Page 24 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

I move toward Autumn Harrington with the determination of someone who’s just found the last piece of a particularly tricky jigsaw puzzle—and I have.

The elegant crowd parts before me, sensing drama in the air like sharks detecting blood in the water.

Autumn looks up as I approach and her honey-blonde ponytail swings as she turns. A tray of tiny pumpkin tarts balanced on her palm freezes mid-offer to the mayor.

“Hattie!” Her smile is warm, but her eyes flick briefly to my phone, still clutched in my hand.

Why is she looking at me like that? “These tarts are a hit,” she sings a touch too loud.

“I should have made a double batch.” She excuses herself from the people around her and steers me to the left where there’s nary a soul in sight, at least not within six feet.

“I’m sure they’re delicious,” I say, keeping my voice even. “You always did have a knack for knowing just the right ingredients to use. Especially the more unconventional ones.”

Something flickers across her face and I feel as if I’ve hit a nerve.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she says with a laugh that sounds only slightly forced.

“I think you do.” I take a step closer. “The Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake. You created it, didn’t you? The recipe Vivian claimed was hers.”

“What is this about?” Autumn asks, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m sorry, Hattie, but this isn’t the time or place for?—”

“For talking about how you poisoned Vivian Maple? I disagree. I think the timing is perfect.”

Ooh, someone’s bringing out the big accusations! Cricket hops our way as she bounces somewhere near my ankles. I knew the blonde one was trouble. Her food was too good to be trustworthy.

Should I start growling now or wait until she tries to escape? Rookie wonders with a woof as his golden head peeks out from behind my legs. He’s so sweet—he’s brave until he isn’t. I’ve been practicing my intimidating bark all week.

Autumn sets down her tray with deliberate care on the table next to her, the fine china hardly making a sound as it meets the tablecloth. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Hattie?”

“Let’s see.” I tick off points on my fingers.

“You have a background in botanical science. You have deep knowledge of plant compounds, including toxic ones. You had a motive—Vivian was threatening to sue you over the Harvest Moon Cake recipe that you created but she somehow claimed was hers. And you had the opportunity—you were at the festival, near the judges’ tent where Vivian was last seen before she collapsed.

You were also drinking a pumpkin spice latte that Meredith offered us all.

You certainly could have slipped anything into it and then switched with Vivian. ”

I garnered that whole background in botanical science thing from a simple Google search.

Honestly? Why do I waste my time shaking down suspects when all I have to do is type a few things into my phone? And it’s clear Killion is far too busy with Venetta to conduct an internet search of his own.

Autumn’s amber eyes narrow. “That’s quite a theory. Creative, but entirely circumstantial.”

“Is it? Then explain why you were thinking about that specific sweet treat when we were discussing stolen recipes.”

Autumn’s face pales, the color draining from her cheeks so rapidly it’s like watching sand through an hourglass.

Did she say thinking? Of course, I was thinking about it, but I must have let it slip. It’s not like she can read my mind.

I nod her way as if to confirm that indeed I can.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Tipper appears next to me like an apparition, her brow furrowed with concern. Chevy materializes on my other side, as if her novelist’s instinct for mystery and drama kicked in, drawing her like a moth to flame.

I nod to the suspect at hand. “Autumn here was just about to explain why she poisoned Vivian Maple with yew extract,” I say, never taking my eyes off Autumn’s increasingly panicked face. “It turns out, she has a history in botany—or at least a degree in it.”

“What?” Chevy’s eyes widen. “A chef with a degree in botany is the killer? That’s so obvious it’s brilliant.”

“I didn’t—” Autumn begins, then stops herself. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. “You have no proof.”

“Don’t I?” I choke on a laugh. “You had knowledge of toxic plant compounds. You had motive. You had opportunity. And now I have confirmation that the Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake was your creation, not Vivian’s.

What happened? Did she somehow get hold of your recipe?

Claim it as her own? Threaten to sue you when you protested? ”

But I took it off the menu well over a year ago. Autumn shakes her head with the thought. As soon as that witch took what was mine, she left me no choice.

Tipper glances between us, confusion etched on her face. “Wait, I’m lost. Who stole what from whom?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” I press. “The truth, Autumn. Now.”

Something breaks in Autumn’s carefully composed expression. The polished, professional facade cracks like ice under pressure, revealing something raw and wounded beneath.

“Fine. You want the truth? Yes, I created the Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake. It took me three years to perfect that recipe. Three years of testing, adjusting, refining. It was going to be my signature item, the thing that put Sunrise & Cinnamon on the culinary map beyond just brunch.”

“And Vivian stole it?” Chevy prompts, clearly taking mental notes for her next book.

“No.” Autumn laughs bitterly. “That’s the irony.

I adapted it from her original concept. We worked together years ago at a restaurant in Boston.

She had the basic idea, but it never quite worked.

The texture was wrong, the flavors were unbalanced.

After we parted ways, I kept tinkering with it, changing it, making it my own.

