Peggy lets out a scandalized squeak and swats Clarabelle with a croissant, most of which crumbles to the floor where Rookie happily vacuums it up with the efficiency of a Dyson with fur.
My mouth falls open. What did she mean byif only she knew?
“No, it’s okay,” Meredith says, holding up a placating hand. “I know she was only joking.” She shoots Clarabelle a glance sharp enough to cut through a frozen cheesecake. “At least I hope she was.”
I’d sooner go back to waitressing at that all-night diner in the armpit of Edison County than hurt a fly. Though Vivian tested that philosophy regularly.
“Look”—Meredith continues, lowering her voice—“I don’t know what happened to Vivian. But given her age and the fact she was perfectly healthy, I’m betting on foul play. I’ll be honest, she didn’t have many friends. In fact, if anything, Vivian was a professional at making enemies. I knew her well enough, but we hadn’t seen one another in a while.”
“Was there anyone she was close to?” I ask, feeling my interrogation window closing faster than the bakery during a health inspection.
Meredith blows out a breath, her cheeks puffing like a chipmunk preparing for winter, before suddenly perking up. “Oh, you know what? She mentioned something about having an upcoming meeting with Autumn Harrington. She’s the owner of that popular place out in Pelican Cove that sits right on the beach—Sunrise & Cinnamon. Vivian seemed mighty worked up about it. She said something about settling scores once and for all. And I think she had some sort of history with Oliver,too, probably via baking competitions. I’m not really sure about that.”
Another gaggle of customers pushes through the door and sends the bell jingling frantically as if trying to warn us all of the impending pastry raid.
Meredith blows out a breath at the sight. “I’d better get back behind the counter before there’s a riot over the last pumpkin muffin,” she says, already standing. “You all just holler if you need anything else!”
As Meredith bustles away, Clarabelle reaches across the table and snags the last waffle from Peggy’s plate.
“Hey!” Peggy protests. “I was saving that!”
“For what? Your funeral? Your cholesterol’s probably high enough to qualify as a skyscraper.”
“At least I’ll die happy, unlike some people who’ll die cranky and constipated,” Peggy shoots back while grabbing for the stolen waffle.
What follows can only be described as a geriatric tug-of-war over a syrup-soaked breakfast item. The waffle stretches between them like taffy before suddenly launching into the air in a perfect arc, landing with a splat directly onto the knitting projects of a group of elderly women at the next table.
“Bullseye!” Clarabelle cheers, raising her arms in victory.
The knitting circle turns in unison, their colorful yarn creations now decorated with sticky maple syrup. One woman’s half-finished sweater drips golden droplets onto her lap, while another’s intricate scarf is now obscured by breakfast food.
“So sorry!” I squeak, grabbing napkins and lunging toward them. “My friends are having a bit of a sugar rush!”
“We are not having a sugar rush!” Peggy announces loud and clear. “We’re conducting an important investigation!”
“Into baking techniques,” I correct hastily. “For a book club. About... cooking.”
The apparent leader of the knitting group, a silver-haired woman with pearl earrings and a withering stare, holds up her syrup-soaked yarn. “Three months of work on my grandson’s Christmas sweater, ruined.” Her voice could freeze boiling water. “Perhaps your next investigation should be into proper public behavior.”
“Or we could investigate why anyone would make a sweater in that particular shade of puce,” Clarabelle whispers, not nearly quietly enough.
Soon enough, knitting needles are brandished like tiny silver swords. So I do the only thing I can—I grab Cricket’s backpack and Rookie’s leash in one swift motion.
“It’s time to go”—I announce—“before we’re banned from yet another establishment in this state.”
“Seventh this month,” Clarabelle notes proudly. “We’re on a roll!”
We make a hasty dash for the door, pausing only to snag a box from Meredith to take a few goodies for the road. I’m grabbing a selection of treats to bring to Killion when movement across the street catches my eye.
I freeze with my bag of pastries suspended mid-air.
Is that... Killion? Walking with a woman whose hand seems permanently attached to his arm like a fashionable parasite?
My stomach drops faster than a soufflé in a slammed oven. Even from this distance, I recognize the gleaming auburn hair and runway-model stride of Venetta Brandt, the insane woman who works for Killion’s mother at Velvet Vanity Lounges and Spas. The same woman who’s made it her personal mission to get her perfectly manicured claws into my boyfriend. And by the looks of it, she’s well on her way.
They appear to be deep in conversation with Venetta leaning in closer than any professional relationship would warrant.Before I can process what I’m seeing, a delivery truck rumbles past, and when it clears, they’ve vanished from view.
They must have gone into the café across the street. The one with the intimate tables and romantic lighting despite it being barely noon.
