Page 19 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

W hy do humans insist on leaving us at home when they go to food places? Cricket’s rather indignant thoughts echo in my memory from earlier this evening. We’re excellent judges of character. I can tell a murderer from a regular person just by the way they pet me.

How’s that? Rookie had asked, his golden head tilting in confusion.

Murderers pet counterclockwise, Cricket scoffed. Everyone knows this.

What about people who don’t pet you at all?

Definitely serial killers.

The conversation continued just as I prepared to leave them with Killion for the evening—a decision that twisted my stomach into a pretzel after last night’s sighting of him with Venetta.

But when he showed up at the country club just before closing, looking like the poster boy for law enforcement respectability, I momentarily questioned whether I’d imagined the whole cabin scenario.

He’d offered to take me to dinner and his green eyes held mine with that intensity that usually turns my knees to jelly. And they so did.

“Sorry, I have a hot date tonight,” I told him, enjoying the flash of panic across his face before clarifying. “With Bunny. Sort of a girls’ night out.”

The relief that washed over his features was so profound you’d think I’d just told him the medical lab had mixed up his test results and he wasn’t terminal after all. Which only reignited my suspicions. Why would a simple girls’ night provoke such relief?

Still, when he offered to watch Cricket and Rookie and suggested I meet up with him later at his place, I almost wavered. Almost.

“I’ll think about it,” I said instead, surprised by the coolness in my own voice.

But now, as Ginger putters along the main drag of downtown Edison—a town that makes Brambleberry Bay look like a refined European capital by comparison—I wonder if I made the right choice.

Edison is both dreary and scary. It’s the kind of place where even the welcome sign has graffiti.

“There it is.” Bunny points from the passenger seat while bouncing up and down. “Sparky’s Smokehouse.”

Sparky’s stands out like a sore thumb—if sore thumbs were tall, boxy, brick buildings smashed between a strip club called The Pole Position and a casino named Lucky’s Last Chance.

The neon sign out front features a cartoon pig that seems to be suffering from either ecstasy or an electrical shock, possibly both.

“Are we sure about this place?” Clarabelle asks from the back seat, where she and Peggy are crammed like sardines in formal wear. “It looks like the kind of establishment where the health inspector needs combat pay.”

“Oliver raved about it,” Bunny assures us, checking her makeup in a compact mirror. “And he’s reviewed restaurants in seventeen countries.”

“Yes, but does he still have all his original organs?” I mutter as I park Ginger between a motorcycle that appears to be held together with duct tape and a car that might once have been a Cadillac before it was customized with what appears to be house paint and hood ornaments stolen from at least three different luxury brands.

We make our way to the entrance, each decked out for a fun night out.

Bunny looks like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine in a clingy red dress and heels that would qualify as lethal weapons in some jurisdictions.

I’ve opted for jeans and a sweater that says casual but also prepared to flee from danger .

Peggy sports what she calls her lucky bingo outfit—a bedazzled sweatshirt featuring a turkey wearing sunglasses and pants with an elastic waistband roomy enough to accommodate her plan to “eat until they have to roll me out.”

Clarabelle has chosen a pantsuit in a shade of purple so electric it’s probably visible from space, accessorized with a hat shaped vaguely like a cornucopia.

The moment we push open the doors, the smoky scent of barbecue engulfs us like a carnivorous cloud. My stomach lets out a growl so loud it momentarily drowns out the country music blaring from speakers the size of compact cars.

“Sweet mother of maple syrup,” Peggy moans, inhaling deeply. “I think I just found my new cologne.”

The interior of Sparky’s looks like what would happen if a lumberjack won the lottery and decided to open a restaurant.

The floors, walls, halls, and furniture are all dark mahogany greased to a shine that makes me question whether the wood or the accumulated barbecue sauce is responsible for the glossy coat.

The extra-large main room features picnic tables arranged around a central area where the main attraction commands attention. And that main attraction just so happens to be a mechanical bull.

Not just any mechanical bull. A mechanical bull dressed up to look like a turkey , complete with a wattle that flops with each violent twist. And riding this gobbling monstrosity is a man in a cowboy hat whose face suggests he’s regretting everything that led him to this moment.

The place is packed, and the noise level hovers somewhere between a rock concert and a jet engine, with spontaneous line dancing breaking out in the aisles between tables.

Fall decorations assault the senses from every direction—corn stalks bound with orange ribbons flank the doors, miniature pumpkins serve as centerpieces, and what appears to be a stuffed turkey wearing a Sparky’s T-shirt presides over the bar like a fine feathered mascot.

“This”—Bunny declares while waving a hand around at the place—“is exactly what I need after the week I’ve had.”

The turkey rider finally loses his battle with centrifugal force, flying off in a spectacular dismount that looks like it will keep some lucky chiropractor’s children in college for years.

With each twist and hairpin turn the crowd goes wild, and I can practically hear the poor guy’s vertebrae snapping just an octave above the hooting and hollering.

Peggy takes one look at the mechanical bull and stands a little straighter. “Oh hon, sign me up!”

“The only thing you’ll be signing is your own death certificate,” Clarabelle retorts. “The Grim Reaper is probably warming up in the parking lot right now, doing stretches and checking your name off his to-do list.”

“Please,” Peggy scoffs. “Death has been trying to catch me for twenty years. The old boy is out of breath, and I’m just hitting my stride.”

“I’m not riding anything that can’t buy me a condo complex,” Bunny announces, scanning the room with the eye of someone evaluating both the menu and the marriage potential of every man present. Well, maybe not marriage—a one-night stand is probably more likely.

A piercing whistle cuts through the din—not from Bunny, but clearly directed at her. We turn to see a silver-haired man waving from a table on the far side of the room, who just so happens to have a front-row seat to the mechanical mayhem at hand.

