The tension between us stretches like an overstrung guitar. There’s a distance in her eyes I haven’t seen before, and a coolness to her smile that makes me want to check if my heart isstill beating. I’m not sure why I’ve fallen out of her good graces, but the change is undeniable.
Still, I’m thrilled—and relieved—that she agreed to meet me for coffee, although it feels more like we’re here to exchange Cricket and Rookie. I’m starting to feel like a dad in the middle of a very bad divorce, meeting at a neutral location for the custody handoff, hoping for five minutes of conversation that doesn’t end in silent accusations. And I’ll be honest, I am definitely curious about what those accusations might be.
I’d hoped she would mention the boxes visible in the picture I sent earlier. I positioned them deliberately in the frame, a silent invitation to ask questions that might lead to my surprise. But she hasn’t said a word about them. In fact, she’s hardly said anything that isn’t related to the weather or the quality of the pumpkin pie (which, to be fair, is exceptional).
The timing doesn’t feel right to bring up the move myself. Not with whatever invisible wall is lingering between us. But I know exactly what subject will always engage her, no matter how strained things might be between us.
“All right,” I say, setting down my coffee mug with more force than necessary. “Let’s talk shop, Detective Holiday. What have you got so far in the Maple case?”
Her eyes light up immediately. Nothing activates Hattie like the opportunity to share detective work that she absolutely shouldn’t be doing.
“Well, I have been gathering information,” she begins, leaning forward slightly. The ice in her demeanor cracks just enough to glimpse the warm, enthusiastic woman I know. “I’ve spoken to several key people connected to Vivian.”
She outlines what she’s learned about Meredith Thorne, the baker whose business was failing until Vivian’s convenient death cleared the way for her to win the prize money. She details her visit to Sunrise & Cinnamon and her conversation with AutumnHarrington, touching on the rumors of recipe theft in the local culinary community without confirming who might have stolen from whom.
My stomach growls embarrassingly loud at her description of Sparky’s Smokehouse—the smoked turkey with bacon, the bourbon-candied sweet potatoes, the cornbread stuffing infused with brisket drippings. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and her food descriptions are borderline torture.
Why in the world wasn’t I there with her? It sounds as if I missed a great time. More than that, I missed time with Hattie.
“Sorry,” she says, pushing her half-eaten slice of pie toward me. “You want this?”
“I’ll survive,” I assure her, though I eye the pie with undisguised longing. “Continue.”
Hattie saves the bombshell for last. “And then Oliver Prescott—Bunny’s cousin, the food critic, the silver fox judge from the festival—made a confession.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “He was Vivian’s ex-husband.”
I inch back in my chair, genuinely stunned. “So, there’s a motive.”
“Yeah, but he said they divorced over ten years ago. He cheated and she wanted nothing to do with him.” Hattie stirs her coffee absently. “He admitted that he wanted more from her but accepted that the door was shut forever.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes suddenly intense. “And now it is.”
The implication hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken connections. A man who couldn’t let go of a woman. A relationship damaged by betrayal. A door permanently closed by death.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, mentally arranging the suspects like pieces on a chess board. “We have Meredith Thorne, whose bakery was on the verge of bankruptcy until she conveniently won the prize money after Vivian’s death.”
“Right. Also, the poison was found in the pumpkin spice latte that originated from her booth at the festival. However, that was the only tainted cup we could find.”
“Thankfully.” Hattie shudders. “Then there’s Autumn Harrington, who might have her own reasons to resent Vivian given all the rumors of recipe theft flying around the local culinary scene.”
“Exactly.”
“And now Oliver Prescott, the ex-husband who cheated, got dumped, and apparently never quite got over it.” I take a sip of my coffee, now lukewarm. “That’s three solid motives for murder.”
“Plus, there’s the means. Yew poisoning isn’t exactly a spur-of-the-moment crime. Someone had to know what they were doing.”
“It’s definitely premeditated,” I agree. “And according to the medical examiner, the poison was likely administered shortly before her collapse. The toxin works quickly.”
Hattie leans forward and looks fully engaged. “So we need to determine who had access to her drink right before the announcement.”
“Which would be practically anyone at the festival,” I point out. “It was crowded, chaotic, and people were milling around with food and drinks everywhere.”
“But not everyone had a motive.” Her eyes gleam with the thrill of the hunt.
“And not everyone knew about yew being poisonous.”
“Autumn might,” Hattie muses. “She’s a chef. She probably knows all kinds of food-related toxins.”
“Meredith is a baker,” I counter. “She works with plants and extracts, too.”
“And who knows what Oliver learned as a food critic? Maybe he reviewed a book on poisonous plants once.”
