HATTIE
“I’ve eaten four pumpkin spice waffles and I’m still standin’,” Peggy declares, patting her stomach with a not-so-surprising touch of pride. “Take that, you ninnies,” she teases.
Clarabelle snorts and her gray hair practically vibrates with indignation. “Four? That’s amateur hour, Toots. I’ve eaten six and I’m contemplating a seventh.”
“You are not!” Peggy’s Southern drawl stretches the words into the next state. “Your dentures would’ve popped out by waffle number five!”
“My dentures are state-of-the-art, thank you very much. New money buys excellent teeth.”
The Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival is in full swing here at the Brambleberry Bay Fairgrounds. Red and gold leaves dance across the pathways, and the air smells like a cinnamon stick had a wild night with an apple orchard. Vendor booths stretch as far as the eye can see, each one more harvest-themed than the last.
Pumpkins of every size are stacked in precarious towers, and the distant view of the Maine coastline provides a misty blue backdrop to all the orange and gold festivities. Above us, the skyhas turned a moody shade of mottled gray-purple clouds that look ready to rain their wrath down on our little fall celebration.
But not even threatening skies can dampen the spirits of two eighty-something women with a waffle vendetta.
“I believe we had a bet about who could eat the most pumpkin spice waffles,” I remind them, checking my watch. “And I believe the time limit has expired.”
Rookie darts between my legs, his golden fur catching the light from the string of paper lanterns overhead. His teddy bear, Mr. Jolly Beary, bounces against his back in a little carrier that my sister Winnie converted from a baby Bjorn infant carrier. The fuzzy brown bear has seen better days, but Rookie wouldn’t go anywhere without him.
People are dropping food EVERYWHERE! This place is a goldmine!Rookie’s thoughts come through loud and clear as he circles around us with his nose twitching at approximately ten thousand miles per hour.
My sweet cat Cricket weaves her way through the crowd with impressive agility for a little beige tabby. She hops onto a nearby bale of hay with her whiskers twitching with judgment.
You really are a rookie,she mewls in his direction.I’ve already convinced three different vendors to give me treats. No running required.
“Remember, no chocolate for either of you,” I say a touch too loud. “I mean it. Cricket, I saw you eyeing that fudge booth.”
I was merely appreciating the architectural integrity of their display,she sniffs, looking away with a look of innocence that, believe me, is as contrived as can be.
Clarabelle adjusts her oversized pumpkin brooch before waving a gnarled finger at Peggy. “You owe me twenty dollars. Cash. None of those fancy credit cards.”
“I most certainly do not!” Peggy tosses her bright red curls with her Southern Belle routine on full display for all to see. Let’sjust say she doesn’t leave home without it. That’s because she is a true-blue Southern Belle who originally hails from Georgia. “Hattie, tell this Yankee hooligan that I won that waffle-eating competition fair and square.”
Clarabelle Harper is a frazzled vision in autumn tones. Her wild gray hair sticks out in every direction at once beneath her orange beret, and her outfit—a brown pantsuit with gold embroidered leaves that screams, “I have money and I want you to know it.” Ever since she came into her fortune umpteen years ago, she’s been the wealthiest woman in Brambleberry Bay and has never let anyone forget she’s new money from Yonkers. In fact, she wears it like a badge with pride. I can’t blame her. I probably would, too.
Peggy Ebersol, on the other hand, is all Southern sophistication wrapped in a leopard-print coat. Her red hair is suspiciously vibrant for a woman pushing ninety, and her makeup is applied with the precision of a battlefield general. She has a constant hankering for two things: men and money—and not necessarily in that order.
“Y’all are makin’ a scene,” Peggy drawls, then narrows her eyes at me.Good Lord, Hattie, can you believe this woman? Six waffles, my perfectly toned derriere. I think she hid at least two of ’em in her purse.
I bite back a smile. Only a handful of people know about my little mind-reading gift or curse as it were—with Clarabelle and Peggy being two of them. Killion, my hot detective boyfriend, is another. And, of course, Cricket and Rookie, my sweet pets, because you can’t hide much from pets anyway. Killion and I happen to share custody of Rookie, and let’s just say Rookie had a big part in our romance to begin with. I guess you could say there would be no Killion and me without Rookie.
My name is Hattie Holiday. I have long dark hair, the color of maple syrup caught in a stream of November sunlight, eyes thecolor of a clear autumn sky after the first frost, and the ability to read people’s minds. I can read the minds of animals, too, and you can bet dollars to pumpkin-glazed donuts that they have much better things to say.
“Ladies, we’ve got more important things to do than argue about waffles,” I say, gesturing toward the row of booths up ahead. “The baking competition is about to start, and we need to figure out which entries are worth trying.”
There’s a man giving away turkey jerky by the cider stand!Rookie barks and jumps as he nods to the left, but there’s no swaying me from the goodies at hand at the moment.
Please,Cricket yowls.I’ve already secured VIP access to the seafood booth.Her tail swishes with smug satisfaction.Henry is saving scraps.
Henry would be my brother, who just opened a new restaurant on the beach called Holiday Lobster House. He’s not exactly known for his desserts. I bet Cricket ran into him at one of the vendor booths and managed to manipulate him into giving her a bite out of whatever he was noshing on. Cricket is a pro at getting just about anyone to sacrifice a morsel her way. Especially me.
We make our way through the festival, tasting everything from pumpkin cookies to apple crumble. The booths are decorated adorably with hay bales, corn stalks, and enough artificial leaves to reforest Maine twice over. Strings of orange and gold lights crisscross overhead, ready to illuminate the grounds once darkness falls.
It’s November and just a week from Thanksgiving. As it turns out, this Pumpkin Palooza is Brambleberry Bay’s last hurrah as far as fall festivals go. And lucky for me, it’s not an event I had anything to do with. I just so happen to work as an event planner at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club, so it’s kind of nice to go to a shindig that I didn’t have to put together myself.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Clarabelle stops so suddenly I nearly crash into her. “Would you look at that?”
I follow her gaze to a booth bearing the familiar Holiday Lobster House logo. And sure enough, my brother Henry is standing behind the counter, looking surprisingly comfortable in a chef’s hat, serving up something that makes absolutely no sense.