By the time I perfected it, it was as much mine as hers. ”

“But Vivian didn’t see it that way,” I guess.

“She saw it on my menu last fall and lost her mind. Called me a thief, and threatened to sue me into oblivion. Said she’d destroy everything I’d built.

” Autumn’s voice rises, drawing curious glances from nearby guests.

“ She was the thief—stealing credit for other people’s work, demanding loyalty while giving none in return. ”

“So you killed her.” The words hang in the air, stark and cold.

For a long moment, Autumn says nothing. The string quartet’s music seems to fade, the chatter of the crowd becoming distant as if the world is holding its breath.

“Yes.” The word emerges almost as a sigh of relief. “Yes, I poisoned her drink with yew extract, and I’m glad the wicked witch is dead.”

I KNEW IT! Rookie’s triumphant thought rings in my head like a gong. The good ones always share treats. The evil ones hoard recipes!

Focus, fur brain, Cricket yowls. The murderer is confessing!

“She wasn’t stealing the recipe,” Autumn continues, her words tumbling out now like water from a broken dam.

“I changed it enough to make it my own. But once she accused me of stealing, I grew defiant and sold the confection anyway for a while. She promised she was going to destroy everything I worked so hard to build. She was a monster! I had to do it. She gave me no choice.” Her eyes dart to the nearest exit, calculation replacing confession.

“Just like you’re not giving me a choice now.

I have to leave. I have to leave town. I have to leave the state. ”

Before I can react, she bolts—surprisingly fast for someone in heels and a formal gown—shoving past a waiter who drops an entire tray of champagne flutes with a spectacular crash.

“ Stop her ,” I yell, taking off in pursuit.

What follows can only be described as culinary chaos of the highest order. Autumn weaves through the crowd with the agility of someone who’s spent years navigating busy restaurant kitchens. Tipper, Chevy, and I fan out, trying to cut her off before she reaches the exit.

From my peripheral vision, I spot Clarabelle clotheslining an innocent bystander who had the misfortune of resembling Autumn from behind, while Peggy attempts to trip the actual Autumn with her foot, yet missing by inches.

“Corner her by the dessert table!” Chevy shouts, and by the looks of it, her mystery-writing brain is clearly enjoying this real-life chase scene far too much.

Rookie darts between legs, barking with ferocity, causing several guests to stumble and one unfortunate man to land face-first in the chocolate fountain. Oh, for Pete’s sake, that chocolate fountain never seems to fare well.

Cricket, proving that cats can indeed be crime fighters when properly motivated, launches herself from a table directly onto Autumn’s back with her claws digging into the expensive fabric of the woman’s dress.

“Get this beast off me!” Autumn shrieks, spinning in circles as she tries to dislodge my little furry missile.

The distraction is just enough for me to execute a perfect tackle that would make any football coach proud, bringing Autumn down in a tangle of limbs and formal wear near the ice sculpture, which wobbles precariously from the impact.

“I’ve got her arms!” Chevy calls out, pinning Autumn’s wrists with surprising strength.

“And I’ve got her legs!” Peggy declares, sitting firmly on Autumn’s ankles despite being half her size.

“ FREEZE! ” Killion’s commanding voice cuts through the bedlam as he stands at the edge of the chaos, weapon drawn and pointed directly at the human pretzel of women on the floor. “ Nobody move! ”

The entire ballroom falls silent, save for the string quartet, which valiantly continues playing as if this is all part of the evening’s entertainment. And it may as well be. After all, this isn’t the country club’s first journey to justice.

“She admitted everything,” I tell him as he secures the cuffs. “She killed her.”

Killion tucks his gun away and quickly cuffs the woman. “Autumn Harrington, you’re under arrest for the murder of Vivian Maple.”

I nod his way. “She poisoned Vivian’s drink with yew extract because of a disputed recipe and an impending lawsuit.”

“People have killed for less,” he pants, helping Autumn to her feet. Her once-perfectly coifed locks now resemble a bird’s nest after a tornado, and Cricket’s claws have left an abstract pattern across the back of her gown.

A team of uniformed officers burst through the ballroom doors, rushing toward us with the energy of people who missed the action but are determined to be part of the resolution. Killion hands Autumn off to one of the uniforms and she’s quickly ushered out of the room.

“Detective Maddox,” one of them calls. “We’ll need you back at the station immediately for processing.”

Killion nods, then turns to me. His green eyes hold mine for a long moment before he pulls me into a swift, tight hug.

“Good work, Detective Holiday,” he murmurs against my hair.

But when he pulls back, I can’t help noticing how quickly he steps away.

There’s a distance between us and it has nothing to do with physical space.

“I have to go,” he says, his expression unreadable.

I nod, unable to form words around the lump in my throat. As he walks away, following his colleagues and their handcuffed charge, I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

As I stand amid the wreckage of what was supposed to be the social event of the season, I can’t help feeling that while one mystery has been solved, another—the one closest to my heart—remains frustratingly unclear.