh, honey, so am I.”
“It does give me hives,” Bunny agrees with a woot while pouring with a heavy hand.
Rookie, having decided that Clarabelle is his human of choice for the evening, sprawls across her feet and his stuffed cute companion Mr. Jolly Beary is clutched protectively between his paws.
“The gala is going to be a disaster,” Peyton announces to no one in particular, accepting a glass of wine with the eagerness of someone who’s been thinking about alcohol since nine a.m. “The florist sent ivory roses instead of cream. Ivory . Like we’re savages.”
“Tragedy,” Tipper says dryly. “Almost as tragic as murder.”
“Speaking of which…” Chevy taps the photo of Vivian with her marker. “Welcome to the official meeting of the murder club. Tonight’s case revolves around Vivian Maple, purveyor of pumpkin spice and collector of enemies.”
“Now just a darn tooting minute,” Peggy interjects while holding up a finger in protest. “We’re not starting the murder party until we’ve done our roses and thorns. It’s a long-standing murder club tradition!”
“Heaven save me from small-town rituals,” Peyton mutters, but she’s outvoted as everyone else murmurs agreement.
“Just to reiterate”—I start, glancing at Peyton—“roses are something good that’s happened recently, and thorns are, well, thorns in our sides.”
“I’ll start,” Peggy volunteers. “My rose is that my arthritis medication finally kicked in, and I can open pickle jars again without asking the bag boy at Hannaford’s. My thorn is that I can now open pickle jars, so I’ve lost my excuse to flirt with the bag boy at Hannaford’s.”
“My rose”—Clarabelle jumps in—“is that I finally taught my parrot to say, ‘who’s a pretty bird’ instead of ‘holy hell, that hurts,’ which he picked up when I stubbed my toe.
My thorn is that now he says, ‘holy hell, who’s a pretty bird,’ which has made visits from the church ladies a wee bit awkward. ”
Tipper strokes Cricket absently as she thinks. “My rose is that Henry finally let me reorganize the spice drawer at the restaurant. My thorn is discovering that his idea of organization involved alphabetizing everything... by color.”
“That’s not so odd—” I begin.
“Purple paprika, red rosemary, yellow... yeast,” Tipper confirms with a shudder.
Okay, so Henry can be a bit anal about things. But in the grand scheme of things, I consider the fact he organizes at all a true-blue perk.
Chevy sets down her marker. “My rose is that my editor extended my deadline for the next book. My thorn is that she extended it because, and I quote, ‘Your last draft reads like it was written by a drunk orangutan with a thesaurus.’”
“Harsh.” Bunny chuckles, already working on her second glass of wine.
“My rose is that I met a dashing investment banker with his own yacht. My thorn is that he named the yacht after his mother and has her portrait hanging in the master cabin. Nothing kills the mood quite like Barbara from Bangor watching your every move.”
All eyes turn to me. “My rose is that I’m making progress on the Maple case,” I say, ignoring Peyton’s eye roll. “My thorn is that my boyfriend is acting stranger than a cat on caffeine, and I can’t figure out why.”
No one so much as bats a lash at that one—as if they somehow expected it on some level. Everyone but me.
Finally, everyone looks expectantly at Peyton who sighs as if we’ve asked her to recite the Constitution backward while juggling. That might be easier for her.
“Fine. My rose is that the Gilded Gratitude Gala will feature ice sculptures of turkeys that dispense champagne through their... anatomically incorrect beaks.” She takes a large gulp of wine.
“My thorn is that I work with a team of incompetents who thought anatomically incorrect meant let’s make the champagne come out of the other end.
So now I have to explain to the ice sculptor why we can’t have champagne-defecating turkeys at the most prestigious event of the season. ”
A moment of stunned silence is broken by Bunny’s delighted cackle. “Well, that would certainly make the society pages! Three cheers for champagne-defecating turkeys!”
We all give a few wild whoops, and those holding liquor in their hands don’t miss out on the opportunity to imbibe.
Chevy clears her throat, reclaiming her position at the murder board. “Now that we’ve bonded appropriately, there’s just one thing left to do tonight.” She wiggles the marker between her fingers. “Let’s get down to murder.”