Page 2 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)

LOTTIE

PRESENT DAY…

“ L emon, bed rest was the doctor’s orders. I really think you should adhere to that until the babies arrive.”

I take a defiant bite of my shamrock-shaped shortbread cookie, letting the buttery crumbs fall where they may—which, given the size of my belly, means straight onto what used to be my lap.

Tonight, the Honey Hollow Community Center has been transformed all around us from its usual bingo-hall blandness into a glittering emerald wonderland.

Green streamers twist overhead, weaving between newly installed crystal chandeliers that reflect tiny rainbows across every surface.

The dark hardwood floors gleam as does the green glittery décor strewn across all of the tables which happen to be dressed in white linen.

The renovation committee really outdid themselves—it’s less community center, more country club now.

The lighting is low, the Irish-inspired music is loud, and the scent of my sugar sweet treats permeates the air with just the right amount of deliciousness.

“And I did adhere to bed rest,” I say a touch too loud over the music so Everett can hear me.

Essex Everett Baxter is one heck of a looker—dark hair, bright blue eyes, a body that can stop a bullet, and it’s near impossible to garner a smile from him.

At any given time, there are at least ten women craning their necks to get a better look at him.

And well, women have been known to drop to their knees in adoration of him in public establishments.

He was a playboy before he met me and now, I’m the only star in his sky. I know that for a fact because he just so happened to say those very words to me last night. Everett always knows the exact words to say to melt me.

I nod his way. “In fact, I was on bed rest for three whole days just the way that Dr. Barnette insisted. But it happens to be day four and I have an event to cater. And before you go there, yes, I do have a staff and they’re all here in force, but I kind of wanted to get in on the redheaded fun, too.

” I nod around at the room full of crimson glory as if affirming my decision.

The Redhead Roundup: An Auburn Affair is in full swing this evening. They meet up once a year around St. Patrick’s Day, and this time they’ve chosen our cozy little town of Honey Hollow, Vermont, to kick off their festivities.

The bustling convention has taken over the community center, and not only is there an abundance of redheaded beauties and cuties, but by the looks of the green beer and sea of green accoutrements, St. Patrick’s Day is being celebrated a little early as well.

Mayor Nash has already invited them all to participate in the big St. Patrick’s Day parade coming up in just under a week’s time, and I can’t wait for that, too, because it just so happens to take place right in front of my bakery.

Honey Hollow never misses a chance for a parade—we once held one when a woman’s sourdough starter survived for a year. In our defense, it produced really good sourdough that not even I could compete with. My stomach rumbles just thinking about it.

I pat my enormous belly with the memory as the twins each deliver a sharp kick that would make an Irish step dancer proud.

My false little labor scare three days ago had both Everett and Noah hovering over me like a couple of nervous honeybees.

Okay, so the scare wasn’t so little—I may have believed that I was going into full-blown birthing mode.

But apparently, that wasn’t the case. It was just a bout of some seriously earth-shattering, but not uterine -shattering, Braxton Hicks contractions.

“That’s telling him, Lot.” Noah pulls me in by the waist, or what little waist I have left. Okay, so I have no waist. I’m nine months pregnant with twins—really big twins (think toddlers).

Noah Corbin Fox is a looker, too, with his dark hair that turns red at the tips, verdant green eyes, and dimples so deep you could take a nap in them.

We share a daughter, Lyla Nell, who is set to turn two next week.

Noah and I were off and on—and even married more times than I can count.

Suffice it to say, we’re complicated. But I’m married to Everett now—and well, that only seemed to complicate things even more. It’s a long and sordid story.

“In fact, I’ve got an idea.” Noah nods to Everett. “Why don’t you go on bed rest until the babies arrive? I’ll wine and dine Lottie and make sure she has a ball without you. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Very funny.” Everett takes a moment to properly glare at Noah for even going there. “I seem to recall you overreacting when you thought her water broke last month.”

“That was different.” Noah ticks his head at the memory. “I didn’t realize she was holding an actual water bottle upside down.”

“Over my pants,” I clarify.

Heck, even I thought I broke my water that day.

“Nevertheless—” Everett’s chest expands as he looks my way. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you until the babies arrive—at least while I’m at home from the courthouse.”

