Page 21 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)
KILLION
T he Perky Pumpkin Café glows with warm light against the gray November night, its windows frosted with hand-painted fall leaves and miniature turkeys wearing Pilgrim hats.
Inside, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee mingles with cinnamon, nutmeg, and whatever secret blend of spices they use in their signature pumpkin pie.
The café buzzes with the gentle hum of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the occasional bark or meow from the pet-friendly section where families and their furry companions enjoy the cozy atmosphere.
Rookie sits at my feet with his golden head resting on my shoe and his eyes fixed on Hattie’s slice of pie with the laser focus of a predator tracking prey.
Cricket has claimed the empty chair next to Hattie, perched regally with her tail wrapped around her paws, and it would seem she’s chairing this meeting.
Our furry friends seem perfectly at ease. Hattie and I, not so much.
The tension between us stretches like an overstrung guitar. There’s a distance in her eyes I haven’t seen before, and a coolness to her smile that makes me want to check if my heart is still beating. I’m not sure why I’ve fallen out of her good graces, but the change is undeniable.
Still, I’m thrilled—and relieved—that she agreed to meet me for coffee, although it feels more like we’re here to exchange Cricket and Rookie.
I’m starting to feel like a dad in the middle of a very bad divorce, meeting at a neutral location for the custody handoff, hoping for five minutes of conversation that doesn’t end in silent accusations.
And I’ll be honest, I am definitely curious about what those accusations might be.
I’d hoped she would mention the boxes visible in the picture I sent earlier.
I positioned them deliberately in the frame, a silent invitation to ask questions that might lead to my surprise.
But she hasn’t said a word about them. In fact, she’s hardly said anything that isn’t related to the weather or the quality of the pumpkin pie (which, to be fair, is exceptional).
The timing doesn’t feel right to bring up the move myself. Not with whatever invisible wall is lingering between us. But I know exactly what subject will always engage her, no matter how strained things might be between us.
“All right,” I say, setting down my coffee mug with more force than necessary. “Let’s talk shop, Detective Holiday. What have you got so far in the Maple case?”
Her eyes light up immediately. Nothing activates Hattie like the opportunity to share detective work that she absolutely shouldn’t be doing.
“Well, I have been gathering information,” she begins, leaning forward slightly. The ice in her demeanor cracks just enough to glimpse the warm, enthusiastic woman I know. “I’ve spoken to several key people connected to Vivian.”
She outlines what she’s learned about Meredith Thorne, the baker whose business was failing until Vivian’s convenient death cleared the way for her to win the prize money.
She details her visit to Sunrise & Cinnamon and her conversation with Autumn Harrington, touching on the rumors of recipe theft in the local culinary community without confirming who might have stolen from whom.
My stomach growls embarrassingly loud at her description of Sparky’s Smokehouse—the smoked turkey with bacon, the bourbon-candied sweet potatoes, the cornbread stuffing infused with brisket drippings. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and her food descriptions are borderline torture.
Why in the world wasn’t I there with her? It sounds as if I missed a great time. More than that, I missed time with Hattie.
“Sorry,” she says, pushing her half-eaten slice of pie toward me. “You want this?”
“I’ll survive,” I assure her, though I eye the pie with undisguised longing. “Continue.”
Hattie saves the bombshell for last. “And then Oliver Prescott—Bunny’s cousin, the food critic, the silver fox judge from the festival—made a confession.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “He was Vivian’s ex-husband.”
I inch back in my chair, genuinely stunned. “So, there’s a motive.”
“Yeah, but he said they divorced over ten years ago. He cheated and she wanted nothing to do with him.” Hattie stirs her coffee absently. “He admitted that he wanted more from her but accepted that the door was shut forever.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes suddenly intense. “And now it is.”
The implication hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken connections. A man who couldn’t let go of a woman. A relationship damaged by betrayal. A door permanently closed by death.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, mentally arranging the suspects like pieces on a chess board. “We have Meredith Thorne, whose bakery was on the verge of bankruptcy until she conveniently won the prize money after Vivian’s death.”
“Right. Also, the poison was found in the pumpkin spice latte that originated from her booth at the festival. However, that was the only tainted cup we could find.”
“Thankfully.” Hattie shudders. “Then there’s Autumn Harrington, who might have her own reasons to resent Vivian given all the rumors of recipe theft flying around the local culinary scene.”
“Exactly.”
“And now Oliver Prescott, the ex-husband who cheated, got dumped, and apparently never quite got over it.” I take a sip of my coffee, now lukewarm. “That’s three solid motives for murder.”
“Plus, there’s the means. Yew poisoning isn’t exactly a spur-of-the-moment crime. Someone had to know what they were doing.”
“It’s definitely premeditated,” I agree. “And according to the medical examiner, the poison was likely administered shortly before her collapse. The toxin works quickly.”
Hattie leans forward and looks fully engaged. “So we need to determine who had access to her drink right before the announcement.”
“Which would be practically anyone at the festival,” I point out. “It was crowded, chaotic, and people were milling around with food and drinks everywhere.”
“But not everyone had a motive.” Her eyes gleam with the thrill of the hunt.
“And not everyone knew about yew being poisonous.”
“Autumn might,” Hattie muses. “She’s a chef. She probably knows all kinds of food-related toxins.”
“Meredith is a baker,” I counter. “She works with plants and extracts, too.”
“And who knows what Oliver learned as a food critic? Maybe he reviewed a book on poisonous plants once.”
We fall into a rhythmic back-and-forth, the tension between us temporarily suspended as we do what we do best together—work through a case. For a few precious minutes, it feels like normal. Like us.
But all too soon, the professional discussion winds down. The awkwardness creeps back in like a fog, chilling the brief warmth we’d generated.
“I should get going,” Hattie says, gathering her things. “I’ve got to finalize some details for the gala tomorrow.”
I nod, trying not to show my disappointment. “I’ll walk you to your truck.”
We step outside into the crisp afternoon air, Cricket nestled in Hattie’s arms and Rookie trotting faithfully at my side.
Ginger, Hattie’s beloved 1953 Ford F-100, sits at the curb like a faded red sentinel.
The truck once belonged to her grandfather, and despite—or perhaps because of—its rust spots and temperamental engine, she loves it fiercely. So do I.
I help Cricket and Rookie into the passenger seat, making sure Mr. Jolly Beary is securely positioned between them to prevent the ongoing custody battle that seems to have no end in sight.
When I turn back to Hattie, she’s watching me with an unreadable expression. I move in for a kiss, but she turns her head at the last second, and I land it on her cheek instead. The gesture is like a knife between my ribs—subtle but devastatingly effective.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night at the Gilded Gratitude Gala,” she says, her voice softer than it’s been all afternoon. She looks up at me, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. “You will be there, right?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assure her, meaning every word.
She nods, climbs into Ginger and drives away with a backfire that sounds oddly like the truck is commenting on our strained interaction.
I stand on the sidewalk long after her taillights disappear around the corner, trying to make sense of what’s happening between us. How can someone I was so connected to suddenly feel like a stranger? How can the woman who reads minds not see what’s in my heart?
And more importantly, how did I end up in this situation where it feels like I’m losing her?
Hattie Holiday is the great love of my life—the only woman who’s ever seen past my defenses, who makes me laugh when I want to scowl, who challenges me to be better while accepting my flaws. Letting her slip away isn’t an option.
But first, I need to figure out what went wrong. Because solving this mystery might be the most important case of my life.