“You two look like you raided a craft fair,” I tease with a good-natured smile.
“Fashion is cyclical,” Clarabelle sniffs. “In twenty years, people will be begging me for this hat.”
“If the pumpkins don’t rot off it first,” Peggy mutters.
“Never mind that.” Clarabelle is quick to wave off her octogenarian friend. “We’re here to invite you somewhere, Hattie.”
“Where’s that?” I ask, although something tells me I might regret the question.
Clarabelle leans across the counter with her pumpkin earflaps swinging dangerously close to Cricket’s whiskers. “To stuff our faces with sugary delights and crack a murder case while we’re at it. Two birds, onescone.”
“We’ve got a theory,” Peggy adds, lowering her voice to a whisper that could probably be heard three counties over. “That Vivian woman had more enemies than a politician at a tax audit. We’re thinking if we sample every single baked good from every shop in town, we’ll eventually stumble upon the killer.”
I inch back. “That’s your investigative technique? Eating your way across Brambleberry Bay?”
“You got a better idea?” Clarabelle challenges.
I consider the stack of paperwork waiting for me, the group chat blowing up my phone with wedding emojis, and theprospect of spending the afternoon with two octogenarian sugar fiends on a mission.
Really, there’s only one reasonable answer.
“I’m in,” I say, already reaching for my coat.
After all, who needs a formal murder investigation when you’ve got two elderly ladies with a sweet tooth and absolutely zero filter?
Solving this case might just be a piece of cake—or in this case, a slice of pumpkin spice murder.
KILLION
The fluorescent lights of the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department buzz overhead like angry wasps trapped in a jar.
I rub my eyes, which feel like sandpaper after staring at reports all morning. The stale coffee in my mug has gone cold—the third cup today—and tastes like it was brewed with swamp water and a hint of despair.
My desk looks like the paper recycling bin exploded. Sticky notes plastered everywhere, crime scene photos spread out like the world’s most depressing poker hand, and the acrid scent of burned microwave popcorn wafting from the break room completes the ambiance of law enforcement glamour.
I riffle through the scant information on the Maple case.
Victim: Vivian Maple, forty-eight, owner of Spice It Up Café. Elegant brunette with sharp hazel eyes and layers of makeup that never seemed to smudge even in death. Known for award-winning pumpkin spice treats and an attitude to match. Arrogant about her recipes and fiercely protective of her “secret ingredients” to the point where several witnesses described her as paranoid.
Cause of death: pending toxicology. Preliminary findings suggest some kind of reaction, but whether it was natural, accidental, or deliberately induced remains to be seen. Hattie already let me know her thoughts—or more to the point, the thoughts of what sounds like the killer lurking in the crowd among the festivalgoers. And the deceased did say the wordpoisonwhile wielding that cup of pumpkin spice latte in her hand. There were enough remnants in it for me to send that to toxicology as well.
The medical examiner promised results when they’re ready and not a second sooner, which in Eagle County could mean anywhere between tomorrow and the next presidential election.
Suspects: practically everyone at the Pumpkin Palooza. From what I was able to glean with just a few interviews yesterday at the fair, the woman had accumulated enemies like some people collect stamps—enthusiastically and in great numbers.
My phone bleats, vibrating across the metal desk like an eager puppy. A smile tugs at my lips as I reach for it, expecting Hattie’s name to flash on the screen. Instead, I see a text from Pelican Cove Property Management and my smile flatlines.
The message reads:
Mr. Maddox, this is Trent from Pelican Cove Management. We regret to inform you that the owner of your rental house has decided to sell the property to Eagle Fitness, Inc. They will be bulldozing the house to build a gym and parking garage. This message serves as your official 30-day notice to vacate. A formal letter will follow by mail. We apologize for any inconvenience.
I stare at the screen, dumbfounded.
Thirty days?
My brain does the math. Thirty days puts me squarely into the holiday season when finding a new place will be about as easy as getting a straight answer from a politician.
I set down my phone and lean hard into my chair, which protests with a squeak that sounds oddly sympathetic to my house-hunting needs. Come to think of it, I’d better lay off the donuts while I’m at it.
