“It’s time to fill our bellies with pumpkin spice and our investigation with clues,” I whisper.
Okay, so I am investigating. Can you blame me?
“That’s right,” Clarabelle sings. “Because nothing says solving a murder quite like a sugar rush and a couple of seniors on a mission.”
Whatever secrets Meredith Thorne is hiding behind those vintage cat-eye glasses and Southern charm, we’re about to uncover them—one sugar-dusted treat at a time.
HATTIE
The tiny scarecrow on our table stares at me with its button eyes as if it were weighing the merits of my dubious path.
I’m about to flick its little hay hat when Meredith Thorne returns balancing a tray that threatens to collapse under the weight of enough sugar to put the entire town of Eagle into a diabetic coma.
“Here we are, sugar pies!” she announces, setting down her edible masterpieces with the careful precision of someone diffusing a bomb made of pastry.
The mountain of treats towers before us—pumpkin spice scones dusted with cinnamon sugar, maple-glazed pumpkin cookies shaped like fall leaves, miniature cheesecakes with cranberry swirls, and her famous waffle bites nestled in cute little cupcake cups, positively swimming in real Maine maple syrup that glistens under the bakery’s twinkle lights.
If this is heaven, I take back all those times I knocked your Bible off the nightstand,Cricket chirps from her bubble backpack with her whiskers twitching in anticipation.
Can I have seventeen of everything?Rookie gives a soft woof as his tail thumps against the leg of my chair in perfect rhythm.
“Sweet heavens to Betsy!” Peggy cries with her eyes wide open as she surveys the caloric landscape. “Meredith Thorne, are you trying to fatten us up like Thanksgiving turkeys?”
“Oh honey, you know it.” Meredith giggles and it sounds as light as whipped cream. “It’s the Southern way! My momma always said a guest should leave your home at least five pounds heavier than when they arrived, or you’ve failed as a hostess.”
“Your momma and my cardiologist would have words,” Clarabelle mutters, already reaching for a waffle bite.
“Speaking of men,” Peggy says, delicately selecting a scone. “That silver fox with the big check sure was a tall drink of sweet tea. You got your hooks in him yet, sugar pie?”
“Oliver?” Meredith adjusts her cat-eye glasses with a flour-dusted finger. “Lord have mercy, no! That man is more slippery than a greased pig at a county fair. He’s been single so long I reckon his bachelor status is fossilized.”
“Nothing a good Southern woman can’t chip away at,” Peggy counters with a wink. “Men are like biscuits—they need a firm hand and the right amount of heat.”
“And they fall apart under pressure,” Clarabelle adds as she points my way.
“Plus, they’re better with butter,” Meredith chimes in, and all three women dissolve into laughter that threatens to shake the ceramic turkeys off their perches.
I clear my throat, steering us back on track before this turns into a stand-up routine about the failings of the male species. “I’m really sorry about what happened to your friend, Meredith.”
The laughter evaporates like morning dew, and Meredith’s smile dims a few watts. “It’s so very sad. Just awful.” She lowers her voice a notch. “Can you believe that it was actually Vivianwho had won first place in the competition? But since she passed before they could make it official, the committee decided I should get the prize instead.”
“How convenient,” Clarabelle mumbles through a mouthful of scone.
“It’s a blessing, truly,” Meredith continues, either not hearing or choosing to ignore Clarabelle’s comment. “Lord knows I needed that money, something fierce.” She crimps a smile as she grows introspective.Without those winnings, I’d be hanging a ‘Going Out of Business’ sign by Christmas,she thinks to herself.The new industrial mixer alone costs five thousand, and the health inspector won’t give me another extension on replacing that ancient refrigerator. Maybe now I can finally see the light at the end of this financial tunnel.
I nearly choke on my pumpkin cookie. The desperation in Meredith’s thoughts hits harder than the triple shot of espresso I had this morning.
“How long have you known Vivian?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual despite the financial motive for murder that just tap-danced across Meredith’s mind.
“Oh, going on fifteen years now,” she replies, absently straightening a napkin. “We met at a baking conference in Portland. She was demonstrating her pumpkin spice blend technique, and I was there to learn about French pastry. We weren’t close friends, exactly, but we ran in the same circles. Competitor-colleagues, you might say.”
Clarabelle leans across the table so suddenly that her elbow dips into the maple syrup. “Okay, you Southern sweetie, let’s get down to the dirty deets. Why did you kill her and how?”
“Clarabelle.” I gasp.
Meredith sniffs, her spine straightening like someone just pulled a string attached to the top of her head.If only she knew...
And I gasp just hearing the thought.
