“Nice to meet you. I’m Lottie Lemon,” I say to the women who all seem to be encroaching in on me, and it’s then I recognize both Caterina and Connie Canelli. They both share the same shoulder-length black hair and dark chocolate eyes. Connie has a few years on me, and Caterina—Cat—is Carlotta’s age. Actually, Cat and Carlotta were best friends in high school. I believe Cat’s nickname for Carlotta was Spider, which makes perfect sense.
Connie pats me on the back. “Last we met, I was on the run!” She beams a proud smile, and the women gathered give a congratulatory whoop. “But all’s clear. And my aunt is on the up and up again, too.” She slings her arm around the older Canelli.
Cat leans in my way. “And look at you, Lottie! You’re all knocked up. I knew there was no way that judge was shooting blanks.” She looks over her shoulder. “And in case any of you witches spot that handsome devil, it’s hands off. That’s Lottie’s milkman.”
Milkman?
She nods to the women as if she heard my inner musing. “So no slipping him your number when you think she’s not looking. Any kid of my bestie’s is a kid of mine. Consider her family.”
Family is a dicey word when it comes to the mob.
Carlotta honks out a laugh. “That’s all good and great, Cadillac. But Lot Lot doesn’t know who the daddy is. She’s got a runner-up in that category. Foxy just might be the milkman.”
Milkman in the traditional sense, I’m assuming. Please God.
The women all make an odd yodeling sound as they look at me with wonder. I’m guessing Cadillac is a new nickname for Cat.
Connie nods. “That’s right. Lottie here has got a side-piece. If I remember correctly, he’s a cop.”
A round of oohs circles our small group.
I shrug. “Technically, he’s a homicide detective.”
“So hot!” one of them cries out.
“You go get ’em, Lottie!” another shouts. “Grab ’em by the weapon and show ’em who’s boss.”
Carlotta gives a wistful tick of the head. “Don’t go encouraging her. This girl ain’t afraid of a loaded pistol, if you know what I mean.” She winks at my belly. “And watch your men around her, too. She’s irresistible to the opposite sex. I’m not sure how or why, but I suspect Lot Lot has got a double helping of them hermones. It’s a scent men pick up on, and come ’round sniffing. I think it shoots out from her armpits.”
Here we go.
And hermones? She either meant hormones or pheromones, but I’m not about to correct her.
One of the women nods my way. “We’ll take a sniff later.”
My arms clamp shut as I offer a loose smile.
Connie nods to the girls in the middle. “You three.” She waves them over and the rest get right back to dancing as if they’ve been officially dismissed.
All three women look to be about my age, somewhere in their late twenties. The tiny group is comprised of two brunettes and a redhead, each of them with wavy long hair.
One of the brunettes is a lone horse given her choice of attire. She’s sporting a short pink number in a sea of dark sparkling frocks. The other two ensconce her like a couple of Gothic harbingers with their requisite little black dresses.
The one in pink quickly pulls out her compact and gives herself a once-over in the mirror before winking and blowing herself a kiss. Connie pulls the woman in the pink flirty dress her way.
“Lottie, I’d like for you to meet my cousin, Angel Face Flo.” Connie punctuates the intro with a toothy smile.
I can’t help but note Angel Face Flo has a rather aggressive beauty about her, with her high-cut cheekbones and dark almond-shaped eyes. She’s wearing a scowl on her face, and I’m betting it’s a rather permanent situation. Her brows are heavily penciled in to look like a couple of thin arches, and she definitely has an edge about her that makes me wonder if her nickname is more or less ironic.
“Florenza,” the woman in pink over enunciates as she looks from me to Carlotta. “But now that we’re family, you can call me Angel Face Flo.” She leans in a notch. “I was second runner-up for Ms. Vermont and Ms. Maple Queen two years in a row.” Her expression grows stern, and before I have a chance to congratulate her, she holds her hands out to the girls at her sides. “And these are my witches.”
I’m guessing that’s a nicer term than the word that rhymes with witches. And both me and the little sugar cookie I’m baking in my belly appreciate the discretion on her part.
