Page 21 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)
LOTTIE
S hockingly, it only took Carlotta and me less than fifteen minutes to get to Fallbrook.
With normal afternoon traffic, the trip should have been double that.
“It’s as if we were in a time machine,” I say, stymied by how fast we arrived at our destination. “I swear, I wasn’t going any faster than usual.”
“I hate to break it to you, Lot, but your foot weighs ten times as much as it usually does. You’ve been breaking speed limits and the sound barrier for the last six weeks.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why haven’t you said anything?” I give an exasperated sigh as I slide into the first parking spot I see and kill the engine. “You do realize I drive with precious cargo on board.”
“Yup, as in me,” she says, snapping off her seatbelt.
“Besides, I don’t mind speeding. It just means we get to where we need to be that much quicker.
I’m not a fan of wasting time. Speaking of which, let’s dive into this redheaded playground and see what’s cooking.
I’ve always said a redhead in the streets means a firecracker in the sheets—purely scientific observation, of course.
” She smirks my way. “And before you get all hoity-toity on me, relax. I called Harry and told him to put on a red wig and meet me here.”
“There’s a small mercy. I think.”
We get out and waddle our way into the St. Patrick’s Day festivities—and I do mean we’re both waddling.
Me for obvious reasons, and Carlotta, well, I highly suspect the dozen whiskey-glazed donuts that Suze slid her way as we left the bakery has something to do with it.
She didn’t share a single one with me. Not that my sweet babes need to appreciate the taste of whiskey so soon in their young lives.
“Would you look at this?” I shake my head at the happy-go-lucky sights and sounds all around us.
Think Ireland meets St. Patrick’s Day on steroids and lots and lots of redheads.
And have I mentioned the redheads have shown up in fiery numbers today?
Again, it’s worth noting that the Red Sea is alive and well and surging all around me in human form.
“Sweet mother of Jameson,” Carlotta clucks as she surveys the festival grounds with wide eyes.
“The Leprechaun Jubilee looks as if St. Patrick’s Day had a wild night with a room full of redheads.
It’s like every redheaded cousin from fifty miles around decided today was the day to proudly display their Kiss Me, I’m 1/64th Irish heritage.
I haven’t seen this much Irish pride since your daddy got drunk and thought the great love of his life was a bottle of whiskey. ”
I nod. “Things would have been less complicated that way.”
The Leprechaun Jubilee is exactly what would happen if a St. Patrick’s Day pinata exploded all over the county fairgrounds.
Everywhere I look, there’s something aggressively Irish—from emerald green banners flapping in the spring breeze to inflatable leprechauns tall enough to require FAA clearance.
The air smells like a delicious culinary brawl is taking place between competing food vendors with sizzling corned beef, freshly baked bread, and the unmistakable malty siren song of beer that by the looks of it, has been dyed an unnatural shade of green.
“Now this”—Carlotta points hard to a group of men staggering around each with a pint of green beer in their hands—“is what I call a proper celebration. None of that namby-pamby Easter egg hunt nonsense. These people know how to party.”
She’s not wrong. The festival grounds pulse with Irish folk music blasting from multiple stages, creating a cacophony of competing fiddles and tin whistles.
Children dash past with faces painted green, chasing each other with plastic walking sticks that I’m certain will result in at least one emergency room visit before the day is over.
But what really catches my eye is the hair.
“So. Much. Red. Hair,” I say with a heavy sense of awe. “It looks as ethereal as it does vivid.”
“Yuppers. It’s like walking through a forest where all the trees have been replaced by flame-topped humans with a surprising capacity for beer consumption.”
“More like we’ve stumbled into a secret convention where all the world’s redheads finally get the appreciation they deserve,” I correct as Carlotta and I wade deeper into the crowd. “I’ve never seen so much gorgeous auburn in one place—it’s like walking through a sunset.”
“Nah. It’s more like someone dumped a crate of Halloween wigs onto the fairgrounds,” she shoots back. “It’s a buffet of fiery hotness. And I may need to sample everything on the menu.”
