Page 29 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)
LOTTIE
O ’Reilly’s Pub and Diner looks like St. Patrick himself bought out a party supply store and went completely feral.
Green streamers drip from the ceiling like vines in a jungle, shamrock cutouts are plastered over every inch of the walls, and every single person in here—without exception—is drowning in emerald and looks as if they lost a fight with a leprechaun.
Think tall green hats, lots of fake orange bears, and a sea of emerald in every single hue.
The dark oak furniture gleams under the dim lighting, giving the whole place a warm, ancient feel despite the aggressive holiday decor. The music is loud, decidedly Irish, and the thicket of people are chattering and laughing so loud it mimics the sound of brewing thunder.
The scent of corned beef brisket hangs thick in the air like a carnivorous fog, mingling with the yeasty tang of beer and the unmistakable aroma of deep-fried everything.
And judging by the enthusiastic Irish jig the twins are performing over my bladder, they most certainly approve.
Boy, they’re going to miss my bladder one day.
“I think I just gained five pounds walking through the door,” I mutter to Carlotta as we step inside.
“That’s why I never bother looking at the scale,” she shoots back with her eyes already scanning the bar patrons like a predator assessing the herd.
“I find it’s best to live in blissful, caloric ignorance, Lot.
And that’s one of the reasons I don’t feel bad about hanging out at the bakery and eating all the dessert I want. ”
“So, I’ve noticed.”
A spray of pink and blue stars appears and soon that cute little furball with the big funny ears and fluffy little tail materializes.
“Is this the bar?” He startles as he takes a good gander at the place. “And look at all of the beautiful human women with bright orange beards! I haven’t seen a good beard on a woman since Sebastian’s mother.”
My mouth falls open at the inadvertent slight, although I suppose he’s just telling the truth.
Carlotta shrugs. “Once a year I ditch the electric shaver and let what the Good Lord gave me run wild,” she says, scratching at her imaginary beard.
However, once a year during No-Shave November that beard isn’t so imaginary.
Carlotta really does let loose and let her facial locks fall where they may.
That’s one of the worst parts about the two of us looking so much alike.
Come November everyone knows exactly what I’d look like with a beard. Spoiler alert: It’s not a good look.
“Remember,” I say to Carlotta. “We’re going to slowly dig into this with her.”
It takes approximately three seconds to spot our target.
Della Crane sits perched on a barstool toward the middle of the counter, her vibrant red hair standing out even in this sea of fake orange beards and leprechaun hats.
She’s wearing a tight green T-shirt that reads Kiss Me, I Might Be Irish , and despite the fact that Irish heritage might be wishful thinking, she certainly has a taker.
“There she is.” I nod in Della’s direction. “And she’s not alone.”
A man in a shamrock-patterned tie leans toward her, and by the looks of it he’s far too close for casual conversation. From Della’s rigid posture and forced smile, I’d say his pseudo-Irish charm is failing spectacularly.
“Watch and learn, Lot Lot,” Carlotta whispers it like the threat it is. “This is going to be Irish poetry in motion.”
Before I properly threaten her right back within an inch of her bearded life, Carlotta saunters over to the bar and deliberately bumps into Shamrock Tie Guy, causing him to spill his green beer down the front of his white dress shirt.
“Oh, for shamrock’s sake,” Carlotta shouts with an Oscar-worthy performance.
“Are you always this clumsy? Let me help you with that.” She proceeds to dab at his shirt with a napkin, managing to make the stain both larger and somehow swing around to both of his armpits. Now that’s not a good look either.
“I’ve got it,” the man says, backing away as if Carlotta might be contagious. He wouldn’t be entirely wrong in that respect either. He takes a better look at his newly minted green armpits and wheezes. “ Geez .” He looks from Carlotta to Della. “It’s fine. I just remembered I have somewhere to be.”
And with that, the seat on Della’s left frees up and Carlotta plops down in it.
I land in the seat to her right, effectively boxing her in, and my swollen feet are thankful for small mercies, regardless of the fact that those mercies come in the form of a hard barstool.
Now to get some food in me. I open my purse and take a bite out of one of the crullers I packed.
Have donuts, will travel seems to be my motto these days.
Della doesn’t even attempt to hide her relief as the man makes his hasty exit.