“I’d better keep an eye on her instead,” Noah says. “I’ve got a clear schedule tomorrow morning.”

“Perfect,” Everett says. “I’ll free up my afternoon.”

I shake my head. “You two do realize that arguing over who gets to babysit me is completely unnecessary, right? I am a fully functioning adult,” I say as I snatch another cookie from the dessert table, another green shamrock with lots of pink and green sprinkles.

“I mean, sure, I may have had an episode the other day that had all the theatrics of a primetime medical drama, but turns out, it was just a silly Braxton Hicks extravaganza. I had them all the time with Lyla Nell. It was no big deal.”

“Lemon.” Everett inches his head back a notch. “You believed you were about to eject those kids ‘like two torpedo missiles’—and those were your exact words.”

“And that belief was wrong,” I’m quick to point out. “So, case closed, Judge Baxter.”

It’s true. Everett is a prominent judge down in Ashford County with far more important things to do than keep an eye on me while I stuff my face with cookies—and pie, and pizza, and everything that every restaurant on Main Street has to offer.

And well, Noah has a pretty important job down in Ashford, too, working for the Ashford Sheriff’s Department as their lead homicide detective.

Suffice it to say, the rash of homicides in Honey Hollow has kept him busy these past few years. And me busy by proxy since I always seem to find myself tangled up in them—and so do my sweet treats.

That wily little white fox I saw a few days ago comes to mind.

It was more of a chihuahua with giant six-inch tall ears that stick straight up and a cute little beak-like face than it was your traditional fox, but despite the fact, judging by the way it appeared and disappeared in a spray of blue and pink stars let me know that it was well past its prime.

And we all know what happens when those long-gone creatures—human or of the furry variety—make an appearance in Honey Hollow.

I look out at the crowd once again and wonder which one of these redheads isn’t going to make it to that upcoming four-leaf clover-shaped day.

“Look, Everett”—Noah says, snapping up a cookie for both himself and me—“we’re both here, we’re both responsible adults, and we both know Lottie isn’t going to listen to reason, so you might as well grab a cookie and try to enjoy yourself.

I say we divide and conquer. Obviously, you get the night shift, so I’ll spend my days with Lot. ”

Everett growls in response and a sigh escapes me.

“Boys, please.” A laugh snorts from me, which sets off another round of baby acrobatics. “There’s enough of my swollen ankles and stretch marks to go around.”

True as gospel.

A loud whoop goes off and the laughter and the merriment in the community center only seems to rachet up a couple more wild notches.

The air smells divine—a mixture of buttery pastries, whiskey-soaked desserts, and the cinnamon-apple tea I’ve been downing by the gallon.

The dessert tables are the centerpiece of the refreshment area, which feature more than a few Irish-themed treats, such as Bailey’s cheesecake bites topped with candied shamrocks, whiskey-glazed donuts with green sprinkles, Bailey’s brownie bites, and my pièce de résistance—mini Irish apple cakes drizzled with caramel whiskey sauce.

Every confection either features a tiny fondant shamrock or has been dyed an alarming shade of green.

So far, March is shaping up to be pretty monumental. Not only has every redhead in Vermont (and possibly the country) descended on Honey Hollow to kick off the St. Patrick’s Day festivities—which will culminate in a parade for the ages—but my sweet baby girl Lyla Nell is turning two.

That’s huge .

Plus, my birthday happens to be the very same day, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. When you’re about to push two human beings out of your body, celebrating another trip around the sun seems rather inconsequential.

“Besides”—I say, moving along and snapping up a whiskey-glazed donut then thinking better of it and handing it to Everett before snapping up another cookie instead—“the doctor said light activity was fine,” I remind them. “This is me, being lightly active.”

My eyes drift back to that pile of whiskey-glazed donuts. I’ve already eaten six back at the bakery. And since I am cooking the glaze, I’m sure the tiny bit of whiskey that gets splashed into the mix has lost all of its nefarious powers. Besides, they really do taste divine.

Carlotta pops up, looking every bit like my doppelg?nger—same honey blonde hair with touches of gray, same hazel eyes that are in serious need of some bifocals, which she refuses to don, far more wrinkles, and a far different figure considering she’s wearing an emerald green dress that I would die to fit into.

And ironically, that dress was culled from my closet.