Page 9 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)

EVERETT

T he morning light filters through the kitchen windows, casting a honey-colored glow across the limestone floors.

Coffee percolates in the background, filling the air with its rich aroma—a scent that would normally comfort me but fails to penetrate the fog of my sleepless night.

I still can’t fathom what happened yesterday.

My mother trying to help a dying man?

I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t believe it even if I saw it with my own two eyes and yet that’s exactly what she demands I believe.

That’s her story, and she sure as heck seems to be sticking to it. For now, at least.

But if there’s even a hint of a lie in there somewhere, her story will tumble like a house of cards.

I’ve done enough time on the bench to know that a lie snowballs into other lies, and soon enough that avalanche of deception eventually takes down the one looking to deceive.

And how I hope that is not the case with my mother.

There’s just no way I believe she stumbled upon that nightmare and the first thing that came to mind was plucking that knife out.

It’s not that my mother is a bad person. She’s more of a believer in letting the help aid in the needs of others, and herself. Not to mention her lifelong phobia of the sanguine liquid that runs through our veins.

There’s no way I’m mentioning any of that to Noah or Lemon. It’s bad enough my mother has managed to land at the top of a suspect list. The last thing I need is to give them a reason to keep her there.

“Daddy!” Lyla Nell giggles as she runs my way and I quickly scoop her into my arms and kiss her cheek. She gets her sweet demeanor and natural curiosity from Lemon, but those green eyes and dimples are all Noah. It’s her ability to argue her way out of a paper bag that she gets from me.

“Morning, baby.” I sneak in another kiss to her cheek and she giggles twice as loud. “Did you sleep well?”

“ I hates sleep ,” she declares like the truth it is. In fact, I’d go as far as saying Lyla Nell is allergic to getting some shut-eye.

A white furry tornado times two darts past us and Lyla Nell kicks and squeals, unable to focus on anything but it.

“ Cancake! Wockles! ” she shouts as I set her to the floor. “Get back here!” She takes off, echoing their names through the house as she chases Pancake and Waffles , a couple of Himalayan brothers—two white balls of fluff whose fur rises in the air like confetti.

Lemon makes her way into the kitchen, her sweet belly leading the way.

She looks exhausted but beautiful with her honey-blonde hair twisted into a messy bun.

She’s dressed for success in a blue denim dress and a cozy pink sweater that looks soft to the touch, and I quickly confirm it is as I pull her in for a kiss.

“The coffee is ready,” I tell her, sliding a mug of decaf her way, but she wraps her arms around me instead and we share another quick kiss. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a woman housing two future basketball players practicing layups on her bladder.” She gives a wry smile. “How about you?”

“I didn’t,” I admit, touching my forehead to hers. “It’s pretty hard to catch a wink when your mother becomes suspect number one in a murder investigation.”

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

She tips her head and a sunbeam crosses her features, lighting her up like the angel she is.

“How did the conversation go with Meghan?” she winces as she asks.

I called my sister once I got home last night and told her exactly what happened. That went about as well as I imagined—which is to say, catastrophically.

“She immediately threatened to hire ten different attorneys. I assured her I’d handle everything on the legal end of things.

Suffice it to say, she’s worried sick.” I close my eyes for a minute.

“And I had no inclination to tell Evie, but she sent a whole slew of text messages around midnight. Apparently, one of her friends was at the event and saw the whole scene play out.”

“Oh my goodness.” Lemon buries her face in my chest for a moment. “Poor Evie does not need this kind of worry while she’s away at school.”

“She said she’ll be driving home as soon as her midterms are through. And I’m pretty sure there’s no stopping her from worrying.”

Thankfully, she’s at Ashford University, which allows for easy travel whenever the mood strikes her. I just wish it was striking under different circumstances.

And then there are the twins, twelve-year-old Ava and Olivia, that I brought into this world from a one-night stand.

In fact, I had no clue about them up until a couple of months ago.

Ironically, they knew my mother before they knew me.

I’ll have to talk to their mother Haley and do my best to explain the circumstances.

We’ll both want to shield the girls from all of this.

They adore their grandmother, who affectionately they call Mimi Lizzy.

Heck, we were all at dinner together just last week and they couldn’t idolize her more if they tried.

I nod. “And I feel the need to give Haley a call, too—just in case the girls hear something at school.”

“What a disaster.” Lemon bites down on her lip. “Of course, she didn’t do it.” It comes out more of a question. “I mean, your mother is many things—demanding, she’s a perfectionist, occasionally ruthless in social settings—but she’s not a killer. The thought is absurd.”

