HATTIE
“Isaid, let’s get down to murder,” Chevy repeats, uncapping her red marker and holding it up for all to see.
She draws a dramatic circle around Vivian’s glamour shot. I can’t help but note that the picture of Vivian looks as if the photographer caught her on a day when she wasn’t actively crushing someone’s dreams.
“Victim—Vivian Maple, age forty-eight, owner of Spice It Up Café and maker of award-winning pumpkin spice everything,” Chevy begins and her voice takes on the dramatic cadence of a true crime podcast host. She’s good at this, I’ll give her that. “Found dead at the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival after collapsing during the awards ceremony.”
“Which she technically won,” I add, reaching for a stuffed mushroom from Chevy’s charcuterie board. “According to Meredith Thorne, Vivian was the actual winner, but they gave the prize to Meredith after Vivian died.”
“Convenient,” Tipper muses while absently stroking Cricket, who has transformed into a purring puddle of contentment on her lap. “Nothing helps business like your main competitor dropping dead.”I’ll have to remember that. There arequite a few restaurants in town already stirring up trouble for Henry. And with me being in the only club that matters—this little ol’ murder club of ours, well, I’m sure I can steer these women in a thousand wrong directions.
I make a face her way for even thinking it.
“Cause of death?” Bunny asks, already pouring herself a third glass of wine with the precision of someone who considers it a professional skill. And I think we’ve already established that she’s a pro.
“According to my sources at the sheriff’s department—” I begin.
“You mean according to the man you’re sleeping with,” Peyton interjects, reaching for the hummus she brought as if suddenly regretting its mediocrity compared to the spread before us.
“According to my highly placed contact in law enforcement,” I correct rather curtly. It’s not anyone’s business what is or what isn’t happening behind closed doors. “Vivian was poisoned with taxine B, which comes from yew plants. Symptoms include abdominal pain, cardiac arrhythmia, and death, which really puts a damper on enjoying your blue ribbon.”
“Yew plants?” Peggy perks up. “Now that’s interesting. You don’t accidentally ingest a little yew. Someone had to have purposefully poisoned her food or drink.”
“Or she could have been munching on random landscaping,” Bunny suggests. “People do strange things when they’re nervous about competitions.”
“Yes, I always eat toxic shrubbery before a big presentation,” Peyton deadpans. “I find it helps with the jitters.”
Chevy writesYEW POISONINGon the board in capital letters, underlining it twice for dramatic effect.
“So, we have a deliberate poisoning,” she says, tapping the marker against her chin. “Which means premeditation. Which means our killer knew exactly what they were doing.”
“And had access to yew plants,” Clarabelle adds, her fingers working through Rookie’s golden fur as he sprawls across her feet in a state of blissful abandon. “Those aren’t exactly growing wild all over Brambleberry Bay.”
“Actually, they are,” Tipper counters. “There’s a whole row of them at Willoughby Hall. Fitz’s great-grandfather was obsessed with poisonous plants—a bit of a hobby among the aristocracy back then. They’re all along the east side of the property.”
We all stare at her.
“What?” She shrugs. “I’ve been spending a lot of time there with Winnie. Girl talk.”
Girl talk, with Winnie? I guess not only do I need to share my brother with Tipper, but I have to share my sister, too. Why couldn’t she bond with Neelie?
“Toxic horticulture—the foundation of every healthy friendship,” Bunny quips.
“Speaking of toxic,” I say. “Let’s talk suspects. I’ve interviewed Meredith Thorne and Autumn Harrington so far.”
“And by ‘interviewed,’ you mean ordered waffles from while asking suspicious questions,” Peyton notes.
“It’s called multitasking. I solve crimes and maintain appropriate blood sugar levels.”
Chevy writessuspectson the board and begins a list:
Meredith Thorne - competitor, gained prize money
