Page 16 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)
NOAH
T he precinct is far too boisterous today, and my desk is far too messy. It’s not anywhere near quitting time, but my mind left the building about an hour ago.
I glance at the new file that materialized this morning, the one with Sebastian Gallagher’s name stamped across it.
How is it possible that Eliza Baxter, of all people, is the only viable suspect so far in this case?
Could someone have set Eliza up?
But why?
She says she didn’t know the man. Although according to footage from the community center, she clearly had words with him. But I’ve known Eliza long enough to realize that if any stranger gets on her bad side, she will most certainly have words with them.
In fact, a lot of people seemed to have words with Sebastian Gallagher that night, and my homework is to question each and every one of them. It should be easy—each one was a redhead, with the exception of Eliza.
Now all I have to do is ask around if anyone saw where the redheads went.
I’ve never felt so conflicted in all my life about a case. Part of me wants to follow procedure and let the evidence lead where it may. The other part knows Eliza wouldn’t kill a man, no matter how much he deserved it.
My phone buzzes on my desk and I pull it over to see a text from Lottie.
Noah, I can’t seem to get ahold of Everett! Evie has been trying to get in touch with him all afternoon and I’ve been trying for the last twenty minutes. I’m starting to think her theory about Everett being kidnapped is accurate. Help!
“What?” I squint at the phone for a moment and read the message again.
I text right back.
Where are you?
She answers right away.
At the bakery. And don’t bother going to the courthouse to track him down. I called and they said he was a no-show today. I called Red Satin, his mother, his sister, and Haley as well, and no one has any clue where he might be. Noah, I’m worried. Very, very worried.
I growl at the screen just reading it. The last thing that Everett or I want is very, very worried Lottie Lemon. A very, very worried Lottie is a Lottie who makes rash decisions, like confronting murderers or breaking into suspicious warehouses.
I tell Lottie to stay put, grab my coat, and try to call Everett as I race out the door. It goes straight to voicemail.
I have no doubt Lottie has done her due diligence, so I don’t bother going to the courthouse and head straight for Honey Hollow. I’ll admit, I sped all the way and twice was tempted to put the siren device on the roof of my truck just to part the Red Sea so I could make it to the bakery faster.
Visions of Everett in trouble—or worse, Lottie going to find Everett in trouble—propel my foot to press harder on the accelerator.
A parking spot opens up out front of the Cutie Pie Bakery and I grab it before jumping out of my truck and racing inside. The bell above the door jingles merrily, completely at odds with the anxiety coursing through my veins.
The warm scent of sugar and cinnamon hits me like a brick wall, and it’s a stark contrast to the tension on Lottie’s face as I spot her sitting at the counter with a small crowd gathered around her.
“I’m here, Lot,” I say, making my way to her and pulling her in. Her body feels so tight, she’s wound tight like a spring. “Where’s Lyla Nell?”
“Back there with my mother.” Lottie hitches her head toward the front, and sure enough, I see Miranda seated with Lyla Nell as the two of them share a platter of green frosted cookies.
At least someone is enjoying themselves. I’m about to look away when I do a double take.
Why in the world does Lyla Nell’s face look as if she was trying out for the circus?
On second thought, a circus clown might have less makeup.
And is she wearing false eyelashes?
“Well, well, Detective Hercules arrives in record time,” my own mother announces from behind the counter.
Her blonde bangs sweep across her forehead as she gives me that knowing look, the one that somehow manages to be both judgmental and simultaneously smug.
“I clocked you at twelve minutes from when Lottie texted. That’s impressive even for you, Noah. ”
“Mom”—I start to defend my herculean timing, but Lily cuts me off.
“Maybe Everett finally came to his senses,” Lily suggests, arranging a tray of macarons with far too much precision for someone who isn’t avoiding eye contact with me. “Maybe he realized what he signed up for with that Lemon of his and took off before the double trouble arrives.”
“ Lily ,” Lottie gasps.
“What?” Lily shrugs. “Some men aren’t built for fatherhood. Especially not men like Everett. He’s built for speed when it comes to the female gender and doing things to said females behind closed doors that are illegal in at least sixty states.”
I shake my head at Lottie because it’s just not worth correcting.
My mother tips her head. “Or maybe he came to his senses and is hoping Noah will jump back on the Lottie Express and take over for him, which, as evidenced by how quickly he got here, has already happened.”
“Newsflash, Mom”—I nod her way—“I never left.”
“Oh, please .” Carlotta waves a dismissive hand as she pipes up, and it’s only then I notice her face is colored in like a rainbow and her nails are glittering in a blinding manner as if she had dipped her fingernails in glitter.
“You’re all being ridiculous. Has anyone considered that Sexy might just be at home taking a snooze?
” She examines her nails, and they shine so bright they could probably stop traffic.
“Did you ever think of that, Lolita?” She cocks her head at Lottie.
“Maybe he wants some peace and quiet before the little yippers arrive, and he knows having a ditch day is the only way to get it?”
“A nap?” Lottie’s voice climbs half an octave. “Everett doesn’t nap or snooze. He doesn’t even sleep. I’m pretty sure he just powers down for four hours and reboots. He has more energy than Lyla Nell does on any given day.”
Carlotta rolls her eyes. “Everyone naps, Lot Lot. Even the perpetually wound-up judgmental types. Especially them.”
“I’ll check the security cameras and see if his truck is in the driveway,” I say, doing just that.
Sure enough, Everett’s sleek black truck is parked in its usual spot, looking like it hasn’t moved all day.
“Oh no.” Lottie’s face goes pale. “Something really terrible must have happened if he never left the house. I bet he needs our help. What if he fell? What if he’s unconscious? What if?—”
“He’s not alive,” Lily finishes for her, and all eyes narrow on her. “What? I’m just saying. It’s happened before—especially when Lottie is concerned.” She shrugs at her boss. “You do have a certain effect on the mortality rate in this town.”
“Grab Lyla Nell,” Lottie calls out, already waddling toward the door with surprising speed for someone carrying two entire humans. “We’re headed home.”
I don’t argue, I simply just follow orders. I scoop up Lyla Nell from Miranda with a hurried explanation and help strap her into Lottie’s minivan. Carlotta jumps in the passenger seat while I jump into my own truck and we race across town all the way to Country Cottage Road.
I pull into the driveway, brake hard, and jump out of the truck before the engine stops rumbling.
In less than three seconds I sprint to the front door, fishing out the key Lottie gave me years ago.
My cop instincts kick in as I approach with caution, listening for disturbances, and checking for signs of forced entry.
But all rational thought dissolves when I hear Lottie’s panicked breathing behind me.
I swing the door open and race inside, immediately losing traction on the stone floor. My boots slide as if I’m trying to steal home at the World Series, and my arms do the windmill in a desperate attempt to stay upright.
“Everett?” I call out so loud my voice echoes across the walls and two balls of white fluff scatter in my presence.
“ Noah ?” Everett shouts back. “KEEP LEMON OUT OF THE HOUSE!”