Page 23 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

T he Gilded Gratitude Gala continues to swell with Brambleberry Bay’s finest, their laughter and murmuring conversations creating a symphony of wealth and social positioning that rises to the vaulted ceiling.

Crystal glasses clink, designer heels click against marble floors, and the string quartet has moved on to what sounds like a classical arrangement because nothing says money like violins.

The air is perfumed with the mingled scents of expensive cologne, gourmet hors d’oeuvres, and floral arrangements that took our yearly budget on a trip to Mars.

And through it all wafts the unmistakable thick aroma of roasted turkey from the gourmet serving platters.

Meanwhile, the ice sculpture turkeys continue to weep champagne through their beaks like frozen fowl having an existential crisis.

I approach Meredith so quietly that she startles when I appear beside her, nearly dropping her champagne flute.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, honey!” She gives a loud guffaw. “You move quieter than a mouse at a cat convention,” she cries while pressing a hand to her chest where her burgundy gown catches the light.

“Sorry,” I say with a smile that I hope looks more friendly than predatory. “I was just admiring the ice turkey. I think the artist captured the essence of frozen poultry perfectly, don’t you?”

Meredith chuckles. “It’s certainly impressive. Although I keep expecting it to shake itself off and waddle away, trailing champagne as if it were looking for the nearest restroom.”

We share a laugh that feels almost genuine, and for a moment, I consider backing off. But then I remember Killion with Venetta, and for some reason, their twin betrayals stoke the fire of my determination.

“So”—I begin casually—“I hear you needed that prize money to keep your bakery open.”

The change in Meredith’s expression is subtle but immediate—like watching a soufflé deflate in slow motion. “My, my, we’re just jumping right into the deep end without even testing the water temperature, aren’t we?”

“Sometimes the direct approach is best.”

“I told you I needed that money.” She sighs, swirling her champagne with a flick of her wrist. “Yes, The Whisked Away Bakery has seen better days. Summer tourists dried up faster than cake left in the oven too long, and my bank account was looking emptier than a pie dish after Thanksgiving dinner.” Her Southern accent thickens slightly, as it seems to do when she’s emotional.

Come to think of it, so does Peggy’s. “But that prize money came as a godsend,” she continues.

“Even if it came with the bitter aftertaste of Vivian’s passing. ”

I take a breath, steeling myself for the plunge. “Is that why you did it? Is that why you poisoned Vivian’s pumpkin spice latte with yew?”

Yes! Direct hit! Cricket’s approving thought reaches me from where she’s curled beneath a nearby table, watching the confrontation as if it were dinner theater.

I told you she was a cold-blooded killer, Rookie chimes as he bounces to my side. She never once offered me a treat when we visited her bakery.

Cricket scoffs. That’s your metric for murderous intent? Failure to provide biscuits?

It’s never steered me wrong yet, he replies with a soft woof.

Meredith’s eyes widen to the approximate size of dinner plates.

Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a fish out of water.

“I don’t even know what yew is! How would I get that?

Do I look like a botanist to you?” Her voice rises enough to draw glances from nearby guests.

She lowers it with visible effort. “And even though I wanted Vivian out of my hair, I would never resort to murder. That woman was insufferable, but death? No ma’am.

She’s not worth the jail time or the hit to my karma. ”

Her indignation seems genuine, but then again, I’ve met cats who could convincingly act innocent while sitting next to a shredded roll of toilet paper. I glance at Cricket—AKA the culprit at hand.

“But didn’t she also steal your recipe for the Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake?” I press on, watching for any tell-tale flicker in Meredith’s eyes.

She leans back a notch. “Why, I don’t serve a Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake.”

“You don’t?”

She shakes her head with the certainty of someone who’s never even heard the words harvest and moon in the same sentence.

“Sugar, I serve pies, cookies, muffins, and enough varieties of breakfast pastry to put a French bakery to shame. But no Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake. Never heard of it until this very moment.” And I’ll never admit it out loud, but it does sound delicious.

Well, that’s unexpected. I was so sure I was onto something with the recipe theft angle. But if Meredith doesn’t even make this mysterious cake, then who does? And who was Vivian allegedly stealing from?

Meredith must read the confusion on my face because her expression softens from defensive to almost sympathetic.

“Look, honey, I’m sorry, but I’m not the killer you’re looking for.

” She gestures around at the glittering event.

“This gala is gorgeous. Stick to event planning. I don’t think detective work is your forte. ”

With that parting shot, she glides away, leaving me standing next to a slowly melting turkey with my theories dripping away just as quickly.

I’m about to grab a bacon-wrapped date from a passing server’s tray—because nothing soothes wounded pride quite like food wrapped in other food, especially when one of those foods happens to be bacon—when a svelte pale hand with long, claw-like nails cuts me off.

