Page 1 of Toxic Apple Turnovers

Chapter 1

My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Mostly I see dead pets, but on the rare occasion I do see a dearly departed of the human variety, but right now I’m being hand-fed one of my scrumptious light and crunchy mini apple turnovers, and it just so happens that its sweet, yummy goodness has blinded me to the world.

“Mmm,” I moan right at Noah who happens to be the one helping me indulge in this little bit of heaven.

“Have another,” he says with his lids hooded low, his voice dropping down one seductive octave.

Noah and I used to date pretty hot and heavy, but about six months back, I discovered he had a wife stashed away in another state. Technically, it was his wife hunting him down at my bakery, the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, that tipped me off.

Noah is tall, has impossibly dark hair that turns red at the tips in the sun, and is hostilely handsome. He also happens to be one of the lead homicide detectives down at the Ashford County Sheriff’s Department.

“Is this a party anyone can join?” a gruff and rough voice booms from behind, and both Noah and I turn to find Judge Essex Everett Baxter, my official plus one—sort of.

“Get over here, Everett.” I’m quick to motion this way as I hand him one of my crispy apple turnovers.

We’re standing in the kitchen of my mother’s spectacularly haunted bed and breakfast. She bought the place when my father died a little over a decade ago and renovated it to perfection.

The B&B is booked into the foreseeable future—but that has very little to do with my mother’s hospitality skills and far more to do with the ghosts. You see, last January it was highly rumored that this place was haunted and, truth be told, it is. First, there was the ghost of a bear that started theboo-ha-ha, but eventually, I found a couple of willing spooks to fill the position permanently—Greer Giles, a girl in her mid-twenties who was murdered last winter, and her two-hundred-year-old boy toy, Winslow Decker, a farmer from yesteryear who is as adorable as he is frightening.

Greer couldn’t be happier with her shiny new specter of a beau. And a few months back, they adopted a little girl named Azalea, Lea for short.

Lea is a mean axe-wielding six-year-old with a penchant for vengeance due to the fact her family was slain right over these grounds generations ago. But she’s since toned down her scare tactics a bit and helps out with the rattling of bookcases and the misplacing of objects here and there.

Suffice it to say, my mother has profited nicely off the dead. She runs excursions right here at the B&B on the regular, which she’s dubbed the Haunted Honey Hollow Tours, at eighty bucks a pop. And once her victims are through here, she sends them my way to the bakery for what she’s dubbed as The Last Thing They Ate Tour.

Yes, the rumors are true. There has been a murder in Honey Hollow every month for the last solid year, and each and every time, one of my baked goods has been loosely connected. That thought alone makes me shudder.

I hand-feed Everett one of my delectable apple turnovers, with the light and crispy pastry dough, a gentle rubbing of turbinado sugar on top, and only the freshest apples from the local orchard.

“Lemon,” he moans hard.

I’ve heard that guttural evocation of my surname before, but it’s been in far more intimate settings. Everett and I have been together ever since Noah and I abruptly broke things off. And now that Noah’s divorce is official, it was Everett who suggested that Noah and I date once again just to see if it’s still a direction my heart wants to pursue or if, in fact, it’s time to give that old relationship its proper closure.

Closure is something Noah and I didn’t get around to. As soon as his wife, Britney Fox, sauntered her blonde bombshell self into Honey Hollow, I pretty much gave Noah the boot.

Everett nods. “This is perfection, and so are you.” He lands a simple kiss to my lips. “In fact, you taste sweeter.”

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling like a schoolgirl.

Essex Everett Baxter goes by his middle name, Everett, to the masses, and Essex to the hordes of women he’s bedded. I’m not sure why, but Everett isn’t all too thrilled with his formal moniker, and yet it’s been reserved as sort of a door prize for the women he’s done the mattress mambo with—his mother and sister withstanding, seeing that they’ve called him that since birth.

Everett, too, is tall, dark, and alarmingly handsome, but he’s a bit more stoic than Noah, slow to smile, and those Caribbean blue eyes are as sexy as is his demeanor. No matter where he is, females within the vicinity crane their necks just to get a better look at him. I’ve witnessed entire herds of women gasping at the mere sight of him, fanning themselves as he walks by. He’s a lean, mean, well-oiled, mouthwatering machine that has the capability to pop ovaries at a single glance.

We met in his courtroom last fall where I was a defendant and he wisely sided with me for the judicial win.

Noah gently spins me around until I’m once again facing him. “You are perfection. And that’s exactly why I’m so thrilled to be heading out on an official date with you this evening.”

I glance to Everett and give a wry smile. “It is a date.” I nod into the admission. “I asked Noah what he wanted for his birthday and this was all he came up with.” Noah’s birthday was last month, but things officially went sideways, so I thought we should have a do-over. And when I asked what he wanted most, his answer was me. Noah has been trying to diligently win me back ever since the marital mishap.

“Lottie?” My mother bounces into the kitchen of the B&B. The kitchen itself was recently renovated with an enormous gorgeous marble island and a plethora of white cabinetry dotted with brushed gold fixtures. As of right now, every inch of this island is covered with platters of my sweet treats ready to be delivered to the next room over where someone has rented out the conservatory for a ritzy engagement party.

My mother rolls her eyes at the sight of the three of us. “Lottie, please, stop playing with these boys—handsome as they might be.” She gives a husky laugh as she bats her lashes at them. Miranda Lemon, the sweet angel that adopted me twenty-seven years ago, is a gorgeous woman who looks far younger than her biological age allows. She wears her blonde hair in curls to her shoulders, has high-cut cheeks that would make any model envious, and a smile that never leaves her lips. “Your sisters are here. They can help deliver all these goodies to the dessert table. The guests have all arrived at the very same time. It’s a mob out there. Good thing the music is playing and the decorations are all in place. That Amanda Wellington sure knows how to throw a party.”

“Did I hear my name?” A saucy little redhead in a hot pink dress and matching heels saunters in. Amanda is just as successful as she is beautiful. Not only is she a realtor at Redwood Realty, but she has a burgeoning party planning business, Make it Happen,that’s taken off like a rocket. “I hope you’re saying good things.” She winks my way as she pops a mini apple turnover into her mouth and moans. “Oh, Lottie, you’ve outdone yourself. I just know the future bride and groom will love this. But we need to get these to the table.”

My sisters, Lainey and Meg, zip into the room. Lainey is the head librarian at the Honey Hollow Library and recently married her longtime love, Forest Donovan, in July. We share the same caramel-colored long wavy hair and hazel eyes.

When I was young, I used to think since we looked so much alike that my parents were mistaken about my adoption.