“We’re here to find Eliza, not to hunt for your next questionable moral judgment,” I remind her, although I know it’s futile. Once Carlotta is in hot pursuit mode, she’s pretty much unstoppable.
“Why can’t I do both, Lot? You know I’m an excellent multitasker.”
Before I can come back with a rebuttal, a spray of pink and blue stars suddenly materializes to our right, followed by the appearance of that cute little fox, Sebby, who looks positively delighted by the festival atmosphere.
“Lolita!” he happily greets me, and it only makes me frown at Carlotta for the moniker-related slight.
His ghostly tail swishes with excitement.
“This place is crawling with redheads! Sebastian always said redheads were the exact trouble he was looking for, but he never mentioned they traveled in packs.”
“That’s how I prefer my men to travel,” Carlotta adds. “All the way to my bedroom.”
“I prefer them traveling that way all the way to my den,” Sebby says. “Of course, with the females of the bunch.”
I’m about to say something when Carlotta raises a finger my way. “Before you go getting all self-righteous on us, just remember you got two baby daddies and you slept with both of those men just this week alone.”
I roll my eyes. Even though it’s technically true, I’ll never admit it.
She nods my way. “Not to mention the fact the universe sent you a fox to help solve a case that happens to land on the same month the next batch of yippers is set to deliver—and those yippers happen to belong to Sexy. I think the universe knows things we don’t, like maybe the fact Foxy is the daddy of one or more of those rugrats crawling around in that giant belly of yours. ”
“Oh, he is not .” I go to swat her, but she ducks out of range.
I steer Carlotta away from a group of men throwing axes at shamrock-painted targets.
Carlotta and axes can be a lethal combination.
Carlotta and men aren’t such a great combo either.
“Suze said that Eliza was volunteering at some booth.”
We meander through rows of vendors selling everything from Kiss Me, I’m Irish T-shirts to authentic Celtic jewelry that looks suspiciously like it was made in a factory in China.
After nearly being trampled by an impromptu Irish dancing flash mob, we finally spot a white tent with the words Fallbrook Sourdough Society emblazoned across the top.
And to my delight there, behind a table laden with crusty loaves, a wooden cutting board, and an array of gorgeous knives—some with etched silver, some with intricate carvings, some looking as if they’ve seen sharper days—stands a tall woman with razor-sharp cheekbones, auburn hair pulled back into a bun, and a ruby red smile for everyone to see.
Glinda Van Jance doesn’t look as if she belongs in a tent full of bread. She looks like she should be negotiating hostile corporate takeovers or modeling scarves in Milan.
“Lottie Lemon,” she calls out when she spots us. “What brings you to the land of leprechauns and green booze?” She chortles out a jovial laugh as if she, too, has imbibed the emerald spirit.
“Just soaking up the Irish culture,” I say as I waddle my way closer to the bustling booth. “Glinda, this is Carlotta, my?—”
“Her favorite mama.” Carlotta snatches up the woman’s hand and gives it an aggressive shake.
“Of course, I remember Carlotta.” She gives a nervous laugh. “It would be a crime not to.” She cringes because I sense she realizes Carlotta is a crime in and of herself. “Can I interest you ladies in some sourdough loaves? They’re fresh baked right here on the premises.”
“Yes,” I say, far too fast and eager. I can’t help it. The twins were practically rooting me on with their tandem kicking. “And I was also looking for my mother-in-law. I heard Eliza Baxter might be around. Have you seen her?”
Glinda’s mouth falls open. “I sure have. She just stepped away to deliver a special loaf to one of the judges’ tents,” Glinda explains, gesturing vaguely toward the other side of the fairgrounds.
“She’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, can I interest you in the ancient art of sourdough first?
Ireland has a long history of sourdough bread.
In fact, we even have sourdough Irish soda bread. ”
Before I can say yea or nay, Glinda is already lifting a glass jar containing what looks suspiciously like beige goop. But I’m more than familiar with the contents.
“There are some very old secrets in this jar,” she says with a laugh.
That jar might be bubbling with secrets, but here’s hoping Glinda Van Jance bubbles out a few of her own.