The nails are painted a deep maroon that matches the sedan I saw leaving Moonlit Meadows two nights ago.

And then the rest of her body steps in front of me and I groan hard.

“Hattie! There you are.” Venetta Brandt’s voice has the saccharine quality of someone who’s about to tell you that your outfit is so brave .

She’s wearing a dress that appears to be constructed primarily of strategically placed sequins and wishful thinking, her auburn hair swept up in a complicated arrangement that defies both gravity and good taste. But it doesn’t matter. She’s stunning.

“Venetta.” I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “What a surprise. I didn’t realize you were on the guest list.”

Here’s my chance. Something is definitely going on between her and Killion.

The secret meetings, the knowing smiles, the mysterious “business” that keeps drawing them together.

It all adds up to one inescapable conclusion—Killion Major Maddox might know to hide his thoughts from me, but Venetta Brandt doesn’t.

I’m about to get to the bottom of this the old-fashioned way—prying into someone else’s gray matter.

“I’m always on the guest list, honey.” She gives a cheeky wink. “Plus, Killion was kind enough to mention the event. We’ve been spending quite a bit of time together as of late.”

My stomach does a revolution. “Is that so?” I try to act as if I didn’t realize it, as if I wasn’t crestfallen at the thought, but I can’t seem to pull it off.

“ Mm-hmm .” Her smile has all the warmth of a shark eyeing a wounded seal. “We make quite the team. He has such discerning taste.”

Not too discerning if he’s running around with you, I want to say but don’t.

Somewhere from the vicinity of my feet comes a low growl that I hope only I can hear.

I don’t like her, Cricket announces with her fur visibly bristling. She smells like deceit and cheap perfume.

Can I bite her? Rookie asks with a hopeful look on his adorable face. Just a little nip. Nothing that would require stitches. Maybe.

I shake my head his way, before manufacturing a smile for Venetta.

“I’m sure you two have had a lot to discuss,” I say, striving for a tone that doesn’t reveal how much I want to dump the nearest ice sculpture over her head—rear end first.

Venetta’s smile widens, revealing teeth so white they probably glow in the dark. “Oh, we’ve discussed many things.” She leans in, her perfume enveloping me like a toxic cloud. “In fact, I should find him. We have some business to take care of tonight.”

“Tonight?” My voice squeaks pathetically at the thought.

“That’s right. Toodles ,” she sings with a wiggle of her fingers that looks like she’s casting a spell (possibly one designed to make me spontaneously combust) as she sashays through the crowd.

I watch her go with a cold certainty settling in my chest. Well, there’s that. They are definitely together, or at least doing something together—tonight of all nights.

I scan the room, determined to find Killion so that I can do the only thing I can—break up with him first to save face.

I’m halfway across the ballroom, moving with the single-minded determination of someone who’s both heartbroken and slightly buzzed from a single glass of champagne when I collide with a solid mass of expensive cologne and a finely tailored tuxedo.

“Oh sorry!” I exclaim, looking up to find Oliver Prescott steadying me with a concerned expression.

“Not to worry,” he says smoothly, his silver fox charm dialed to maximum. “In fact, I was about to track you down.”

“You were?”

He nods, glancing around as if checking that we won’t be overheard. “I just remembered why the Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake sounded familiar to me last night. It wasn’t Meredith who was serving it. It was Autumn.”

My brain snaps to attention like a bloodhound catching a scent. “Autumn Harrington? From Sunrise & Cinnamon?”

“Exactly. Venetta mentioned something to me the day of the Pumpkin Palooza about someone swiping her prized recipe, and that’s why she was suing the pants off the woman.

” His expression clouds slightly. “But we never got further into that topic because I tried to woo Vivian back instead, and we got to opening old wounds, and, well, she told me where I could put my apologies.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, trying to organize the information flooding my brain. “Are you saying Autumn stole the recipe from Vivian? And that Vivian was going to sue Autumn ? That’s contrary to everything I’ve heard so far.”

Oliver shrugs, the gesture elegant even in its casualness. “I’d take Vivian’s words with a grain of salt. I never knew what to believe out of her mouth. But she did seem passionate about it. Most people don’t get that worked up over a lie.”

He excuses himself to join a group of food critics by the bar, leaving me standing alone with a head full of conflicting theories.

Something about his story doesn’t add up. If Vivian claimed Autumn stole her recipe, but Autumn was thinking about Vivian stealing from her... someone is lying. And in my experience, liars often have something more significant to hide. Or maybe I just misinterpreted Autumn’s thoughts.

I pull out my phone and do a quick Google search on Autumn Harrington. What I find sends a chill up my spine—a piece of information so unexpected, so perfectly incriminating, that I almost drop my phone in shock.

I glance around the room, but I’m not scouring it for Killion anymore. I’m convinced I’ve found the killer.

And she’s currently serving canapés to the mayor less than ten feet away.