Page 24 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)

LOTTIE

B efore anyone can trade another barb, a sudden surge of festival-goers pushes through the sourdough tent, nearly knocking over a display of artisanal bread baskets.

“Oh goodness,” Glinda exclaims, rushing to save the precious loaves of sourdough from being trampled.

“You’ll have to excuse me. The one o’clock rush is always chaotic.

People want something to soak up all that green beer.

” She throws us an apologetic smile. “Lovely seeing you all. Eliza, don’t forget to take a few fresh loaves for the rest of the judges! ”

Glinda takes off to appease the bread-seeking crowd while Eliza turns to us with all the enthusiasm of someone sitting down for a root canal.

She takes a moment to frown my way. “I should be going as well. I’m helping with the whiskey cake-eating competition at the main pavilion,” she says, checking her elegant silver watch that most likely cost as much as this entire shamrock-shaped shindig did to put on.

“The Boozy Bite Bonanza starts in fifteen minutes, and I’m needed at the judges’ table. ”

“A whiskey cake-eating competition?” Noah perks up at the mention of the sweet yet boozy treat. “What a coincidence. Everett and I were just about to sign up for that.”

Everett nods to his mother. “I suspect it might take my mind off the back pain.”

Carlotta chuckles at the thought. “Because nothing says spinal recovery like a little competitive eating. Nice try, Sexy.” She straightens with a jolt.

“Wait just a whiskey pickin’ minute…Whiskey?

Cake? Competition? Why, those are my three favorite words in the English language!

I’m in.” She nudges me. “What better way to fatten up those twins than with booze-infused baked goods?”

“ Ooh ,” Sebby muses. “Multitasking at its finest. I’ll be on your team, Carlotta, since Lolita seems to have two extra helpers on hers.”

“Let’s show these leprechaun lovers how it’s done,” she tells him. “I’ve been a gold digger since before it was trendy.”

“I can vouch for that,” I say.

Eliza’s lips purse like she’s just bitten into a lemon. And since she’s looking right at me, I’m feeling like the Lemon in question.

“As a baker, Lottie, you should know that the alcohol bakes out of the batter,” she informs me while lifting her chin. “It’s perfectly safe. Care to show these three who’s boss? The cakes were provided by a competitor of yours out in Hollyhock.”

“Cupid’s Sweet Concoctions?” I ask and she affirms the fact with a nod. “Then I’m in, too.”

Venus Finnegan’s mother might be on the suspect list, but that won’t stop me from gobbling up all of the desserts I can get my hands on that her daughter bakes.

Not to mention she charges over twenty bucks a slice for just about any cake in her shop.

In that respect, this competition is a prudent financial decision.

Eliza’s cool smile widens a notch. “My money is on you, Lottie.”

The compliment, while completely unexpected and perhaps slightly backhanded, catches me off guard.

“Why, Eliza”—I say with a laugh—“if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get on my good side.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. “Consider it a peace offering. Now, shall we?”

Less than five minutes later, Eliza ushers us into the Shamrock Sweets Pavilion, a massive green-and-white striped tent with a wooden sign proclaiming the 13th Annual Boozy Bite Bonanza hanging over the entrance.

Inside, the air is thick with the heady scent of whiskey, cinnamon, and the nerves of competitors preparing to test their stomach capacity.

Long tables line the center of the tent, covered in green tablecloths and set with stacks of plates.

A banner stretches across the back wall showing a cartoon leprechaun with disturbingly elastic cheeks stuffed with cake.

Banjo music competes with the excited chatter of spectators who seem to have gathered for what is apparently one of the festival’s main attractions.

“Wow. This is quite the production,” I say as we’re led to our assigned spots at the competitor’s table.

“Honey Hollow might have the market cornered on murder, but Fallbrook knows how to throw a proper all-the-booze-you-can-eat contest,” Carlotta says, eyeing our competition.

“Don’t worry, Lot. They all look like a bunch of namby-pamby crybabies who can’t hold their liquor. We’ve got this in the bag.”

I pet my belly and nod. “The babies and I are starved. These people don’t stand a chance.”

We’re all quickly seated and I catch both Noah and Everett rolling up their sleeves as they land on either side of me. Carlotta and Sebby end up across from me and I can’t help but notice the troubling way Carlotta is opening her mouth and twisting her jaw.

“Carlotta, knock that off,” I snip her way. “Someone is going to think you’re having a medical episode and call this whole thing off.”

“Quit your witchin’, Lot,” she snips back. “I’m just stretching my jaw in a few warm-up exercises I learned from some of the girls down at Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club.”

“What would the girls down at Red Satin need to stretch their jaws for?” I ask. “They’re strippers?”

“It’s called a side gig, Lot,” she shoots back. “Not everyone lives in your happy little murderous bubble.”

My eyes widen in an instant. “Never mind. Please don’t extrapolate.”

Sebby lands on the table next to Carlotta and his ghostly tail swishes with excitement. “I’ve got a hot tip for you ladies. The secret is to compact the cake with your tongue against the roof of your mouth before swallowing—saves valuable chewing time!”

He no sooner says it than I’m left to wonder if I’ve ever chewed cake in my life. I’m more of an inhaler myself.

“Welcome, contestants!” A booming voice draws my attention to the front of the tent, where a man dressed as a leprechaun—complete with a fake orange beard and an alarmingly tall green hat—stands on a small platform. “I’m your host, Lucky Larry, and this is the thirteenth annual Boozy Bite Bonanza!”

