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

KILLION

T he fluorescent lights of the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department buzz overhead like angry wasps trapped in a jar.

I rub my eyes, which feel like sandpaper after staring at reports all morning. The stale coffee in my mug has gone cold—the third cup today—and tastes like it was brewed with swamp water and a hint of despair.

My desk looks like the paper recycling bin exploded. Sticky notes plastered everywhere, crime scene photos spread out like the world’s most depressing poker hand, and the acrid scent of burned microwave popcorn wafting from the break room completes the ambiance of law enforcement glamour.

I riffle through the scant information on the Maple case.

Victim: Vivian Maple, forty-eight, owner of Spice It Up Café.

Elegant brunette with sharp hazel eyes and layers of makeup that never seemed to smudge even in death.

Known for award-winning pumpkin spice treats and an attitude to match.

Arrogant about her recipes and fiercely protective of her “secret ingredients” to the point where several witnesses described her as paranoid.

Cause of death: pending toxicology. Preliminary findings suggest some kind of reaction, but whether it was natural, accidental, or deliberately induced remains to be seen.

Hattie already let me know her thoughts—or more to the point, the thoughts of what sounds like the killer lurking in the crowd among the festivalgoers.

And the deceased did say the word poison while wielding that cup of pumpkin spice latte in her hand.

There were enough remnants in it for me to send that to toxicology as well.

The medical examiner promised results when they’re ready and not a second sooner, which in Eagle County could mean anywhere between tomorrow and the next presidential election.

Suspects: practically everyone at the Pumpkin Palooza. From what I was able to glean with just a few interviews yesterday at the fair, the woman had accumulated enemies like some people collect stamps—enthusiastically and in great numbers.

My phone bleats, vibrating across the metal desk like an eager puppy. A smile tugs at my lips as I reach for it, expecting Hattie’s name to flash on the screen. Instead, I see a text from Pelican Cove Property Management and my smile flatlines.

The message reads:

Mr. Maddox, this is Trent from Pelican Cove Management.

We regret to inform you that the owner of your rental house has decided to sell the property to Eagle Fitness, Inc.

They will be bulldozing the house to build a gym and parking garage.

This message serves as your official 30-day notice to vacate.

A formal letter will follow by mail. We apologize for any inconvenience.

I stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

Thirty days?

My brain does the math. Thirty days puts me squarely into the holiday season when finding a new place will be about as easy as getting a straight answer from a politician.

I set down my phone and lean hard into my chair, which protests with a squeak that sounds oddly sympathetic to my house-hunting needs. Come to think of it, I’d better lay off the donuts while I’m at it.

Thirty days to find a new place to live while also hunting down whoever decided to turn a baking competition into a homicide investigation.

Perfect.

I stare at the ceiling, contemplating the grim possibility of living out of the back of my truck.

Maine winters aren’t exactly known for their hospitality, and while I’ve camped in worse conditions during my time in training, the prospect of showering at the department gym for months doesn’t exactly appeal to me.

Then a thought hits me. Maybe this is actually good timing? I’ve been spending most nights at Hattie’s place in Moonlit Meadows anyway. Of course, not actually spending the night, but I’ve left late enough that it felt as if I should have.

Those cabins by the woods and sea have a certain charm that my rental never managed to achieve. I have an ocean view, too, but what I’m missing is a Hattie Holiday view. Now I’d pay extra for that.

Maybe this is the universe’s not-so-subtle way of pushing me toward Brambleberry Bay permanently. Toward Hattie. Toward a future that, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve been circling with caution for months now.

I pull up the real estate listings for Brambleberry Bay on my computer.

The screen fills with options—far too many options.

Beachfront condos with prices that make my credit card wince preemptively.

Downtown apartments above quirky shops. And then there are the cabins near Hattie in the enclave she lives in—Moonlit Meadows.

I don’t have time to comb through all of this. I’ve got a killer to corner, not just a place to rent.

And then I see it. The smiling face of Venetta Brandt beaming from a sidebar advertisement, her gleaming teeth almost as blinding as her highlighted hair.

“Making Your Real Estate Dreams Come True!” proclaims the caption beneath her aggressively cheerful face.

I inch back in my chair, nearly tipping over in the process. Venetta Brandt works for my mother as the brand operations manager for Velvet Vanity Lounges and Spas, my mother’s far too lucrative business empire. Looks to me as if Venetta is doing a little moonlighting in real estate.

I bet Venetta would be glad to find me a place to live posthaste. The woman has been nothing if not enthusiastic about inserting herself into my life whenever possible.

I pause, finger hovering over the mouse.

What am I doing? The woman was obsessed with me in the past.

Venetta Brandt and I have never so much as gone on a date, although she very much wanted to and actively pursued me despite my relationship with Hattie.

She’s made no secret of her crush, sending everything from home-baked cookies to concert tickets to my office until I firmly established that I wasn’t interested.

But that’s all in the past, right? She’s a professional. I’m a professional. And I’m desperate. I’ve got less than thirty days to land a new roof over my head, and apparently, desperate times call for Venetta Brandt.

I reach for my phone, my finger hovering over her contact information as doubt gnaws at my gut like a hungry raccoon.

On one hand, she’ll work tirelessly to find me the perfect place.

On the other hand, she might interpret this professional interaction as something more personal. Heck, I know she will.

But what choice do I have? It’s either Venetta or the back seat of my truck. And Rookie has already claimed most of that space with his ever-growing collection of stuffed animals—courtesy of Hattie.

I take a deep breath and press call , already wondering if I’m making a deal with a designer-clad devil.

If finding a murderer in Brambleberry Bay isn’t complicated enough, finding a place to live might just prove to be the death of me.

But hopefully, it’s not the death of Hattie and me.