“ Oliver ,” Bunny calls back, waving with enough enthusiasm to qualify as cardio.

We weave through the crowd, dodging servers carrying trays piled impossibly high with meat and the occasional impromptu two-step breaking out in the aisles.

By the time we reach Oliver’s table, I feel as if I’ve completed an obstacle course designed by an architect who clearly hates personal space and maybe loves chaos.

“Ladies, welcome!” Oliver rises to greet us, every inch the silver fox we saw the last time.

His tailored blazer looks wildly out of place in this establishment, but he wears it with the confidence of a man who knows exactly how many meals he’s going to eat for free. “Bunny, you’re a vision as always.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, cuz,” Bunny replies, air-kissing both his cheeks. “You know, for a man on the wrong side of fifty.”

“Fifty-two is the new thirty-five,” he counters smoothly and I think I just heard Peggy sigh. At least she didn’t faint.

Bunny introduces us one by one, and Oliver greets each of us with the polished charm of someone who reviews restaurants for a living—professionally pleasant, but you can tell there’s just a hint of critical assessment layered underneath. Thankfully, none of it is coming my way telepathically.

“This is so great,” I say as we settle around the table. “How did you hear about this place?”

“Well, I am a food critic.” He gestures to the chaos around us with the air of a proud parent and we all share a laugh.

“Tonight, I’m trying their Thanksgiving dinner special.

Sparky’s might look like the kind of place where the health code violations have violations, but I hear their pit master is a genius.

He was trained in Memphis before a slight—misunderstanding with the law brought him to Maine. ”

“Oh well”— Peggy pats the back of her hair—“everyone knows nothing seasons meat quite like a checkered past.”

We share another quick laugh just as a waitress with hair teased high enough to require FAA clearance approaches our table. Her name tag reads Destiny , and her expression suggests that destiny has not been particularly kind.

“Y’all want the Thanksgiving platter?” she asks, popping her gum with impressive force. “It’s the Thursday special no matter what day of the week.”

“Precisely,” Oliver confirms. “Four Thanksgiving platters and a bottle of your finest wine?” He looks around at the lot of us and we all nod in agreement.

Destiny snorts. “Our finest wine comes in a box, honey. But it’s a nice box.”

“Perfect,” Oliver says without missing a beat. “We’re not a pretentious bunch.”

I nod. “That would be my place of employment.”

Destiny sashays away and Peggy leans across the table toward Oliver. “So, are you single, sugar? Or is there a Mrs. Food Critic waiting at home?”

“ Peggy ,” Clarabelle hisses. “You can’t just ask if he’s single. You have to be subtle about it.”

“At our age, subtle takes too long,” Peggy shoots back. “I need to know if I’m wasting my good perfume.”

Oliver laughs and it sounds rich and genuine. “Currently unattached,” he confirms. “My last relationship ended when she realized she was allergic to both shellfish and food critics who talk about shellfish at dinner.”

“Her loss,” Peggy purrs. “I’m not allergic to anything except common sense and moderation.”

Before Oliver can respond to this dubious selling point, our food arrives on platters large enough to serve as sleds in a pinch.

The Thanksgiving dinner at Sparky’s turns out to be traditional holiday fare that’s been subjected to smoke and fire as if it committed some serious culinary crimes—smoked turkey so tender it practically falls apart at the mention of a fork, stuffing infused with brisket drippings, sweet potatoes topped with pecans that have been candied in bourbon, green bean casserole where the onions have been replaced with fried pork rinds, and cranberry sauce spiked with what tastes suspiciously like moonshine.

The first bite provokes an involuntary moan from all of us.

“Sweet Georgia peaches,” Peggy exclaims, her eyes rolling back in her head. “I haven’t had anything this good in my mouth since Herbert Cohen at the 1972 Spring Fling.”

We collectively pretend we didn’t hear that.

“This turkey has no right to be this delicious,” Bunny agrees, delicately dabbing her lips to avoid disturbing her lipstick. “It’s practically indecent.”

“They smoke it for eighteen hours over apple and hickory,” Oliver explains, clearly in his element. “Then they wrap it in bacon for the final two hours.”

“Bacon-wrapped turkey should be federally mandated,” Clarabelle declares while already reaching for seconds.

We eat in reverent silence for several minutes, the kind of quiet that only descends upon a table when the food commands complete attention. Even the mechanical turkey bull seems to pause in respect.

Halfway through the meal, Bunny sets down her fork and fixes Oliver with a look that has probably preceded the downfall of several eligible bachelors. “It’s been so many years, Oliver. Tell me everything about yourself. And don’t hold a single detail back.”

Oliver laughs, swirling the surprisingly decent boxed wine in his glass. “I’d hate to put you all into a food coma twice in one evening. Once from the turkey, and again from the sheer boredom of my life story.”

“Oh please,” Bunny scoffs. “You were always the interesting one in the family. Remember that summer in Cape Cod when you convinced the neighbors you were the heir to a British title?”

“In my defense, I was twelve, and they were insufferably pretentious.”

Clarabelle leans forward and fixes Oliver with a stare that could freeze molten lava. “Okay, fine, cutie pie. Let’s cut to the chase, let’s start with that day at the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival out in Brambleberry Bay. The day of the murder.”

The smile on Oliver’s face doesn’t quite disappear. Instead, it solidifies, like wax cooling into a permanent mask. His eyes, previously friendly to a fault, have suddenly taken on a calculating quality that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

“Murder?” he repeats, his tone light, but for some reason, I’m hesitant to buy it. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And just like that, the comfortable atmosphere evaporates faster than moonshine on a hot skillet.