Pecan Pie Predicament

by Addison Moore

  My mouth falls open with delight at the perverted proposition just as a whirlwind of women bustle past us. Two women to be exact, and I happen to recognize the taller of the two, the blonde with a wisp of hair covering her left eye.

  It’s Britney Fox, Noah’s ex-wife. She’s vacuumed a pair of black yoga pants to her lower half and paired it with a hot pink shirt that reads Swift Cycle Gyms, where spinning is winning. Britney and I have grown to be friends over the past year I’ve known her, but suffice it to say, when she barreled into town demanding her husband back, things got off to a rocky start for the two of us, and things got even rockier for Noah and me.

  The brunette next to her is about my height, five-five, and has her own requisite ponytail that coils into a perfect curl. She has a few pink streaks in her hair, and it looks so cute I wouldn’t be surprised if every girl in Honey Hollow was walking around with them tomorrow. Her full lips are puckered up in a pout, and if I didn’t know better, she looks ready to rip someone’s head off. She, too, has seemingly painted on a pair of yoga pants, but her hot pink T-shirt has an entirely different clever saying. It reads Fanatical Fitness, if it’s easy—you’re not doing it right!

  Fanatical Fitness is a gym that just opened up next door to Swift Cycle last August. But I haven’t seen any fitness fanatics trampling down their doors, hoping to make life hard on themselves. I get that whole no pain, no gain thing, but I’m not sure I’d want to highlight the “pain” as a part of my business model if I were her.

  “Hannah,” Britney snaps. “It’s bad enough you’ve hijacked our paying customers and hoodwinked them into joining your front lawn lunacy. But now you’re going after our nutritional business, too?”

  “You’ve got a nutritional business?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” Hannah spits the word out while glaring at Britney.

  The brunette next to Britney leans over the counter. “You’ve got a lot of nerve going after us like this. After me like this. You and I both know you were in my gym just three weeks ago sampling my smoothies.” She glances down at the samples sitting on a tray and the labels just below that. “Strawberry Booty Boost? Mango Booty Tango? And Berry Booty Blast?” A choking sound comes from her, and her ponytail bounces like the tail of a piglet. “You stole my flavors and the names I use to market them! The only difference is you stuck the word booty in there. You’re a bootylicious thief!”

  Britney growls at Hannah in a way that spells out danger. I’ve been around Brit enough to know what her growls mean, and if I were Hot Hannah, I’d hightail my booty-ful booty to the hills.

  “How dare you.” Britney slams her hands down over the counter. “You are going to pay for this, Hannah Beckham. You haven’t seen the last of us yet. Expect my attorney to be contacting you soon.” She snaps her head in our direction. “Essex, this is my colleague, Reese Underwood.” She points to the woman with the pink streaks in her hair. “Consider yourself on retainer for the both of us.” Brit grabs her brunette counterpart and they stalk off into the crowd.

  Britney has never been Essexed, but she let me know ages ago she was going to call Everett whatever she liked. She’s strong-willed and stubborn that way, and just a little bit scary. I’m not all that shocked things didn’t work out for her and Noah.

  “How do you like that?” I huff as I look to Everett. “I think Hot Hannah is living up to her name. It sounds as if she not only lifted their customers, she’s lifting their smoothies, too.”

  Everett glances to Maizy, the blonde in question, as she removes her apron and stalks off into the crowd.

  “It looks like she’s getting the message,” he whispers. “Hopefully, when things cool down, those women can figure out a way to make things work for everyone involved. Let’s find that man in the red T-shirt, Lemon. We don’t need this day going from bad to worse.”

  “Agree,” I say as we move into the flow of the crowd. “Ooh, right there!” I point to the Bees Knees Honey Farm booth next door.

  “Do you see the ghost?”

  “No, but I see waffles slathered with honey butter.”

  Everett generously picks up a couple of soft, delicious honey treats for the both of us before we scoot to the Tex-Mex booth next to that and indulge in a couple of cheesy chicken quesadillas, then to the Thai booth where we eat our weight in ramen. Wicked Wok has a booth, and I’m not one to walk away from Kung Pao chicken and a bowl full of Four Seasons beef. Then there’s the vegan place where I’m practically obligated to snatch up a broccoli and rice bowl for the sake of the baby. Everett wanted to try a few Kobe beef sliders at the booth next to that, and I wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea. We end up at Mangias finally and the two of us split a bowl of linguini with Alfredo sauce, and it feels as if we’ve come full circle considering we started the day off with pizza.

