Page 9 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

T he tiny scarecrow on our table stares at me with its button eyes as if it were weighing the merits of my dubious path.

I’m about to flick its little hay hat when Meredith Thorne returns balancing a tray that threatens to collapse under the weight of enough sugar to put the entire town of Eagle into a diabetic coma.

“Here we are, sugar pies!” she announces, setting down her edible masterpieces with the careful precision of someone diffusing a bomb made of pastry.

The mountain of treats towers before us—pumpkin spice scones dusted with cinnamon sugar, maple-glazed pumpkin cookies shaped like fall leaves, miniature cheesecakes with cranberry swirls, and her famous waffle bites nestled in cute little cupcake cups, positively swimming in real Maine maple syrup that glistens under the bakery’s twinkle lights.

If this is heaven, I take back all those times I knocked your Bible off the nightstand, Cricket chirps from her bubble backpack with her whiskers twitching in anticipation.

Can I have seventeen of everything? Rookie gives a soft woof as his tail thumps against the leg of my chair in perfect rhythm.

“Sweet heavens to Betsy!” Peggy cries with her eyes wide open as she surveys the caloric landscape. “Meredith Thorne, are you trying to fatten us up like Thanksgiving turkeys?”

“Oh honey, you know it.” Meredith giggles and it sounds as light as whipped cream. “It’s the Southern way! My momma always said a guest should leave your home at least five pounds heavier than when they arrived, or you’ve failed as a hostess.”

“Your momma and my cardiologist would have words,” Clarabelle mutters, already reaching for a waffle bite.

“Speaking of men,” Peggy says, delicately selecting a scone. “That silver fox with the big check sure was a tall drink of sweet tea. You got your hooks in him yet, sugar pie?”

“Oliver?” Meredith adjusts her cat-eye glasses with a flour-dusted finger. “Lord have mercy, no! That man is more slippery than a greased pig at a county fair. He’s been single so long I reckon his bachelor status is fossilized.”

“Nothing a good Southern woman can’t chip away at,” Peggy counters with a wink. “Men are like biscuits—they need a firm hand and the right amount of heat.”

“And they fall apart under pressure,” Clarabelle adds as she points my way.

“Plus, they’re better with butter,” Meredith chimes in, and all three women dissolve into laughter that threatens to shake the ceramic turkeys off their perches.

I clear my throat, steering us back on track before this turns into a stand-up routine about the failings of the male species. “I’m really sorry about what happened to your friend, Meredith.”

The laughter evaporates like morning dew, and Meredith’s smile dims a few watts.

“It’s so very sad. Just awful.” She lowers her voice a notch.

“Can you believe that it was actually Vivian who had won first place in the competition? But since she passed before they could make it official, the committee decided I should get the prize instead.”

“How convenient,” Clarabelle mumbles through a mouthful of scone.

“It’s a blessing, truly,” Meredith continues, either not hearing or choosing to ignore Clarabelle’s comment.

“Lord knows I needed that money, something fierce.” She crimps a smile as she grows introspective.

Without those winnings, I’d be hanging a ‘Going Out of Business’ sign by Christmas, she thinks to herself.

The new industrial mixer alone costs five thousand, and the health inspector won’t give me another extension on replacing that ancient refrigerator.

Maybe now I can finally see the light at the end of this financial tunnel.

I nearly choke on my pumpkin cookie. The desperation in Meredith’s thoughts hits harder than the triple shot of espresso I had this morning.

“How long have you known Vivian?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual despite the financial motive for murder that just tap-danced across Meredith’s mind.

“Oh, going on fifteen years now,” she replies, absently straightening a napkin.

“We met at a baking conference in Portland. She was demonstrating her pumpkin spice blend technique, and I was there to learn about French pastry. We weren’t close friends, exactly, but we ran in the same circles. Competitor-colleagues, you might say.”

Clarabelle leans across the table so suddenly that her elbow dips into the maple syrup. “Okay, you Southern sweetie, let’s get down to the dirty deets. Why did you kill her and how?”

“ Clarabelle .” I gasp.

Meredith sniffs, her spine straightening like someone just pulled a string attached to the top of her head. If only she knew...

And I gasp just hearing the thought.

Peggy lets out a scandalized squeak and swats Clarabelle with a croissant, most of which crumbles to the floor where Rookie happily vacuums it up with the efficiency of a Dyson with fur.

My mouth falls open. What did she mean by if only she knew ?

“No, it’s okay,” Meredith says, holding up a placating hand. “I know she was only joking.” She shoots Clarabelle a glance sharp enough to cut through a frozen cheesecake. “At least I hope she was.”

I’d sooner go back to waitressing at that all-night diner in the armpit of Edison County than hurt a fly. Though Vivian tested that philosophy regularly.

