Key Lime Pie Perjury: Cozy Mystery (MURDER IN THE MIX Book 34) Read online

  Key Lime Pie Perjury

  MURDER IN THE MIX 34

  Addison Moore

  Contents

  Book Description

  1. Lottie

  2. Lottie

  3. Lottie

  4. Noah

  5. Everett

  6. Lottie

  7. Noah

  8. Everett

  9. Lottie

  10. Lottie

  11. Lottie

  12. Noah

  13. Everett

  14. Lottie

  15. Noah

  16. Everett

  17. Lottie

  18. Noah

  19. Everett

  20. Lottie

  21. Lottie

  22. Noah

  23. Everett

  24. Lottie

  Recipe

  Books by Addison Moore

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore

  Edited by Paige Maroney Smith

  Cover by Lou Harper, Cover Affairs

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore

  Book Description

  My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so I rarely see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety, aka dead pets, who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom.

  A regency ball goes awry and both Noah and Everett are in over their heads. Add in the ghost of an adorable Bichon Frise named Pretty Boy and you've got trouble. Perjury, a dirty deal made with a couple of mobster devils, and a defunct bakery. Summer in Honey Hollow is getting too hot to handle.

  Lottie Lemon has a brand new bakery to tend to, a budding romance with perhaps one too many suitors, and she has the supernatural ability to see the dead—which are always harbingers for ominous things to come. Throw in the occasional ghost of the human variety, a string of murders, and her insatiable thirst for justice, and you’ll have more chaos than you know what to do with.

  Living in the small town of Honey Hollow can be murder.

  Lottie

  My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom. But right now the only thing I’m seeing is my reflection in an oval mirror as my face turns a deep shade of purple.

  It’s Saturday night and all of Honey Hollow has descended on the Evergreen Manor where a regency reenactment ball is set to begin in just a few minutes. When the historical society presented the idea as a fundraiser to kick off summer, the entire town was a titter with the idea of dress codes and decorum. And that’s exactly why I’m in a glorified closet behind the ballroom at the Evergreen, along with hordes of other women, as we all transform ourselves from modern women to well-corseted ladies of yesterday. Who could resist a good free frock?

  Okay, so the elegant dresses that the historical society procured for us weren’t exactly free—the entire town had to pony up for the rentals for a nominal fee, but all the funds go straight into their pocket and in exchange the residents of Honey Hollow get to have a good old-fashioned time.

  I grip the padded chair in front of me while Carlotta tightens the laces on my corset.

  “Good Grief! My ribs were made to expand!” I cry out with what might well be my very last breath.

  “Women aren’t supposed to breathe, Lottie,” Mom points out. “It’s the Regency era.” The woman I call Mom is the one I consider my true mother, the one who raised me, Miranda Lemon. She has creamy blonde curls, a devilish grin, and blue eyes, which are eternally glimmering with mischief. “Now tighten those laces, Carlotta.”

  Carlotta does as she’s told and I let out a wild yelp.

  “I think you just cracked three ribs!” I growl so loud, the vibrant hum in the room quiets a moment as all eyes flit my way. The look of disdain on their faces lets me know they wish I would buck up and take the broken ribs as they come. It’s clear they don’t think I’m being a team player. But if the sport involved requires broken bones, then I don’t want to play.

  “Stop holding your breath, Lot,” Carlotta barks as she struggles to maintain the tension on those laces of death she’s holding. Carlotta is my biological mother, who did me the greatest service when she abandoned me at the Honey Hollow Fire Department nearly three decades ago. She and I share the same caramel-colored waves, same hazel eyes, and same disposition to see the dead. The little supernatural quirk has been both a blessing and a curse. “If you can stop hogging the O2 for a second, I can cinch this thing another two inches and you’ll have a real hourglass figure.” Carlotta lands her foot on my rear, tightens those laces tenfold, and darn near forces my soul right out of my body. “Face it, Lot, you’ve had the body of a potato ever since you spit out Little Yippy.”

  “Never mind those two inches,” I grunt. “I don’t care if I look like a potato. And my daughter’s name is Lyla Nell, in the event you’ve forgotten.” Not that I’ve heard her utter it once.

  Someone chuckles from behind and I turn to see my genetic doppelgänger sans the fact her hair is a touch darker and her eyes have a touch of cornflower mixed with hazel. Not only do we look alike, we happen to share the same formal moniker, Carlotta. Yup. Carlotta, the one who bore us, left a note pinned to me asking that I be christened with that name and my mother, Miranda Lemon, made good on it. Of course, no one ever calls me anything but the perky little nickname my mother came up with and I prefer it that way. Although that didn’t stop me from naming Lyla Nell Carlotta, too.

  “Charlie, this is not funny,” I tell her. “Now, if you’ll please pluck Carlotta off of me, I’ll be forever grateful.”

