Page 22 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)

LOTTIE

“ T his”—Glinda Van Jance announces while holding up the sourdough starter in a glass Mason jar with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts—“is Agatha Crustie. She’s my personal starter, going on seven years now.”

“Seven years?” I muse. “I’m impressed.”

Sebby moans from deeper in the tent as he shoves his face into a round loaf that is suspiciously disappearing before our very eyes. “Tastes like home,” he sighs.

And I’m left to wonder which home. I’m betting it’s the heavenly one.

Carlotta sniffs at the jar in Glinda’s hand. “Let me get this straight, Toots. You named your bread batter?” she asks, peering dubiously at the bubbling mixture.

“Of course!” Glinda looks scandalized that there might be an option not to. “Every proper sourdough starter deserves a name. It’s a living thing, after all. Every yeast colony has its own personality.”

“I named my first yeast infection, too,” Carlotta muses. “I called it Richard, after the man who gave it to me.”

“Oh my word,” I hiss as I swat her arm relentlessly. “Please ignore her,” I’m quick to tell Glinda. “She might have had a stroke that got rid of any filter she may have once owned.”

I know darn well that Carlotta wasn’t born with a filter of any kind. And because of it, I’m standing here today. I guess I have Carlotta’s misfortune to thank for my life, Lyla Nell’s, and that of my twins. It really is a sick and twisted world.

Glinda’s eyes and mouth both round out. “Well, that’s.

.. um, creative. Although our sourdough names tend to be more pun-based.

We’ve got members with starters named Doughleen, Marilyn Mondough, Becky with the Good Bubbles, Sir Lawrence of Doughrabia, Edgar Allen Dough, Vincent van Dough, Stinky Bubbles, Bread Pitt, and my personal favorite, Clint Yeastwood.

” She cringes in Carlotta’s direction as she says that last part, fully expecting a dicey comeback.

Let’s face it, I expect one, too.

“Welp”—Carlotta holds up a finger—“if we’re naming things that rise unexpectedly and need constant attention, I’ve got a whole black book full of suggestions that would make your sourdough club clutch their pearls so hard they’d leave marks.”

And, of course, Carlotta does not disappoint.

“ Sebby ,” I growl so loud half the women in the bustling booth turn this way. And in no time the supernatural specter is front and center and at attention WITH A HALF-EATEN LOAF CLUTCHED IN HIS PAWS!

“ Gah ,” I shout as I grab it and shove it in Carlotta’s piehole as fast as I can.

Perfect.

Sebby floats above the scene, examining the jars of starter dough with fascination.

“In my day, bread was just bread. Now it has more names than European royalty. Though I must say, there’s a rather fetching red-furred vixen by the cider stand.

If you’ll excuse me...” He dissolves into a shower of stars, off to pursue his supernatural love interest.

Oh my word. Much like Carlotta, Sebby is proving to be useless and perhaps more trouble than he’s worth.

“I’ve named my sourdough starter, too,” I chime in. “Mine is called Little Dough Peep. I keep it right next to my coffee maker.”

Carlotta snorts. “Is that what that goop is? I thought it was the result of Sexy trying to cook something without adult supervision. It looked like it was plotting revenge.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. When has Everett ever touched an oven?” Good grief, did I really say that out loud? “So Glinda”—I manage to redirect my attention back on the poor woman—“I just love your name. It’s so unique.”

“ Eh .” Carlotta shrugs. “It’s ripped right out of Oz.”

Glinda laughs. “That’s exactly where I got it. Oh, I just loved The Wizard of Oz when I was a little girl.”

“Me, too,” I tell her. “I was obsessed and watched it on repeat.”

Carlotta grunts, “Sounds like I showed up right on time.”

I take a moment to frown at the woman. Carlotta didn’t show up in my life until a few years ago.

I shake my head at the woman before us. “Glinda, how do you know Eliza again? Are you in the same social circles?”

“We play bridge together once a week,” she’s quick to remind me.

“Oh, that’s right. She did mention that the other night.” I wince. “I swear, these babies have gobbled up every last one of my brain cells.”

Glinda and Carlotta share a boisterous laugh, but I don’t really see anything funny about it.

Glinda’s perfectly manicured fingers tap against the counter. “Oh, well, as far as Eliza goes, we also worked together through a few community service projects. You know how it is in small towns—everyone ends up volunteering together eventually.”

Carlotta hitches her head to the side. “Fallbrook may be the town where everyone volunteers together, but in Honey Hollow, we homicide together. Ain’t that right, Lot?” She slaps me hard over the back. “You might even say Lot Lot here is the leader of the homicidal pack.”

Glinda’s eyes widen once again. “Lottie, weren’t you the one who found Sebastian?” She shakes her head. “I mean, obviously it was Eliza who found him first, but then you showed up on the scene.”