“Look”—Meredith continues, lowering her voice—“I don’t know what happened to Vivian.

But given her age and the fact she was perfectly healthy, I’m betting on foul play.

I’ll be honest, she didn’t have many friends.

In fact, if anything, Vivian was a professional at making enemies.

I knew her well enough, but we hadn’t seen one another in a while. ”

“Was there anyone she was close to?” I ask, feeling my interrogation window closing faster than the bakery during a health inspection.

Meredith blows out a breath, her cheeks puffing like a chipmunk preparing for winter, before suddenly perking up.

“Oh, you know what? She mentioned something about having an upcoming meeting with Autumn Harrington. She’s the owner of that popular place out in Pelican Cove that sits right on the beach—Sunrise & Cinnamon.

Vivian seemed mighty worked up about it.

She said something about settling scores once and for all.

And I think she had some sort of history with Oliver, too, probably via baking competitions. I’m not really sure about that.”

Another gaggle of customers pushes through the door and sends the bell jingling frantically as if trying to warn us all of the impending pastry raid.

Meredith blows out a breath at the sight. “I’d better get back behind the counter before there’s a riot over the last pumpkin muffin,” she says, already standing. “You all just holler if you need anything else!”

As Meredith bustles away, Clarabelle reaches across the table and snags the last waffle from Peggy’s plate.

“Hey!” Peggy protests. “I was saving that!”

“For what? Your funeral? Your cholesterol’s probably high enough to qualify as a skyscraper.”

“At least I’ll die happy, unlike some people who’ll die cranky and constipated,” Peggy shoots back while grabbing for the stolen waffle.

What follows can only be described as a geriatric tug-of-war over a syrup-soaked breakfast item.

The waffle stretches between them like taffy before suddenly launching into the air in a perfect arc, landing with a splat directly onto the knitting projects of a group of elderly women at the next table.

“Bullseye!” Clarabelle cheers, raising her arms in victory.

The knitting circle turns in unison, their colorful yarn creations now decorated with sticky maple syrup. One woman’s half-finished sweater drips golden droplets onto her lap, while another’s intricate scarf is now obscured by breakfast food.

“So sorry!” I squeak, grabbing napkins and lunging toward them. “My friends are having a bit of a sugar rush!”

“We are not having a sugar rush!” Peggy announces loud and clear. “We’re conducting an important investigation!”

“Into baking techniques,” I correct hastily. “For a book club. About... cooking.”

The apparent leader of the knitting group, a silver-haired woman with pearl earrings and a withering stare, holds up her syrup-soaked yarn.

“Three months of work on my grandson’s Christmas sweater, ruined.

” Her voice could freeze boiling water. “Perhaps your next investigation should be into proper public behavior.”

“Or we could investigate why anyone would make a sweater in that particular shade of puce,” Clarabelle whispers, not nearly quietly enough.

Soon enough, knitting needles are brandished like tiny silver swords. So I do the only thing I can—I grab Cricket’s backpack and Rookie’s leash in one swift motion.

“It’s time to go”—I announce—“before we’re banned from yet another establishment in this state.”

“Seventh this month,” Clarabelle notes proudly. “We’re on a roll!”

We make a hasty dash for the door, pausing only to snag a box from Meredith to take a few goodies for the road. I’m grabbing a selection of treats to bring to Killion when movement across the street catches my eye.

I freeze with my bag of pastries suspended mid-air.

Is that... Killion? Walking with a woman whose hand seems permanently attached to his arm like a fashionable parasite?

My stomach drops faster than a soufflé in a slammed oven.

Even from this distance, I recognize the gleaming auburn hair and runway-model stride of Venetta Brandt, the insane woman who works for Killion’s mother at Velvet Vanity Lounges and Spas.

The same woman who’s made it her personal mission to get her perfectly manicured claws into my boyfriend.

And by the looks of it, she’s well on her way.

They appear to be deep in conversation with Venetta leaning in closer than any professional relationship would warrant. Before I can process what I’m seeing, a delivery truck rumbles past, and when it clears, they’ve vanished from view.

They must have gone into the café across the street. The one with the intimate tables and romantic lighting despite it being barely noon.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image like an annoying pop song. Killion would never go anywhere with that woman. Nor would he even think about two-timing me. And if he did, I’d read him like a book and he knows it.

It must have been someone else, another couple who just happened to look like them from a distance. Pelican Cove probably has plenty of tall, dark-haired men and predatory redheads walking its streets, right?

But as we head back to my truck, a chill that has nothing to do with the November air settles between my shoulder blades. A whisper of doubt curls around my thoughts like morning mist, suggesting that maybe—just maybe—I didn’t see what I thought I saw.

Or worse, I saw exactly what I thought I saw.

Either way, we have a more pressing mystery to solve first. Autumn Harrington, here we come.