Page 6 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)
“A book club that solves murders,” Chevy points out, examining her perfect French manicure.
“Which makes it a murder club.” She wrinkles her nose at me.
“And speaking of books, that cozy mystery of yours is about to hit shelves come Christmas, so you’d better clear your schedule to do a book signing or two. ”
“You bet I will.” I bite down on a smile. Chevy’s publishing company picked up my little cozy mystery, and I couldn’t be more grateful to her for making all of my literary dreams come true.
“Murder club, book club—call it what you want,” Tipper says, waving her hand dismissively. “We need to schedule an emergency meeting ASAP. We’ve got to crack this case before Thanksgiving.”
“Which is in one week,” I remind her.
“Exactly! I need to focus on finding the perfect outfit for my first Holiday family Thanksgiving.” Her eyes light up. “Don’t forget, Henry and I are hosting at the Holiday Lobster House.”
“How can I forget?” Not only have they both reminded us a thousand times in the last week alone, in and out of our family group chat—and yes, Henry added her as a member—but I’ve actually been mourning the fact we won’t be at my mother’s for our traditional feast.
There are some things you should never mess with, and Thanksgiving is one of them.
Tipper leans her ear my way. “Do you think Henry prefers traditional autumn colors, or should I go with something more unexpected?”
“I’m sure Henry will be thrilled no matter what you wear,” I manage, picturing my formerly serious-to-the-bone attorney brother now making googly eyes at Tipper over lobster rolls. “As long as you’re not naked.”
Oh, I will be, she thinks to herself with a villainous smile. Of course, that will be much later, for dessert at Henry’s place.
Ugh. Where is the white noise when you need it?
White noise seems to be the universe’s way of sparing me from rogue naughty thoughts—other people’s, not mine.
“Tipper’s right about the timeline.” Chevy nods.
“I’m far too busy with holiday preparations for a dragged-out murder investigation.
My editor wants my next manuscript by January, and I’ve got two kids coming home from Swiss boarding school for Christmas who expect the full Norman Rockwell experience despite hardly speaking to me for the rest of the year.
” Just the way I like it. She gives a little wink at the thought.
“So we’re solving a murder to accommodate your schedules?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Exactly,” Chevy confirms without a hint of irony. “I’ll notify Hillary about the meeting. Well, the meeting, obviously—everyone in Brambleberry Bay has heard about the body by now.” She leans in. “And don’t think your handiwork has gone unappreciated.”
She winks once again, and I gasp. “My handiwork? You two know darn well I didn’t?—”
But they’re already heading toward the Cottage Grill, so it’s no use to finish my thought.
“See you at the murder club!” Tipper calls over her shoulder.
“It’s a book club,” I shout after them. “And we’re reading Stuffed with Love: A Thanksgiving Romance !”
Cricket and Rookie stare at me with matching expressions of judgment.
“What?” I’m quick to defend myself. “It was Bunny’s pick.”
A book where the heroine falls in love with a turkey farmer? Humans are strange, Cricket observes.
I liked the part where they kissed in the cranberry bog, Rookie counters dreamily.
They would know. I read the entire thing out loud to them as a part of our bedtime routine.
The doors whoosh open again, bringing another arctic blast and, speak of the devil, my bestie and fellow country club member, Bunny Prescott.
Despite the temperature hovering just above freezing, Bunny struts in wearing a dress that would be better suited for a Miami nightclub than a Maine November—a skintight crimson number that stops mid-thigh, paired with stiletto heels that could double as ice picks.
Her blonde hair curls perfectly under her chin, framing those mischievous blue eyes of hers that are perpetually scanning for eligible bachelors like a predator seeking prey.
As the daughter of a man who owns roughly half of Manhattan, Bunny has never had to worry about practical concerns, like staying warm or not freezing to death—or even starving to death for that matter.
“Hattikins,” she squeals, air-kissing both my cheeks. “I heard you’ve been up to your old tricks—turning a perfectly innocent baking competition into a crime scene. Well done, girl.”
“I did not turn anything into a crime scene,” I protest. “I was merely a witness.”
“A witness who cradled the victim in her arms as she took her last breath,” Bunny says with a quiet applause. “You’re becoming quite the Angel of Death around here. I’m thinking of avoiding public events with you entirely.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m just kidding. Put your eyeballs back in their sockets.
You’re the last person I’d avoid.” I’m too busy trying to stay on her good side, she thinks to herself while adjusting her microscopic purse.
“I’m actually shocked you didn’t mow down my cousin while you were unleashing your reign of terror on the festival. ”
“Your cousin?” I blink in confusion.
“Oliver Prescott. You probably didn’t notice him because he’s ancient.
” She wrinkles her nose in disdain. “We’re not close.
I haven’t seen him in years, but he messaged to say he’d be in town.
Sadly, I missed him because I had a man pinned to my Egyptian cotton sheets who required my immediate and thorough attention.
” Her phone chimes. “Oops, I’m late for lunch with Tipper and Chevy. ”
She clip-clops toward the Cottage Grill while swaying her hips like someone who knows every male eye in the room is following her. And they are.
“Hey! Why wasn’t I invited?” I call after her.
“Because you work here, you big goof!” She throws the words over her shoulder with a cackling laugh.
The doors whoosh open once more, and I look that way with a frown as the arctic blast whips around me.
“Oh, get that look off of your face. You know you’re glad to see us,” Peggy calls out as she and Clarabelle stride in, bundled up like arctic explorers preparing for the last leg to the North Pole.
Peggy sports a patchwork quilt coat that appears to have been sewn from the drapes of every Southern home ever featured in a movie, topped with a hat that could house a family of raccoons.
Clarabelle has opted for a poncho in a shade of orange so bright it should come with a warning for pilots, paired with a knitted hat featuring actual miniature pumpkins dangling from the earflaps. She really does know how to spend her money.
“You two look like you raided a craft fair,” I tease with a good-natured smile.
“Fashion is cyclical,” Clarabelle sniffs. “In twenty years, people will be begging me for this hat.”
“If the pumpkins don’t rot off it first,” Peggy mutters.
“Never mind that.” Clarabelle is quick to wave off her octogenarian friend. “We’re here to invite you somewhere, Hattie.”
“Where’s that?” I ask, although something tells me I might regret the question.
Clarabelle leans across the counter with her pumpkin earflaps swinging dangerously close to Cricket’s whiskers. “To stuff our faces with sugary delights and crack a murder case while we’re at it. Two birds, one scone .”
“We’ve got a theory,” Peggy adds, lowering her voice to a whisper that could probably be heard three counties over.
“That Vivian woman had more enemies than a politician at a tax audit. We’re thinking if we sample every single baked good from every shop in town, we’ll eventually stumble upon the killer. ”
I inch back. “That’s your investigative technique? Eating your way across Brambleberry Bay?”
“You got a better idea?” Clarabelle challenges.
I consider the stack of paperwork waiting for me, the group chat blowing up my phone with wedding emojis, and the prospect of spending the afternoon with two octogenarian sugar fiends on a mission.
Really, there’s only one reasonable answer.
“I’m in,” I say, already reaching for my coat.
After all, who needs a formal murder investigation when you’ve got two elderly ladies with a sweet tooth and absolutely zero filter?
Solving this case might just be a piece of cake—or in this case, a slice of pumpkin spice murder.