Autumn Harrington - competitor, possible recipe theft?
“What’s this about recipe theft?” Bunny asks as if she couldn’t care less.
She couldn’t.
I explain what I gathered from both interviews—Meredith’s hints about Vivian stealing recipes, and Autumn’s thoughts about a Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake recipe.
“Classic motive.” Chevy nods, adding notes to the board. “In my third book,Deceased and Desist, the victim was murdered for stealing a secret family cookie recipe. Although in that case, the weapon was a particularly sharp rolling pin.”
“What about this Oliver Prescott person?” Tipper asks, reaching for another deviled egg. “Bunny’s cousin, right?”
“Second cousin,” Bunny corrects. “We share a great-grandfather who was allegedly a bootlegger during Prohibition, though the family prefers the termartisanal beverage distributor.”
Chevy addsOliver Prescott—judge, seen arguing with victimto the list.
“What was their argument about?” Bunny asks.
“According to Autumn, she overheard them arguing behind the supply tent. Something about ‘not this time’ and ‘you’ll regret it.’”
“Ooh, ominous.” Bunny wiggles her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Oliver can be dramatic, but I’ve never known him to be homicidal. Although he did once threaten to murder our uncle Harold for touching his car.”
“Now that’s a whole different type of vehicular homicide,” Peggy muses.
“Anyone else?” Chevy asks with her marker poised for more.
I consider mentioning Killion’s strange behavior, then think better of it. “Not yet, but I’m planning to speak with Oliver tomorrow.”
“Ooh, I’ll come with you,” Bunny volunteers immediately. “Family connections might loosen his tongue. Plus, I haven’t seen him in ages, and I want to know how he got his hair thatperfect silver fox color. It has to be dyed, right? No one goes gray that attractively.”More to the point, I need to see if he has any silver fox friends. I think it’s time I get my gray on.
I nod her way. That sounds more like it.
“Count us in, too,” Peggy announces, speaking for both herself and Clarabelle as usual. “We make excellent backup.”
“It’s just a conversation, not a SWAT raid,” I tell them.
“Sweetheart, at our age, everything’s a potential SWAT situation,” Clarabelle explains. “These hips don’t lie, and what they’re saying right now isI might not get up if I fall.”
Peggy swats her. “Don’t even think about it. We’ve got a killer to catch. We don’t have time for one of us to land in traction. Not unless it’s on purpose.” She winks my way and wiggles her shoulders.
Can I come, too?Rookie gives a hopeful woof my way.I’m excellent at interrogations. I just stare at people until they feel guilty enough to share their food.
Cricket scoffs.I’ve been conducting psychological warfare on humans for years. They don’t even realize they’re being manipulated into providing treats.
I’ll attest to that.
“Well, I’m out. I need to stay focused on the gala preparations,” Peyton says, checking her watch with the exaggerated gesture of someone who wants everyone to know they have somewhere more important to be. “But keep me in the loop. If we have a murderer running loose in Brambleberry Bay, I need to know whether to hire additional security for the event.”
“Yes, heaven forbid someone poison the champagne-dispensing turkey sculptures,” Bunny muses with a laugh.Come to think of it, a light poisoning is just what some of the folks at that stuffy country club need. Maybe I should see to it myself?
I shoot her a look that saysdon’t you dareand she frowns my way.
The next hour devolves into a combination of serious investigative discussion and increasingly outlandish theories, fueled by Bunny’s wine and the sugar high from Tipper’s pumpkin cheesecake. By the time we’ve exhausted both theories and appetites, the murder board looks like something from a detective show—if that detective show were produced by a committee of slightly intoxicated women with questionable artistic skills.
“I think we’ve made excellent progress,” Chevy declares, capping her marker with finality. “We’ve identified multiple suspects with motives, established the cause of death as deliberate poisoning, and consumed approximately seven thousand calories each.”
“A productive evening by any measure,” Tipper agrees, carefully shifting Cricket from her lap to a cushion so she can stand. “Plus, all that food was good practice for Thanksgiving.”
