Page 31 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)
LOTTIE
I gasp so loud that it threatens to dislodge this fake orange beard on my face.
O’Reilly’s Pub and Diner is buzzing with loud Irish rock music and a sea of emerald and orange locks, both real and fake alike. The lights are dim, the scent of corned beef hash is thick, and the laughter and manic chatter can be heard all the way to Ireland, I’m sure of it.
“Noah?” I blink in surprise.
Not just Noah, but Everett, too, both decked out in matching green top hats and orange beards that rival both mine and Carlotta’s in their synthetic garishness.
In this light, with the neon shamrock signs bathing everyone in an eerie emerald glow, we could pass for an oddball barbershop quartet—if barbershop quartets specialized in facial hair and questionable green top hats.
“Why do I feel as if I have two proficient stalkers?” I ask with a laugh while the twins execute what feels like a backflip in response to the fact my heart nearly stopped.
“We sent you about fifteen texts combined,” Everett says, leaning in and pressing a kiss on my lips. “We were worried,” he grunts. His back is clearly still giving him trouble, though he’d rather eat his ridiculous beard than admit it.
“Fifteen texts?” I quickly fish out my phone and groan. “It’s dead,” I say, wagging the offending device their way to reveal a black screen. “Apparently, pregnancy brain extends to forgetting to charge essential communication devices. My apologies.”
“No problem,” Noah says, signaling a waitress. “Table for four?”
“Sounds like we’re staying, Lot.” Carlotta rubs her belly. “All that Leprechaun’s Curse has my appetite dancing an Irish jig.”
“My appetite is always dancing an Irish jig,” I’m quick to say.
Sebby chortles out a ghostly laugh. “That’s because you’ve got two Irish lads or lassies swimming away inside you.”
He’s not wrong.
Everett helps me off the stool. “The waitress promised a free basket of soda bread if we keep these on,” he says, adjusting his beard with what appears to be a modicum of dignity.
How he manages to look distinguished even with fake orange hair hanging from his face, I will never know. At least ten different women—bearded women—crane their necks as they struggle to get a better look at both Everett and Noah. And oddly enough, almost all of them are frowning at me.
Regardless, the luck of the Irish is definitely in my favor.
“Plus”—Noah adds—“they supposedly have the world’s best shepherd’s pie. We figured you might be hungry.” He pats his belly, alerting us to the fact he definitely is.
My stomach growls in agreement, betraying me completely. “Fine, but only because these babies are demanding sustenance.” I pat my belly. “Their appetite for justice is only matched by their appetite for carbohydrates.”
“Much like their daddy,” Noah quips while patting Everett on the back and Everett’s face turns purple from the shock of pain I’m assuming.
“One of us is lousy at bed rest, and it’s not me,” I tease. “I completed my three-day sentence with a smile on my face—and that smile was only from the fact I knew day four was coming.”
Carlotta belts out a laugh. “Lot’s appetite for justice doesn’t match her appetite for donuts. Nothing comes close to matching that.”
“That’s because some things are sacred,” I say, patting my belly as if assuring the twins that donuts would be on the way eventually. And they will be, even if I have to mine the stash in my purse to provide them.
The waitress—a tall woman with shamrock earrings larger than most satellite dishes—leads us to a booth in the corner.
The sturdy oak table is scarred with decades of initials, spilled drinks, and what might be knife marks from particularly enthusiastic diners—or killers.
The leather seats squeak beneath us as we settle in with Everett and me on one side, and Noah and Carlotta on the other.
And well, Sebby floating somewhere in between.
“I’ll be happy to take your orders now if you like,” the waitress announces with her pencil poised. “And might I say, you four have the most magnificent beards I’ve seen all evening. The family that beards together, stays together.” She laughs and winks as she says it.
Sebby lands in the middle of the table, his ghostly form catching the light from the green candle flickering between salt and pepper shakers. “What a strange human ritual! Sebastian never grew facial hair. Said it itched his delicate skin. Although you know about his mother.”
By the sounds of it, his mother was testing the luck of the Irish—or at least as far as her lucky locks go.
“How about four shepherd’s pies? And three beers?” Noah asks and we all quickly nod in agreement. “Everett’s treat.” He winks at my handsome hubby, only to be met with a frown. Noah nods up at the waitress once again. “And whatever non-alcoholic drink you’d recommend for a very pregnant lady.”
“Green apple cider, non-spiked,” our waitress suggests with a grin my way. “Comes with a free shamrock cookie.”
“Sold,” I agree.
“And don’t forget that soda bread,” Everett suggests. “We’ve been good sports about the facial fashions.”
“Coming right up, handsome.” She takes off for the kitchen with her shamrock earrings swinging like pendulums.
“So”—Noah leans forward, his voice dropping a notch—“learn anything interesting from Della Crane?”
“Don’t worry, Foxy. We got all the dirt,” Carlotta tells him before I can open my mouth. “Sebastian was a gold-digging leech who stole two hundred grand from Red and broke her heart. Just one in his long line of scams. The man collected enemies like Lottie collects little yippers.”
Sebby’s furry little mouth falls open as she looks at Carlotta. “You say gold-digging leech as if it’s a bad thing.”
The waitress returns, impossibly fast, with a basket of soda bread that smells like heaven and a crock of honey butter that I immediately want to dive into and we all do just that.
After we devour half the basket, I nod to Everett and Noah.
“Carlotta’s not exaggerating,” I say, slathering another thick piece of warm bread with butter. “Sebastian apparently had a talent for conning women, marrying them, and then disappearing with their money. He also had a wife named Kay and some kids he abandoned.”
“Kay?” Noah’s brow furrows. “That name sounds familiar.” He straightens a moment. “Wait a minute. I did some research on his brand. The name Kay is on those old Gallagher whiskey bottles. Kay Gallagher was part of the original family business.”
Our shepherd’s pies arrive at a speed that defies the laws of restaurant physics.
Steaming large ramekins filled with perfectly spiced meat, vegetables, and a cloud of mashed potatoes browned to crispy perfection.
The smell alone makes my mouth water, and the twins do backflips from sheer anticipation.
“How about we talk suspects?” Everett suggests between bites of what might be the best comfort food ever created. “Starting with Keegan Meryl.”
I shed a dark smile at my far too sexy husband. The good judge certainly knows exactly how to speak my favorite love language—murder.