I nod. “That’s exactly what happened.” There’s no point denying it. “And speaking of Sebastian Gallagher? Did you know him, too?” I keep my voice casual, as if I were asking about the weather.

The briefest shadow passes over Glinda’s face. “Not well. Our paths crossed occasionally at charity events. The whiskey business and all that. He was always donating bottles for auctions. He seems quite generous. Those bottles don’t run cheap.”

“Ah, whiskey.” Carlotta perks up. “Now we’re talking my love language.”

“Oh?” Glinda turns to Carlotta. “Do you have an interest in distillation?”

“Just in the consumption,” Carlotta assures her. “But I’ve been known to mix a mean cocktail. My Bloody Mary once made a man propose on the spot.”

I lean her way. “Is that the man you shot?” I’ve heard stories.

Carlotta gives a knowing nod my way and I quickly drop it.

“Distillation is a fascinating process,” Glinda continues, and there’s something almost wistful in her voice.

“I mean, the chemistry of it is what draws me in—converting sugars to alcohol, controlling the environment. One wrong calculation and the whole batch is ruined. Or worse.” She shoots a cold glance at the sky.

“Worse?” I prompt. “Don’t tell me that whiskey has something in common with sourdough starter—one wrong move and the entire thing can blow up on you.”

“Something like that.” She laughs. “Bad booze gives you bad hangovers. You learn to appreciate quality when you’ve had time to—well, reflect on the alternatives.

“Speaking of quality”—Glinda pivots, reaching for a cloth-covered basket—“I’ve got a fresh batch coming out of the portable ovens.

Would you like to try some? With proper Irish butter, of course. ”

The loaf she unveils sends a waft of yeasty perfume into the air that makes my mouth water instantly.

My cravings kick into overdrive as she slices the still-steaming bread, revealing a perfect crumb structure with bubbles the size of quarters——which reminds me, I haven’t had a fried pickle in a hot minute. I’ll have to rectify that, and soon.

“The fermentation process does produce trace amounts of alcohol, but it’s baked off during cooking,” Glinda says. “Go on, Lottie, it’s perfectly safe.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” I say.

She hands me a piece that’s still warm enough to melt the butter into glistening pools. I take a bite and nearly groan out loud. The contrast between the crusty exterior and the tangy, chewy interior is nothing short of miraculous.

The bread is warm, the butter is delicious, and suddenly it’s painfully obvious a single slice—heck, a single loaf —just won’t be enough.

“This”—I declare between bites—“might be worth going to prison for.”

Glinda belts out a laugh, pausing mid-slice while her knuckles whiten around the handle of a knife just for a heartbeat. “Well, that’s quite the endorsement. Although I can assure you, no laws were broken in the making of this bread.”

“Glinda”—I lean in and snatch up another warm slice while I’m there—“did you see anything the other night that you thought was suspicious?”

She gives a cool glance around and leans my way. “I did. I saw three things that made me think twice after the fact. I saw an older blonde woman having it out with him. And she looked plenty mad.”

“Was that Venus’ mother, Keegan?”

“Keegan, yes.” She snaps her fingers my way. “I was briefly introduced by her son-in-law. I guess he was heading things up.”

I rack my brain trying to think if I saw Keegan getting testy with the deceased but come up empty.

Glinda gives both Carlotta and me another slice of oven-hot sourdough. “Then I saw Eliza having words with the man. Whatever he must have done or said to her really set her off. Eliza is one of the most even-keeled women I know.”

“Same,” I say through a mouthful of warm, buttery sourdough that makes my life feel complete.

“And let’s see”—Glinda squints at the sky—“oh yes, there was a redhead, real pretty thing that looked as if she wanted to throttle him. She’s a popular realtor out here.”

“Della Crane,” I say. Did I know she was a realtor?

Oh goodness, I really should start taking notes.

That or deliver these babies. It would be nice to have a brain once again, but then again, I suspect I won’t be sleeping much for the next eighteen years anyway.

“I saw that as well. Anything else that you found suspicious?”

Her lips purse as she glances around once again. “I’ll be honest, the man was as handsome as the day is long. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn he was in a love triangle of some sort with those women. You know the type, far too handsome for his britches so he plays the field.”

“Don’t they all.” Carlotta shakes her head as she helps herself to another slice.

She glances to our left just as an older man with a thicket of crimson locks stops to admire the sourdough display.

“Well, howdy-do.” Carlotta doesn’t waste any time before she begins flirting.

“So, is your hair that color all over, or just where the public can see?”

I’m about to intervene before Carlotta gets us kicked out of the booth when something across the crowded fairway catches my eye.

I gasp at the sight and grab ahold of my belly.

The twins had better hold on. We’re in for a bumpy ride.