  Everett moans. “I think I’m going to have to roll myself home.”

  “You don’t have a home.” I point out with a frown. “And neither do I.” Tears spring to my eyes as I whine out the words. I can’t help it. My emotions have been just as volatile as my appetite.

  “Don’t worry, Lemon.” He pulls me in with his good arm and gives me a slight twirl. “I have a plan. In fact—”

  Something between the Busy Bee Craft Shop and the florist next door to them catches my attention.

  “Everett, quick”—I point to the crack between the two buildings—“look at that.”

  At the end of the narrow pathway toward the alley in the back, a tall man with a fedora has his hands placed firmly over Hot Hannah’s shoulders and he’s giving her a good shake. Definitely not the kind she’s used to.

  Everett’s body tenses as he takes a step in that direction, but the man takes off, and soon Hot Hannah is headed this way again.

  “I guess it’s over,” I say, pressing my hand to my chest as my heart does its best to thump right out of my body. “Come on, Everett. I see a soft pretzel with our names on it.”

  We indulge in soft pretzels dipped in stone ground mustard, and it makes me wonder why I’m not offering up these salted wonders at my own bakery.

  “I should make these,” I tell him. “And I can roll them in cinnamon and sugar, too. Oh! And we can dip them in caramel sauce.” It’s pretty much a done deal at this point.

  “You could, but you’d put Mrs. Pretzel’s Pantry right out of business.”

  I cringe at the thought. “And that would make me no better than Hot Hannah. I’d hate to have a visit by the man in the fedora, so I’ll just keep buying my pretzels across the street like a good neighbor. Speaking of neighbors, we should find Noah. We’ve looked high and low for that man in the red muscle tee—and it looks like he might have just been a man in a muscle tee. I guess he wasn’t a ghost.”

  “Now that would be a relief.”

  “You’re telling me. I’d like nothing more than to end this day on a positive note.”

  His lids hood a notch. “You will.”

  A laugh trembles through me as we navigate our way through the crowd. We finally hit the end of Main Street before backtracking again. We come as far as Swift Cycle before the urge to sit down, get a glass of water, and find a toilet hit me all at once.

  “I can’t go another inch,” I say. “Let’s go in and see if Brit will give me some water. Not to mention the fact the baby is dancing on my bladder.”

  Everett opens the door to the gym without hesitation, and we don’t take but two steps inside before a scream gets locked in my throat.

  Lying on the floor with a bevy of paper cups strewn around her, her hand smashed through a slice of my pecan pie, is Hot Hannah.

  Her body is motionless. Her mouth and eyes are open as she stares vacantly to the ceiling.

  Everett quickly checks her vitals before shaking his head my way.

  Hot Hannah isn’t going to have to worry about being sued by anybody.

  Hannah Beckham is dead.

  Chapter 3

  She’s dead.

  I glance down at the po
or woman sprawled out on the ground and quickly scan the scene around her—the disarray of cups, her blouse looks disrupted, as if she had pulled and tugged at it, and near the front desk there’s a hot pink lock of hair that looks to be a hair extension.

  Why does that look familiar?

  Everett pulls me back outside and puts a call in to Noah, and not ten seconds later, the place is crawling with sheriff’s deputies.

  Noah wraps his arms around me and swings me farther away from the building as he offers up a quick embrace.

  He looks from me to Everett. “Tell me everything you saw.”

  “I had to get a drink,” I say. “I needed to use the restroom, because well, the baby seems to have shrunk my bladder to the size of an acorn. Anyway, we walked in and we found Hot Hannah there on the floor. She was—she was dead.”

  Everett nods. “I checked her vitals, and then we stepped out and I called you.” His lips twitch my way. “The woman had a slice of Lemon’s pecan pie with her. And it looked as if she was clawing for water. Maybe she had a nut allergy?”

