Page 18 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

“ I said, let’s get down to murder,” Chevy repeats, uncapping her red marker and holding it up for all to see.

She draws a dramatic circle around Vivian’s glamour shot. I can’t help but note that the picture of Vivian looks as if the photographer caught her on a day when she wasn’t actively crushing someone’s dreams.

“Victim—Vivian Maple, age forty-eight, owner of Spice It Up Café and maker of award-winning pumpkin spice everything,” Chevy begins and her voice takes on the dramatic cadence of a true crime podcast host. She’s good at this, I’ll give her that.

“Found dead at the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival after collapsing during the awards ceremony.”

“Which she technically won,” I add, reaching for a stuffed mushroom from Chevy’s charcuterie board. “According to Meredith Thorne, Vivian was the actual winner, but they gave the prize to Meredith after Vivian died.”

“Convenient,” Tipper muses while absently stroking Cricket, who has transformed into a purring puddle of contentment on her lap.

“Nothing helps business like your main competitor dropping dead.” I’ll have to remember that.

There are quite a few restaurants in town already stirring up trouble for Henry.

And with me being in the only club that matters—this little ol’ murder club of ours, well, I’m sure I can steer these women in a thousand wrong directions.

I make a face her way for even thinking it.

“Cause of death?” Bunny asks, already pouring herself a third glass of wine with the precision of someone who considers it a professional skill. And I think we’ve already established that she’s a pro.

“According to my sources at the sheriff’s department—” I begin.

“You mean according to the man you’re sleeping with,” Peyton interjects, reaching for the hummus she brought as if suddenly regretting its mediocrity compared to the spread before us.

“According to my highly placed contact in law enforcement,” I correct rather curtly.

It’s not anyone’s business what is or what isn’t happening behind closed doors.

“Vivian was poisoned with taxine B, which comes from yew plants. Symptoms include abdominal pain, cardiac arrhythmia, and death, which really puts a damper on enjoying your blue ribbon.”

“Yew plants?” Peggy perks up. “Now that’s interesting. You don’t accidentally ingest a little yew. Someone had to have purposefully poisoned her food or drink.”

“Or she could have been munching on random landscaping,” Bunny suggests. “People do strange things when they’re nervous about competitions.”

“Yes, I always eat toxic shrubbery before a big presentation,” Peyton deadpans. “I find it helps with the jitters.”

Chevy writes YEW POISONING on the board in capital letters, underlining it twice for dramatic effect.

“So, we have a deliberate poisoning,” she says, tapping the marker against her chin. “Which means premeditation. Which means our killer knew exactly what they were doing.”

“And had access to yew plants,” Clarabelle adds, her fingers working through Rookie’s golden fur as he sprawls across her feet in a state of blissful abandon. “Those aren’t exactly growing wild all over Brambleberry Bay.”

“Actually, they are,” Tipper counters. “There’s a whole row of them at Willoughby Hall. Fitz’s great-grandfather was obsessed with poisonous plants—a bit of a hobby among the aristocracy back then. They’re all along the east side of the property.”

We all stare at her.

“What?” She shrugs. “I’ve been spending a lot of time there with Winnie. Girl talk.”

Girl talk, with Winnie? I guess not only do I need to share my brother with Tipper, but I have to share my sister, too. Why couldn’t she bond with Neelie?

“Toxic horticulture—the foundation of every healthy friendship,” Bunny quips.

“Speaking of toxic,” I say. “Let’s talk suspects. I’ve interviewed Meredith Thorne and Autumn Harrington so far.”

“And by ‘interviewed,’ you mean ordered waffles from while asking suspicious questions,” Peyton notes.

“It’s called multitasking. I solve crimes and maintain appropriate blood sugar levels.”

Chevy writes suspects on the board and begins a list:

Meredith Thorne - competitor, gained prize money

Autumn Harrington - competitor, possible recipe theft?

“What’s this about recipe theft?” Bunny asks as if she couldn’t care less.

She couldn’t.

I explain what I gathered from both interviews—Meredith’s hints about Vivian stealing recipes, and Autumn’s thoughts about a Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake recipe.

“Classic motive.” Chevy nods, adding notes to the board. “In my third book, Deceased and Desist , the victim was murdered for stealing a secret family cookie recipe. Although in that case, the weapon was a particularly sharp rolling pin.”

“What about this Oliver Prescott person?” Tipper asks, reaching for another deviled egg. “Bunny’s cousin, right?”

“Second cousin,” Bunny corrects. “We share a great-grandfather who was allegedly a bootlegger during Prohibition, though the family prefers the term artisanal beverage distributor .”

Chevy adds Oliver Prescott—judge, seen arguing with victim to the list.

“What was their argument about?” Bunny asks.

“According to Autumn, she overheard them arguing behind the supply tent. Something about ‘not this time’ and ‘you’ll regret it.’”

“ Ooh , ominous.” Bunny wiggles her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Oliver can be dramatic, but I’ve never known him to be homicidal. Although he did once threaten to murder our uncle Harold for touching his car.”

“Now that’s a whole different type of vehicular homicide,” Peggy muses.

