“In my defense, I was twelve, and they were insufferably pretentious.”
Clarabelle leans forward and fixes Oliver with a stare that could freeze molten lava. “Okay, fine, cutie pie. Let’s cut to the chase, let’s start with that day at the Pumpkin Palooza Harvest Festival out in Brambleberry Bay. The day of the murder.”
The smile on Oliver’s face doesn’t quite disappear. Instead, it solidifies, like wax cooling into a permanent mask. His eyes, previously friendly to a fault, have suddenly taken on a calculating quality that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
“Murder?” he repeats, his tone light, but for some reason, I’m hesitant to buy it. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And just like that, the comfortable atmosphere evaporates faster than moonshine on a hot skillet.
HATTIE
The silence at our table hangs thick enough to slice and serve with a side of barbecue sauce as the chaos of Sparky’s Smokehouse continues unabated.
A waitress drops an entire tray of ribs to thunderous applause, a man in suspenders chugs beer from a boot-shaped glass, and someone starts a conga line that snakes between tables with reckless abandon. But in our little bubble, the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees.
A blob of cranberry sauce falls from Clarabelle’s fork, landing on the table like a splat of blood, and it only seems to punctuate her battle cry to discuss the murder at hand.
My mouth opens and closes as I look at the silver fox before me. “You really haven’t heard about the tragedy?” For a judge, he sure wasn’t paying attention that day. The coroner’s van should have been a dead giveaway—no pun intended.
Oliver clears his throat. “I was being facetious,” he says, his smile rebooting like a computer recovering from a crash. “Of course, I heard about the unfortunate incident at the festival. Tragic. Simply tragic.”
I take a sip of the surprisingly drinkable boxed wine and lean forward. “Did you know Vivian Maple?”
“Not as well as I thought,” he says with a sigh. “I knew she was a great pastry chef. More than a decent cook, too.” He sets the napkin down with deliberate care. “I’d been to her restaurant a handful of times as a food critic. Spice It Up Café is famous for its award-winning spice dishes, both sweet and savory, especially the pumpkin spice offerings.”
“She was internet viral from August until Thanksgiving because of it,” Bunny adds, clearly proud to contribute to the foodie conversation. “I did a little digging.” She winks my way.I may have done a little digging, but not on purpose, of course,she laments to herself.But Hattie doesn’t have to know that the poor woman’s demise ate up half my social media feed. I couldn’t have avoided her if I tried.
“Indeed.” Oliver nods. “But she was arrogant about her recipes and fiercely protective of her secret ingredients.” His expression darkens as if someone just flipped a switch. “She was paranoid, too. And not just in her professional life.”
“Meaning?” Peggy prompts, leaning in so far she’s practically lying across the table.
“Meaning she was constantly accusing people of stealing from her.” Oliver takes a long sip of wine. “Ideas, recipes, customers, boyfriends, parking spaces—you name it, she thought someone was trying to take it.”Just like she was convinced that someone tried to take me away from her.
I inch back at the thought. Take him away from her? What in the world did he mean by that?
The memory of my conversation with Meredith Thorne suddenly bubbles to the surface. “We heard someone stole a recipe from Meredith Thorne. Do you think it could have been Vivian?”
Oliver inches back in his seat, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I think Vivianwas too arrogant for that.” He tilts his head as he considers it. “Do you know which recipe? I’m fairly familiar with her culinary repertoire.”
I take a calculated risk. “I believe it was her Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake.”
“Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake,” he repeats to himself, his brow furrowing. The confusion on his face appears genuine—that or he deserves an Oscar. “I guess I don’t know about that. The only thing I know about Meredith is that her bakery was about to go under. If she didn’t win that competition, she would have been forced to shut her doors forever before Christmas.”
So, Meredith had a financial motive—a desperate one. Autumn had a recipe allegedly stolen. And now Oliver is claiming ignorance while simultaneously suggesting Meredith was on the brink of bankruptcy.
The mechanical turkey in the center of the room lets out a hydraulic hiss as it resets, its wattle flopping sadly in the smoky air. A man in a cowboy hat and what appears to be the world’s most patriotic underwear climbs aboard, only to be bucked off within seconds. His dismount would make a gymnast weep—partly in awe, partly in sympathetic pain.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” booms a voice over the sound system. The announcer, a beefy man in a Western shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, grabs a microphone. “Is there anyone BRAVE enough to ride the WILD TURKEY? The seat’s getting cold, and as we all know, going cold turkey is no fun unless you’re being served with cranberry sauce and a side of regret!”
The crowd roars with laughter that suggests either genuine amusement or the collective effect of Sparky’s signature bourbon. Probably the latter.
Both Bunny and Peggy raise their hands with such enthusiasm they practically levitate out of their seats. Bunny’s designer dress sparkles under the neon lights, while Peggy’s bejeweled turkey sweatshirt catches the glow, making her look like an approaching ambulance.
The announcer points their way with the enthusiasm of a game show host. “Looks as if we’ve got us a couple of contenders! First one up is thelucky clucker!”
What happens next defies both physics and common sense. Bunny and Peggy, apparently unable to determine which of them should do the turkey deed, race toward the mechanical bird as if they were contestants on a deranged reality show.
Peggy, despite being in her eighties, displays the sprinting ability of someone fleeing an active crime scene. Bunny, seemingly hampered by her stilettos, opts for a shortcut that involves climbing directly over a picnic table, scattering baskets of hush puppies in her wake. And boy, they look delicious.