  “Could be.” Noah offers me a stern look. “But if you’re seeing a ghost, Lot, I highly doubt this was a natural event. Why don’t the two of you head back to my place? Lot, you’ve got a key.” Noah presses those evergreen eyes of his to mine. “I won’t be home until God knows when, but chances are there’s a killer out here somewhere and I need to know you’re safe.”

  Everett nods his way. “I won’t leave her side.”

  This is usually where I’d inject the fact I don’t need a babysitter, but we’ve gone around the block with this and I know they both genuinely care for my safety and that of the baby’s.

  “Noah”—I lean in—“Everett and I saw a man with a fedora roughing her up just about an hour ago. He was shaking her, and their conversation looked pretty intense.”

  “A man with a fedora?” He quickly pulls a deputy aside and sends him scouring the area for a man who fits the description.

  “And nearby her body”—I add—“inside the gym, there’s a hot pink hair extension.” A thought jolts me. “Oh my goodness, Noah, I just realized where I’ve seen that hair extension. Reese Underwood, Britney’s friend, she has pink highlights in her hair just like that. I bet they’re extensions. My word, Noah, she could be the killer!”

  “Duly noted,” he says.

  The blonde woman with bangs presses through the budding crowd congregating around the Swift Cycle storefront, and I recognize her as the woman who was cheering and selling shakes with Hannah. I think her name was Maizy.

  “What’s happening?” She cranes her neck. “Is that Hannah in there?” Her eyes grow wide a moment as she spots the woman on the floor through the window.

  Before anyone can answer, Britney jostles her way to the front along with Reese Underwood, the woman wearing a matching hot pink T-shirt, the gym owner of Fanatical Fitness.

  “Noah,” Britney snaps as she yanks him by the arm. Noah and Britney may be divorced, but they still share custody of a sweet golden retriever named Toby. “What in hell’s bells is happening in my gym?”

  “I’m sorry, Brit.” Noah glances back to the crime scene. “We don’t know exactly what happened, but she didn’t make it. I’d better get back in there. I’ll keep you posted.” He pulls out his badge and flashes it at the crowd.

  “Ashford County Sheriff’s Department,” he shouts. “I need everyone to take a step back.”

  Reese sheds a dull smile to Britney. “I guess it’s done.”

  It’s done? I shoot a look to both Noah and Everett. If that hot pink follicular failure wasn’t enough to peg Reese as the killer, her cryptic words just might be.

  Reese links arms with Brit. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Buy her a drink?

  Even Everett lifts a brow at that one.

  “Ha!” Maizy staggers over, her face piqued with color. “I bet you’d like to celebrate.” She doesn’t hesitate to point a finger at Britney. “You couldn’t stand Hannah. You said you were going to make her pay for stealing your business. You even put your attorney on alert.” Her finger swings to Everett and the crowd gasps.

  Noah inches back. “Is this true?”

  Nobody dares take a breath so I give a little nod.

  “Geez.” Noah squeezes his eyes shut a moment. “Brit, Reese, stay put.” He nods to Maizy. “You, too. I’ll need to get a statement from each of you.”

  “I’ll be here.” Maizy glares over at Britney. “You won’t get away with this.” She steps away from us and begins tapping at her phone.

  Noah leans toward Britney, but just as he opens his mouth to say something, a familiar redheaded, long-legged, sour-faced homicide detective crops up—Ivy Fairbanks. Ivy is Noah’s counterpart down at the homicide division in Ashford. And I’ve long since suspected she has an eye for the dimpled detective.

  “Well, well”—her thinly drawn-in brows hike in amusement as she looks my way—“Lottie Lemon. Why am I not surprised to see you standing here? And let me guess, the deceased has one of your infamous desserts near their person?”

  Reese nods and her ponytail bounces in turn. “Oh, she does. It turns out, Hannah was eating a slice of pecan pie.”

  “How do you know that?” I blurt without even thinking about the fact there are two homicide detectives present.

  Ivy averts her eyes before nodding to Reese. “Detective Fairbanks.” No smile. “Go on.”

  The woman’s mouth opens and closes as she looks through the window. It’s hard to see too clearly into the foyer of the Swift Cycle Gym. Not only is the pie on the other side of Hannah’s body, but how could she possibly be sure it was a slice of pecan pie? Although, in Reese’s defense, Lily was shouting from the rooftops in an effort to sell those pies. I’m sure half the crowd will be hearing her voice in their sleep.

