HATTIE
The Gilded Gratitude Gala continues to swell with Brambleberry Bay’s finest, their laughter and murmuring conversations creating a symphony of wealth and social positioning that rises to the vaulted ceiling.
Crystal glasses clink, designer heels click against marble floors, and the string quartet has moved on to what sounds like a classical arrangement because nothing says money like violins.
The air is perfumed with the mingled scents of expensive cologne, gourmet hors d’oeuvres, and floral arrangements that took our yearly budget on a trip to Mars. And through it all wafts the unmistakable thick aroma of roasted turkey from the gourmet serving platters. Meanwhile, the ice sculpture turkeys continue to weep champagne through their beaks like frozen fowl having an existential crisis.
I approach Meredith so quietly that she startles when I appear beside her, nearly dropping her champagne flute.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, honey!” She gives a loud guffaw. “You move quieter than a mouse at a cat convention,” she cries while pressing a hand to her chest where her burgundy gown catches the light.
“Sorry,” I say with a smile that I hope looks more friendly than predatory. “I was just admiring the ice turkey. I think the artist captured the essence of frozen poultry perfectly, don’t you?”
Meredith chuckles. “It’s certainly impressive. Although I keep expecting it to shake itself off and waddle away, trailing champagne as if it were looking for the nearest restroom.”
We share a laugh that feels almost genuine, and for a moment, I consider backing off. But then I remember Killion with Venetta, and for some reason, their twin betrayals stoke the fire of my determination.
“So”—I begin casually—“I hear you needed that prize money to keep your bakery open.”
The change in Meredith’s expression is subtle but immediate—like watching a soufflé deflate in slow motion. “My, my, we’re just jumping right into the deep end without even testing the water temperature, aren’t we?”
“Sometimes the direct approach is best.”
“I told you I needed that money.” She sighs, swirling her champagne with a flick of her wrist. “Yes, The Whisked Away Bakery has seen better days. Summer tourists dried up faster than cake left in the oven too long, and my bank account was looking emptier than a pie dish after Thanksgiving dinner.” Her Southern accent thickens slightly, as it seems to do when she’s emotional. Come to think of it, so does Peggy’s. “But that prize money came as a godsend,” she continues. “Even if it came with the bitter aftertaste of Vivian’s passing.”
I take a breath, steeling myself for the plunge. “Is that why you did it? Is that why you poisoned Vivian’s pumpkin spice latte with yew?”
Yes! Direct hit!Cricket’s approving thought reaches me from where she’s curled beneath a nearby table, watching the confrontation as if it were dinner theater.
I told you she was a cold-blooded killer,Rookie chimes as he bounces to my side.She never once offered me a treat when we visited her bakery.
Cricket scoffs.That’s your metric for murderous intent? Failure to provide biscuits?
It’s never steered me wrong yet,he replies with a soft woof.
Meredith’s eyes widen to the approximate size of dinner plates. Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a fish out of water. “I don’t even know what yew is! How would I get that? Do I look like a botanist to you?” Her voice rises enough to draw glances from nearby guests. She lowers it with visible effort. “And even though I wanted Vivian out of my hair, I would never resort to murder. That woman was insufferable, but death? No ma’am. She’s not worth the jail time or the hit to my karma.”
Her indignation seems genuine, but then again, I’ve met cats who could convincingly act innocent while sitting next to a shredded roll of toilet paper. I glance at Cricket—AKA the culprit at hand.
“But didn’t she also steal your recipe for the Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake?” I press on, watching for any tell-tale flicker in Meredith’s eyes.
She leans back a notch. “Why, I don’t serve a Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake.”
“You don’t?”
She shakes her head with the certainty of someone who’s never even heard the wordsharvestandmoonin the same sentence. “Sugar, I serve pies, cookies, muffins, and enough varieties of breakfast pastry to put a French bakery to shame. But no Harvest Moon Maple Pumpkin Spice Cake. Never heard of it until this very moment.”And I’ll never admit it out loud, but it does sound delicious.
Well, that’s unexpected. I was so sure I was onto something with the recipe theft angle. But if Meredith doesn’t even make this mysterious cake, then who does? And who was Vivian allegedly stealing from?
Meredith must read the confusion on my face because her expression softens from defensive to almost sympathetic. “Look, honey, I’m sorry, but I’m not the killer you’re looking for.” She gestures around at the glittering event. “This gala is gorgeous. Stick to event planning. I don’t think detective work is your forte.”
With that parting shot, she glides away, leaving me standing next to a slowly melting turkey with my theories dripping away just as quickly.
I’m about to grab a bacon-wrapped date from a passing server’s tray—because nothing soothes wounded pride quite like food wrapped in other food, especially when one of those foods happens to be bacon—when a svelte pale hand with long, claw-like nails cuts me off. The nails are painted a deep maroon that matches the sedan I saw leaving Moonlit Meadows two nights ago. And then the rest of her body steps in front of me and I groan hard.
“Hattie! There you are.” Venetta Brandt’s voice has the saccharine quality of someone who’s about to tell you that your outfit isso brave. She’s wearing a dress that appears to be constructed primarily of strategically placed sequins and wishful thinking, her auburn hair swept up in a complicated arrangement that defies both gravity and good taste. But it doesn’t matter. She’s stunning.
“Venetta.” I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “What a surprise. I didn’t realize you were on the guest list.”