Flo pulls the redhead over first. The girl is pretty, stunningly so, with glowing hazel eyes and long wild and wavy hair. That glossy black dress she’s got on looks as if latex has melted onto her flesh. And with no zipper in sight, I’m mildly curious how she got it on. I suppose she can always peel it off. Lord knows I’ve cut my way out of a few shirts and pants these past few months that I’ve tried to squeeze into. My old clothes are nothing but a memory to me now—mostly because they burned in a house fire. But those jeans I wore all last year—the ones Noah happened to dig out from under his bed—look as if they were made for a six-year-old. And that whole scenario begs the question, what was I wearing when I left Noah’s house that night? But I digress.
“Donata Diamante is like a sister to me.” Flo gives the redhead a playful tug of her locks. “She’s great at mixing drinks and lousy at picking boyfriends. We’re tight,” Flo spits it out like a threat, and I’m quick to say hello to the woman.
“And this is Lorena Lazzari.” She wraps an arm around the one with the full bouffant sitting a foot off her head and bright pink lipstick that’s slightly staining her teeth. Speaking of which, she has a big toothy smile and a slightly scary look in her pale gray eyes. But then, she is a Lazzari and that might explain the scare factor. The aforementioned Lazzaris are the other notorious crime family from Leeds. I’d say the huge mob presence was Vermont’s dirty little secret, but I don’t know how big of a secret it is these days.
The Canellis and the Lazzaris have been feuding for years, so it’s interesting to see that these two are good friends. Just goes to show, we women can rise above the noise of rowdy boys given even the deadliest of circumstances.
Flo taps her head to the girl’s fluffy bouffant. “Lorena was a runner-up in Ms. Vermont and Ms. Maple Queen two years in a row.” She all but puts the woman in a playful chokehold. “Nothing like being second best, huh, Lo?”
The woman honks out a laugh. “Honey, you oughta know. You were second. I was third. But that was la-la land. When it comes to real life, I don’t play second fiddle to anyone. Not even you.” She gives a quick wink. “And when it comes to the Ruthless Witches, you can bet I’ll be numba one.” She pretends to shoot Angel Face with her finger.
Flo nods my way while chewing her gum furtively. “Ruthless Witches is the all-girl family my witches and I are putting together. I’m the lead. Lo is my right-hand gal, and Donata makes sure our hair looks good.” The three of them bray out a laugh.
“So nice to meet you all,” I say. “Please help yourselves to the desserts. They’re right over—”
Flo’s eyes enlarge with horror at something behind me and the entire lot of us turns to find a tall, lanky man in a suit that looks a bit too big for him, heavily lidded eyes, and a shock of dark curly hair.
Lorena pulls her friend in close. “Come on, Flo. He can’t hurt you tonight.”
Hurt her?
The three of them stalk off, and I turn to find Carlotta embroiled in a conversation with both Connie and Cat. I can’t hear it in its entirety, but I pick up on enough to know she’s telling them all about the book she’s writing at the moment—a book on love and romance. A terrifying prospect if you ask me, but it’s a new venture for Carlotta. We’ll see what happens with it.
Lately Carlotta has been snapping up side hustles like gold coins and dropping them like a used pair of underwear.
Last November, she opened a massage service called A Whole Lotta Touchin’ in her minivan. Then in December, she started selling what she called kinky ca
ndles. They were just overpriced three-wick balls of wax, if you ask me. But the book is her latest venture. And as long as it keeps her out of trouble, I’m all for it.
I make my way back to the refreshment table, where both Everett and Noah have stern expressions pinned my way.
“Don’t worry, Lot,” Noah says. “We never took our eyes off you. And Carlotta is right. This place is crawling with mobsters tonight. I’ve already called for backup.”
“Lemon”—Everett pulls me in and frowns—“are there any signs of the dead here tonight?”
I scan the vicinity and crane my neck every which way. Typically, I’ll either see the ghost of a cute little furry creature or a full-blown human just before their loved one bites the big one. But I don’t so much as see a supernatural sparkle.
“Not a one,” I say. “And believe me, I’m more than relieved.”
Everett and Noah exchange a quick glance, but they don’t look all that relieved.
Here’s hoping we don’t start the new year off with a bang.
Or with murder.