  “Just a guess.” Reese gives a few quick blinks. “Come on, Brit. The sooner the detectives get to work, the sooner we can get back into your shop.”

  Ivy holds up a finger. “Not so fast. If this morphs into a homicide, you won’t have run of the shop for an undisclosed amount of time.”

  A hard groan evicts from Britney. “Hannah strikes again,” she says the words mostly under her breath, but there’s not a doubt everyone in our small circle heard her.

  Reese quickly navigates her friend to the side, and Ivy cuts me a look before doing a disappearing act herself.

  “Come on.” I lean against Everett’s chest. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Noah takes a breath. “Be sure to tell me if you spot that man in the muscle tee.” He nods before heading into the establishment where poor Hannah lies stone-cold dead.

  “I have a feeling I’ll be running into that mystery man more than I care to think about in the very near future,” I whisper. Typically, when a murder victim dies, someone they held near and dear from the other side comes back to help solve the crime. Usually it’s a pet, but on occasion it’s a person, too. And in Hannah’s case, I think it’s the man in the muscle tee.

  Everett and I turn to leave just as Autumn Frasier nearly runs right through us. Her fiery red hair is windblown, and her cheeks are bright pink.

  “I heard something horrible happened.” She presses a hand to her chest. “Someone said something about murder.”

  “It’s true,” I say. “I don’t know what happened. Actually, they’re not even sure if it’s a homicide. They’re still looking into it.”

  Her fingers cinch over the pendant on her necklace. “How very terrible regardless. I see Maizy over there. I’d better go comfort her.” She shudders. “Someone said it was the Shake Your Booty girl. I guess now I know which one.” She zips off, and Everett and I watch as the two women share a heartfelt embrace.

  “So sad.” I wrap my arms around Everett. “Hannah was our neighbor.”

  Evie pops up as quick as an apparition.

  “Our neighbor?” She gasps as her friend Dash bops up next to her with her b
londe hair sitting on top of her head like a softball. They both just started their junior year at Honey Hollow High, and they happen to be on the cheer team, too.

  Evie is the exact likeness of Everett, same black hair, stunning blue eyes, well-sculpted features, and she’s taller than me by a few inches. Her mother is one of Everett’s many exes, a socialite by the name of Cressida Bentley, who more or less dropped Evie off at a boarding school, armed her with a credit card, and promptly forgot about her. And then once Cressida needed a get out of jail free card for stalking me of all people, she weaponized the fact she had a secret child of Everett’s hiding somewhere against him. Things got messy, but Evie is safe with us now, and now I’m her mother in every capacity.

  “It was Hannah,” I practically whisper her name, and Evie’s mouth contorts into all sorts of surprised shapes.

  “Hot Hannah bit the big one?” She and Dash give each other’s arms a firm squeeze. “Mom, we just signed up for her booty camp classes.”

  Dash nods, and that ball on top of her head bobbles back and forth. “And my mom just bought a year supply of her Shake Your Booty formula.” Her fingers float to her lips as she looks my way. “Are you gonna, like, solve this case?”

  Evie huffs, “Heck yeah, she is. And I’m going to be right there with her when she does it.” She pulls Dash by the hand. “Come on. Let’s go tell Conner and Kyle that I’m, like, totally going to be stalking the murderer.” They share a cackle as they take off.

  “Be at Uncle Noah’s for dinner,” I shout into the crowd, but it’s too late. They’re already gone.

  Everett and I thread our way through the crowd on our way back toward my bakery, and I don’t see a hint of that sneaky specter, if indeed he was one. I’m starting to doubt it myself.

  “Maybe Hannah did have a nut allergy?” I shrug up at Everett as I bypass my booth and head to the Honey Pot Diner’s Thanksgiving Day feast instead.

  “Honestly”—Everett shakes his head—“if you don’t see a ghost, I won’t buy the fact it’s a homicide either.”

  “Homicide?” My sister, Meg, comes around the Honey Pot’s booth and hands us each a plate brimming with Thanksgiving Day meals—complete with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. “So the rumors are true?” Meg shakes her head.