The crowd erupts in cheers. Apparently, competitive cake-eating is the height of entertainment in Fallbrook. With the state of the world, I really can’t blame them.

“The rules are simple,” Lucky Larry continues.

“You have exactly five minutes to consume as much of our famous whiskey cake as possible. No hands allowed—face-first eating only! The contestant who consumes the most cake will be declared the champion and win our grand prize—a year’s supply of O’Malley’s Premium Irish Whiskey and the coveted Golden Fork Trophy! ”

Carlotta practically vibrates with excitement. “A year’s supply of whiskey?” she shouts with glee and the crowd cheers twice as hard. “Well, butter my sourdough biscuits and call me lucky! My liver has been in training for this since 1975!”

The servers begin placing enormous platters of cake frosted in whipped cream in front of each contestant. The whiskey scent is strong enough to make my eyes water—or maybe that’s just hormones again. Either way, I’m suddenly questioning exactly how much alcohol evaporates in the baking process.

All of it as far as I’m concerned at the moment. Nothing is going to keep me from shoving my face in the first cake that lands in front of me.

“Remember, doll,” Sebby whispers to Carlotta. “It’s not about chewing—it’s about swallowing whole chunks at a time. Pretend you’re a snake unhinging your jaw to consume a mouse!”

I lift a brow Carlotta’s way because we both know she’s not far from it.

Lucky Larry raises a green flag. “Competitors ready? On your marks... get set... WHISKEY!”

The tent erupts in cheers as twenty faces simultaneously plunge into a lusciously delicious whiskey cake.

Lucky for me, the whiskey is faint, the whipped cream is indulgent, and the vanilla cake is moist as can be.

I try to follow Sebby’s disturbing yet effective advice, but I end up gobbling down in large gulps just the way I like it.

“Carlotta, what are you doing?” Sebby shouts as she moans through every bite.

“You’re doing it all wrong! There’s no savoring in food-eating competitions.

This isn’t a wine tasting.” He tosses up his front paws.

“Fine. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” He face-plants into the cake, and within seconds the sweet treat dissolves before my eyes.

One of the twins gives a swift kick, then the other, and I get the hint. It’s time to kick this into high whiskey cake-eating gear.

And I do just that.

One cake after the other.

“TEN SECONDS REMAINING!” Lucky Larry shouts.

With a final heroic effort, I manage to shove in one more mouthful just as the timer goes off.

“STOP! FORKS DOWN!” Lucky Larry shouts, despite the fact no forks were harmed in the gulping down of these liquor-based concoctions.

I sit back, breathing heavily with a mouth coated in whiskey. Carlotta looks blissfully tipsy despite the alcohol being baked out. I’ll be the last to explain science to her.

Noah appears slightly green around the gills. And Everett, somehow, has managed to keep his dignity intact, with hardly a crumb on his shirt or a hint of whipped cream in his five o’clock shadow.

The judges move down the line, hemming and hawing, and tabulating.

I’m so full that a part of me wants to say I’ll never eat cake again, but I think the twins and I know that’s not true.

Finally, Lucky Larry approaches the microphone, holding a golden trophy in the shape of a fork that looks tackier than most of Carlotta’s holiday outfits—and that’s saying a lot since most of those are mine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! By a margin of just two whole whiskey cakes, our champion is... LOTTIE LEMON!”

“What?” I sit up a notch with a start.

“Oh, knock it off, Lot Lot,” Carlotta snarls.

“Don’t act so surprised. Anyone with a free-loading pair of tenants taking up residence in their midsection has an unfair advantage.

You weren’t eating for one—you were eating for a small Irish village.

If they gave medals for competitive breeding while competitive eating, you’d win that, too. ”

Noah glances over at Everett. “And I guess we’d get an honorable mention.”

The crowd erupts on my behalf, and I’m ushered to the front to receive my trophy and a certificate for a year’s supply of whiskey that I happily claim despite the fact I’m nine months pregnant.

Sure, there are gasps and even a few boos, but little do the naysayers know that I’ll be taking those bottles straight to my bakery.

“Congratulations,” Eliza says with genuine surprise as she hands me the golden fork. “I had no idea you had such— capacity .”

Everett wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I’d like to think I helped in a roundabout way.”

A laugh bubbles from me. “Well, the twins were hungry,” I say, patting my belly. I turn back to the unfortunate suspect at hand. “Eliza, do you have a minute to grab a bite?”

“Are you still hungry?” She rakes her eyes up and down my body as if I’m about to commit a crime.

“No, but I’m thirsty,” I tell her and Noah shoots me a look that says nice save . Okay, so it was a total cover-up. I can totally go for some corned beef brisket right about now. “Besides, Everett and I would love to spend a little time with you.”

“I’d love to, dear, but I promised the festival committee I’d finish cleaning up. There’s an Irish dance competition in this venue next. In fact, it starts in five minutes.”

Before I can protest, she slips into the crowd, leaving me standing with a golden fork, cake all over my face, and the distinct feeling that Eliza Baxter is much better at evasive maneuvers than anyone gives her credit for.

And it makes me wonder if she’s just as good at evading a homicide.

But one way or another, I’m getting answers from Eliza Baxter—even if I have to eat my way through every contest in this festival to corner her.