“Anyone else?” Chevy asks with her marker poised for more.

I consider mentioning Killion’s strange behavior, then think better of it. “Not yet, but I’m planning to speak with Oliver tomorrow.”

“ Ooh , I’ll come with you,” Bunny volunteers immediately.

“Family connections might loosen his tongue. Plus, I haven’t seen him in ages, and I want to know how he got his hair that perfect silver fox color.

It has to be dyed, right? No one goes gray that attractively.

” More to the point, I need to see if he has any silver fox friends. I think it’s time I get my gray on.

I nod her way. That sounds more like it.

“Count us in, too,” Peggy announces, speaking for both herself and Clarabelle as usual. “We make excellent backup.”

“It’s just a conversation, not a SWAT raid,” I tell them.

“Sweetheart, at our age, everything’s a potential SWAT situation,” Clarabelle explains. “These hips don’t lie, and what they’re saying right now is I might not get up if I fall. ”

Peggy swats her. “Don’t even think about it. We’ve got a killer to catch. We don’t have time for one of us to land in traction. Not unless it’s on purpose.” She winks my way and wiggles her shoulders.

Can I come, too? Rookie gives a hopeful woof my way. I’m excellent at interrogations. I just stare at people until they feel guilty enough to share their food.

Cricket scoffs. I’ve been conducting psychological warfare on humans for years. They don’t even realize they’re being manipulated into providing treats.

I’ll attest to that.

“Well, I’m out. I need to stay focused on the gala preparations,” Peyton says, checking her watch with the exaggerated gesture of someone who wants everyone to know they have somewhere more important to be.

“But keep me in the loop. If we have a murderer running loose in Brambleberry Bay, I need to know whether to hire additional security for the event.”

“Yes, heaven forbid someone poison the champagne-dispensing turkey sculptures,” Bunny muses with a laugh. Come to think of it, a light poisoning is just what some of the folks at that stuffy country club need. Maybe I should see to it myself?

I shoot her a look that says don’t you dare and she frowns my way.

The next hour devolves into a combination of serious investigative discussion and increasingly outlandish theories, fueled by Bunny’s wine and the sugar high from Tipper’s pumpkin cheesecake.

By the time we’ve exhausted both theories and appetites, the murder board looks like something from a detective show—if that detective show were produced by a committee of slightly intoxicated women with questionable artistic skills.

“I think we’ve made excellent progress,” Chevy declares, capping her marker with finality. “We’ve identified multiple suspects with motives, established the cause of death as deliberate poisoning, and consumed approximately seven thousand calories each.”

“A productive evening by any measure,” Tipper agrees, carefully shifting Cricket from her lap to a cushion so she can stand. “Plus, all that food was good practice for Thanksgiving.”

We all agree, and one by one, they gather their dishes and bags, exchanging hugs as I promise to text after tomorrow’s interview with Oliver.

Peyton is the first to leave, citing an early meeting with the gala chef committee. Then Chevy and Tipper take off together, deep in conversation about a recipe Henry is trying to perfect.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for Operation Interview the Silver Fox,” Peggy says, giving me a hug that smells like perfume from 1972 and comfort.

“Ten o’clock sharp at the Cozy Bean,” Clarabelle confirms. “We’ll be the ones in the trench coats and sunglasses.”

“Please don’t wear trench coats and sunglasses,” I plead.

“You’re right.” She nods solemnly. “Too obvious. We’ll go with casual resort wear. No one suspects retirees in visors.”

Bunny, the last to leave, lingers in the doorway. “This was fun,” she says, surprisingly sincere beneath her usual flirtatious armor. “We should do it more often, even when people aren’t being murdered.”

“That would certainly improve the town’s mortality rate,” I agree.

I walk them to their cars, the night air crisp and tinged with woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney. Rookie trots alongside us, Mr. Jolly Beary secured in his mouth, while Cricket observes from the safety of the porch, unwilling to risk her paws on the cold ground.

As Bunny’s convertible pulls away with its taillights disappearing down the winding road through the pines, a movement near the cabin across the way catches my eye. A tall figure emerges onto the porch, outlined by the warm light spilling from inside.

My heart does a little jumping jack.

I’d know that silhouette anywhere! The broad shoulders, the confident stance, the slight tilt of the head when something catches his attention.

It’s Killion .

What is he doing at one of the rental cabins? And at this hour?

Before I can process this, a second figure joins him on the porch—slimmer, feminine, with a distinctive fan of long hair as she turns.

The door closes behind them, plunging the porch into darkness, but not before I catch a glimpse of auburn hair and the flash of an expensive-looking blazer.

They move toward a white truck parked nearby—Killion’s truck—and I’m about to call out when the headlights flash on, momentarily blinding me.

By the time my vision clears, the truck is already pulling away, followed closely by a sleek maroon sedan that peels out of the gravel lot with unnecessary speed.

A sleek maroon sedan.

Venetta Brandt’s sleek maroon sedan.

I stand frozen on my own porch, Rookie whining softly at my feet, as both vehicles disappear down the road.

What in the heck is going on?

And why does it feel like I’ve just witnessed something I was never meant to see?