Chapter 2
The evening wears on as we seem to race our way toward midnight.
I take a break from dancing with both Noah and Everett to rehydrate myself and take my fifteen hundredth trip to the bathroom for the night. The baby is moving and grooving in my belly and tap-dancing right on my bladder, or so it would seem. And now that I’m in my seventh month, I’m no stranger to just about every restroom within a twenty-foot radius.
By the time I get back, both my mother and her boyfriend, Wiley, are having a conversation with Noah and Everett. Mom has creamy vanilla blonde hair and a mischievous look in her sparkling blue eyes. She’s forever young with a face that’s somehow forgotten to age and she’s always dressed sharply. Tonight, she’s in a blue and silver glittering gown that cuts off just above the knee and looks every bit the stunner she is. And Wiley, well, he’s Noah’s look-alike with the same dark hair, green eyes, and dimples. I can see my mother’s appeal, but his checkered past makes me wish she was past him.
“Oh, Lottie.” Mom wrinkles her nose as she looks my way. “I was just about to invite you to a writers’ workshop I’m hosting at the B&B. It’s all about romance, and who better to give advice on the subject than you? But Noah and Everett were just telling me that you might have jury duty this week. How I hope they don’t select you. Show up disheveled or something, would you? Wear your blouse inside out.” She sucks in a quick breath. “Wear your bra outside of your shirt!”
Wiley nods. “Or shout out an obscenity every few seconds. That got me kicked out once. They tried to arrest me, but I told them I had Tourette’s.”
I can’t help but scowl over at him. Wiley Fox was once married to Everett’s mother, Eliza, and bilked her for a good chunk of her bank account. It turns out, he has a habit of bilking widows out of their money before faking his own death. What a winner—or wiener is more like it.
But my mother can’t be deterred by the truth. She’s too mesmerized by his handsome features to care about his wily ways. His new shtick is posing as a perfectly good publishing company, a venture he dreamed up overnight once he got wind of the fact my mother was a budding author. He’s published a couple of romances for her, and he just so happened to take the lion’s share of her earnings, too. I tried to point it out to her, but she insists she doesn’t mind helping him out while his company gets off the ground. My mother is his only client. And her books, well, they’re not doing so hot—even though the books themselves are indeed very steamy. She happens to pen raunchy sizzlers that make grown women blush. But apparently, there aren’t many women in Honey Hollow or in the country interested in blushing to the words my mother has put to paper. Sales are down. And according to her, they can’t get much lower than they are.
Just last month, Wiley had the gall to tell her to write books with less steam to see if sales would pick up. I’m betting sales would pick up if Wiley picked up and left town. Nevertheless, she’s no longer writing her raunchy reads and has shifted to beach romances with an emphasis on friendship.
I won’t lie, I’m dying to gobble them all right up. Lord knows I’m long overdue for a beachy escape.
“Shouting out an obscenity? I’ll consider it,” I say. And I will. Times are desperate indeed when I’m taking Wiley Fox’s advice to heart.
The music shifts to something slow and moody and Mom gasps.
“This is my favorite song.” She gives Wiley’s arm a quick tug. “Oh, you just have to dance with me.” She plucks him away, and soon they’ve absorbed themselves into the crowd.
“Jury duty,” I groan with everything in me as I look to Noah and Everett. “Why did she have to remind me? Well, thank God I’m married to a judge. Everett, make this go away. I’ll give you my summons come Monday. You can take it to work and do whatever hocus-pocus necessary to make this disappear. I hate even looking at that pesky piece of paper that threatens to steal my time and freedom.”
His brows hike a notch. “I can’t make this go away. I’m afraid you’ll need to go through the motions. It’s your civic duty.”
“What?” I squawk, more than incensed that he even suggested it. “Everett, I can’t go to jury duty, I’m having a baby.” I pat my hands over that globe sitting underneath my dress.
Everett shakes his head. “Sorry, Lemon, but we have expectant mothers come through all the time. You’d need a note from your doctor to get yourself excused. You’d have to provide a bona fide medical reason for not showing up.”