A visual of my mother’s crimson-stained hands comes back to me. My mother wouldn’t so much as soil her pinky, let alone bathe her hands in it for that matter. It could have been me there lying with a knife in my chest and she’d command me to pluck it out myself.

Lemon gives my ribs a quick pinch. “Penny for your thoughts, Judge Baxter?”

My lips curve but no smile. “Not sure they’re worth that much today.”

That, and the fact someone could be legally prosecuted because of them.

The sound of shuffling footsteps grows in volume as Carlotta saunters into the kitchen in a pink robe that’s seen better decades, her hair wrapped in aluminum foil.

“Morning, offspring of a felon,” she chirps with glee. “Sleep well, Sexy?”

“ Carlotta .” Lemon gasps.

“What? We’re all thinking it.” Carlotta heads straight for the coffee pot. “Besides, it’s not the first time Lady Kills-a-Lot has gotten blood on her hands. Remember that charity auction where she demolished Francine Dundee’s bid for that fancy-schmancy timeshare in Aspen?”

“That was metaphorical bloodshed,” Lemon corrects.

“Tell that to Francine’s therapy bills. And you and I both know that Francine has one too many baby chicks to afford chicken feed, let alone a fancy plumber to unclog her brain.

” Carlotta pauses long enough to slurp her coffee.

“So, what’s the defense strategy to keep your mama out of the pen?

Temporary coo-coo brain? Did he insult her red-bottom heels? Was he allergic to being alive?”

I frown her way. “There won’t be a defense strategy because my mother didn’t kill anyone.”

If I say it long enough, I might fully believe it.

Carlotta waves me off. “Whatever stops the tears, Sexy.” She moves on to the donuts sitting under a glass dome, and Lemon and I may as well be invisible from this point on. Nothing gets between Carlotta and her donuts.

Lemon checks her watch and frowns. “The housekeeper is late. I guess my scones will have to wait. I may not be able to do much at the bakery these days, but nobody makes those scones but me.” She winks as she says it.

“I’ll wait for the housekeeper,” I tell her. “You go ahead.”

“Everett, are you sure?” Lemon asks as Lyla Nell runs into the room dragging her diaper bag.

“Me want Glam Glam,” she cries as she holds her arms up our way.

Glam Glam would be Miranda’s nickname in lieu of Grandma.

“I’d better go.” Lemon lands a kiss to my lips just as one of the twins gives me a wallop, and I reward them with a belly pat.

“Don’t stay long,” I urge her. “Bed rest isn’t all that bad. Believe me, if my doctor recommended bed rest, I’d be whistling all the way to the bedroom. Think of all the relaxation you could get in. All the TV, books, and phone time you could stand. And the naps alone speak for themselves.”

“You’re tempting me.” She laughs as she picks up Lyla Nell’s hand. “But only a little. Are you sure you want to stick around?”

“I’ve got time before my first case.”

We exchange another lingering kiss as I help them to the van and wave them off.

“Try not to let the Silver Spoon Stabber skip town,” Carlotta calls over her shoulder as she jumps into her own minivan and takes off in haste right after them as if she had a bank to rob.

And after the legal pickle my mother has found herself in, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything.

No sooner do I step back through the door than my phone buzzes with a text from the housekeeper. She can’t make it today. Family emergency.

I text back a quick response wishing her well, then survey the kitchen. Coffee grounds spilled across the counter. Cat hair clumped like tumbleweeds roll across the floor.

Lemon has been working so hard at the bakery while managing Lyla Nell and her pregnancy.

She deserves to come home to a sparkling clean house.

That’s exactly why I insisted on hiring a housekeeper to begin with.

She only makes a weekly pitstop here, but it always brings a smile to Lemon’s face. And I’d do anything to see her smile.

Heck, I bet I have plenty of time to whip this place into shape before my first case. How hard could a little cleaning be? I’ll start with the floors.

Limestone floors—are we supposed to mop those with water?

I head to the cleaning closet and scan the array of bottles.

My eyes land on a spray can of Woodland Whisper furniture polish.

This should do. The label mentions natural shine and protective coating , both of which sound appropriate for stone.

I start at the entry and make my way to the kitchen, spraying the stuff liberally across every inch of the floor, watching with satisfaction as the limestone takes on a glossy sheen.

Time to wipe it down.

I grab a mop and make one broad stroke. Before I know it, my feet fly out from under me.

The world tilts sideways.

Pain explodes across my back as I land hard on my spine with a teeth-rattling thud.

My cell phone jumps out of my pocket and skitters across the room like a frightened mouse, coming to rest well underneath the refrigerator.

I try to move and all I can do is groan.

Pain sears through my spine like a white-hot knife.

I can’t move.

Things just got worse.