“Thanks,” she says to Carlotta. “He was about thirty seconds away from showing me pictures of his pet iguana. Again .”
“Iguana pictures are third-date material at the earliest,” Carlotta is quick to inform. “I once dated a man with a pet python. The jokes just write themselves with that one.”
Thankfully, she chooses to stop there.
“Do tell a few,” Sebby says, bouncing around on the bar in front of Carlotta with his tail swishing like mad.
But before Carlotta can oblige our ghostly guest, the bartender—a burly man with an obviously fake orange beard and a name tag that reads O’Malley —approaches us with a mile-wide smile.
“Good evening, ladies,” he practically yodels.
“You look like a fun bunch. How about this—I give you the first drink free if you don leprechaun hats and orange beards.” He quickly outfits the three of us with the hat and face fur, and since we’re not ones to look a gift-leprechaun in the mouth, we quickly oblige.
“Oh Lolita,” Sebby marvels as he floats around my head as if he’s never seen a woman with a beard before despite his hair-raising story about Sebastian’s mother.
Come to think of it, he’s probably never seen a pregnant woman with a beard before either.
Although oddly enough, this orange furry nightmare once happened when I was knocked up with Lyla Nell, too.
“ Lolita ,” Sebby sighs as he looks at me moony-eyed.
“Be still my non-beating heart. I’ve never seen a human so beautiful.
That beard really does take your natural beauty to new heights. ”
I make a face at him. It’s nice to know if this bakery gig doesn’t work out, I can always join the circus.
The bartender nods our way once more. “What can I get for you girls?”
Carlotta raises her hand first. “I’ll have whatever has the highest alcohol content and the lowest shame factor.”
I avert my eyes because I know for a fact Carlotta doesn’t care about shame. If anything, she’s flirting shamelessly with the bartender at hand.
“One Leprechaun’s Curse, coming up.” O’Malley nods, apparently understanding this vague request.
“Guinness,” Della says quickly.
He turns to me and his eyes linger for a moment on my pregnant belly. “And for you?” He cringes slightly as he says it.
“Something green, festive, and completely non-alcoholic,” I reply. “I’m the designated everything these days.”
“Shamrock Shake with extra whipped cream it is.” He decides, already drifting away to prepare our drinks.
“Well, look at you.” Della smiles with delight as she inspects my swollen midsection. “You really bring new meaning to the words belly up to the bar . And you hardly fit,” she says with a laugh. “When are you due?”
“Right about now,” I tell her, and the woman’s eyes round out. “But it feels as if I should have delivered last month. At this point, I think my body has forgotten what to do and when.”
She gives a mournful laugh. “Well, I can tell by the way you’re carrying that it’s a girl.” She grimaces slightly. “A very big girl.”
“You might be right,” I tell her. “The odds are fifty-fifty times two. I’m having twins.”
“Twins?” She laughs as she inspects me once again. “Your husband sounds like a real overachiever.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I laugh along with her because it happens to be something Noah pointed out when we announced the double trouble news.
Della seems to suddenly realize she’s flanked on both sides. Her easy smile fades slightly as she looks between us. “Hey? Do I know you two?”
“Not formally,” I answer, extending my hand. “I’m Lottie Lemon. I own the Cutie Pie Bakery in Honey Hollow. And this is Carlotta.”
“Just Carlotta,” Carlotta clarifies. “Like Madonna. Or Sasquatch.”
“Or Godzilla,” I add the more accurate comparison.
Della shakes my hand tentatively. “Della Crane. I’m a realtor with Red Crown Realty.
Here to meet all of your real estate needs,” she says just as the bartender slides a green Guinness her way and she mock-toasts Carlotta and me before sucking the foam off the top.
“Now how did we not formally meet again?”
“At the auburn affair last week at the community center the night Sebastian Gallagher was murdered,” I offer and the color drains from her face faster than beer from a punctured keg.
She glances toward the exit as if calculating the nearest escape route, but Carlotta shifts subtly to block any potential flight.
“That’s right, Agent Orange,” Carlotta grouses. “We’ve got you pegged. We know what you did and when. And more importantly to who! Now spill the killer deets or we’re calling the cops.”
So much for slowly digging into it.
More like digging our own grave—one right next to Sebastian Gallagher.