“Oh, thank God.” I blow out a breath of relief. “That’s easy enough. I’ll just have Dr. Barnette take care of it for me.” Dr. Barnette is my OB-GYN. She also happens to have earned the privilege to call Everett by his proper moniker, but I’ve never held it against her.
He blinks my way. “And put her license on the line? I’m not so sure. She’s under oath to tell the truth.”
“Jury duty.” Noah offers a wistful shake of the head and shudders. “I’m telling you, that’s one civic duty I wouldn’t mind at all. It’d be like a vacation for me. All I’d have to do is sit there and pay attention. Solving crimes is in my wheelhouse. I’m a man of the law.”
“Perfect. I think you’d make a great juror. You can take my place.” My entire body floods with relief. “Oh, Noah, I just knew you’d come through for me.”
“Sorry, Lot.” He winces. “You know I’d make this go away if it was in my power. But I can’t take your place. That’s not how the system works.”
A cry of frustration shrills from me. “Fine, I’ll go. But I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure I don’t get selected.”
Everett’s chest humps with a silent laugh. “I hope you end up in my courtroom. Personally, I’d like to see you take a stab at it. I’ve seen it all before. Try not to do anything that lands you behind bars.”
Now it’s Noah chuckling. “Don’t worry, Lot. You’ll be in my jurisdiction if you get arrested, and I will move heaven and the Ashford County Courthouse to make sure any legal issues go away on my end.” He takes a moment to shoot Everett a look. “I would never make the mother of my child suffer.”
Everett casts those blue eyes my way. “Lemon, I promise you won’t suffer.”
“I’m already suffering. I’m so angry with whoever did the crime for dragging me to court—away from my bakery, away from my fried pickles, I’m going to make sure they get locked up for good.” I flare my nostrils over at Everett. And yes, the fried pickles have sort of become my go-to treat. I’ve craved them so much, I actually sell them at my bakery now. “And you had better make sure they throw away the key.” I give his tie a light tug. “On the bright side, at least we can commute together.”
He cinches his cheek to one side. “Actually, I’m betting you’ll get dismissed within the hour. And my schedule on Monday has me locked to my bench until evening. You’ll probably want to drive on your own so you can head back home early.”
Noah frowns over at his
old stepbrother. “Go ahead and drive in with the stubborn oaf, Lottie. When they dismiss you, give me a call and I’ll pick you up. I’ll take you out for a celebratory lunch afterwards, too.”
“Now that sounds like a good time,” I tell him. “I feel better already. Besides, I hate the thought of driving all the way to Ashford in the snow.”
Evie, the daughter Everett and I share, runs up looking more twenty-one than she ever does sixteen. Her long dark hair sits in rows of neat coils, and her cobalt blue eyes are replicas of her daddy’s.
“Just a heads-up, Dad and Uncle Noah,” she rolls her eyes only the way a teenager can, “my friends think you guys are hot.” She sticks her finger down her throat and gags. “They want to, like, dance with you. Make it fast and don’t do anything goofy. This is going on, like, twelve different social media sites. And don’t worry, Mom. I let them know these guys both belong to you. There won’t be any funny business.” She takes them by the hand and whisks them off despite their protests.
A tiny giggle bounces from me. At least her friends have good taste in men.
Speaking of men, I spot Angel Face Flo off to the right, speaking with a man with dirty blond hair, built like a wrestler, looking lean and mean in a navy pinstripe suit.
Flo looks pretty animated as she gives him a shove to the chest before stalking off. She doesn’t get too far without bumping into that other man she looked horrified to see earlier this evening—the one Lorena told her wouldn’t be able to hurt her tonight, and I’m tempted to go into protective mode.
The two of them get right into it, behaving as if they’re about to rip one another’s heads off, and it looks downright explosive. A part of me wants to find her friends, Lorena and Donata, so they can help defuse the situation. And yet another part of me is wishing I had brought Ethel along for the ride tonight.
Ethel is the sleek Glock handgun that Noah and Everett chipped in to buy me a while back. I had become involved in so many homicide cases—accidentally, of course—they felt I needed the protection. But on a night like tonight, when I knew that I’d have both men by my side, not to mention not a single homicide investigation in sight, I didn’t see the need.
Waffles at the Wake Page 2