  Charlie’s lips curl at the tips. “Oh, come on, Lottie. Don’t you want to look your best for those husbands of yours?”

  “Husband—singular,” I tell her as I bat Carlotta away from me and finish slipping into my pale blue dress. Each one of us has donned a pastel number, which emphasizes our chests and has an empire waistline—the latter of which begs the question why was the corset needed at all?

  “Oh, come on, Lottie.” Naomi Turner, the brunette twin of my BFF, crops up next to my sister wearing a pink frock that matches the one Charlie has on. “Nobody is buying that monogamy bull you’re trying to sling. Everyone in town knows your dirty little love triangle is still going strong.”

  “That’s right.” The ghost of Greer Giles slinks up on the other side of Charlie.

  Greer died a few years back and has been happily haunting my mother’s B&B, along with her plus one, a two-hundred-year-old hottie named Winslow Decker, their adopted daughter Lea, and let’s not forget their ghostly cat. They’re all friendly, for the most part, except for now, as Greer seems to be taking my sister’s side. Both Greer
and Naomi seem to take my sister’s side in just about everything as of late.

  Charlie has only been in town a few months but already seems to have gathered a group of close-knit friends—mostly the wrong ones, as in mean girls. Aside from Greer, of course. But then again, while Greer was alive, she was the queen of mean. She’s still wearing the white ruched gown she had on the night she was shot. And that bullet wound still sits over her chest like a crimson rose as a reminder as to how she met her demise.

  Greer leans in. “Guess what, Lot? Charlie has been plotting to—”

  Charlie lifts her hand and Greer goes flying to the back of the room as if she struck her.

  Huh. I’ve never batted away a ghost before. Didn’t even know I could do it. But it wouldn’t shock me if Charlie’s supernatural powers differed from mine. We might look alike, but we’re different through and through.

  “What are you up to?” I squint over at my shifty sister.

  Naomi scoffs on Charlie’s behalf. “So you’re not denying it? You are in a love triangle!”

  “I am not,” I hiss her way. Growing up, Naomi was one of the mean girls that tormented me in high school. Not only was she livid that her own twin preferred me to her, she was livid that she couldn’t get my then-boyfriend Bear Fisher to sleep with her. I don’t see why he didn’t. He slept with just about everyone else. Except for Keelie, my bestie, of course, and her aforementioned twin, Naomi. And good thing he didn’t sleep with either of them at the time because Bear and Keelie married a year ago and they have a sweet little baby boy now who’s all of nine months.

  Naomi narrows her eyes at me. “If you’re not in a love triangle, why don’t you toss your sister one of your men?”

  Those men in question would be Homicide Detective Noah Corbin Fox and Judge Essex Everett Baxter.

  A woman chortles from behind and I spot Britney Fox heading over, ensconced by a couple of women, a brunette and a redhead.

  “She’s not giving up Noah.” Britney winks my way. Britney is a blonde version of Jessica Rabbit with a rather obscene hourglass figure that defies the laws of physics, human anatomy, and perhaps the speed of light. Her wavy long hair is heavily parted on one side and cleverly obscures the sight of her left eye.

  Fun fact: Britney was Noah’s first wife. Detective Noah Fox and I dated hot and heavy right up until Britney showed up and announced she wanted her husband back. I didn’t even know that Noah was married at the time, so that sort of put Noah and me on a rocky trajectory we’ve never recovered from. But that’s all in the past now. Brit is happy to be divorced from Noah, and the two of us are friends now. She owns the Swift Cycle Gym across the street from my bakery, the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, and we happen to be the reason each other’s businesses are thriving the way they are.

  “I can’t give up Noah because technically I don’t have him,” I inform Britney. I can tell by the way her lips are fighting a smile that she’s getting a rise out of this silly conversation.

  Charlie laughs. “Who said anything about Noah? Lottie and Noah have a kid together. She might just toss Everett my way.”

  Carlotta pats my sister on the back. “That’s Cha Cha for ya. Always gunning for someone else’s man.”

  “You should know,” I say, giving her a look.

  Just a little over a week ago, I discovered that both Charlie and Carlotta shared an ex that goes by the nickname Rooster Puddin’ Tuttle. That was back when they were both living in Higgins Bottom, Arizona, the same place where Charlie had the misfortune of being reared by the woman before us. Apparently, after Charlie was born, Carlotta came back to Honey Hollow to give yet another child away to my mother in hopes she would raise her as well. But then Carlotta discovered that my mother had just given birth to my younger sister, Meg—and that’s how poor Charlie got stuck in Higgins Bottom with Carlotta.

  Carlotta lifts a finger my way in haste. “Don’t you dare conjure up that demon, Lottie Lemon. Nobody in this room had better breathe the name Shelby Hardy Tuttle lest they have me to deal with.”

  Shelby would be Rooster’s legal moniker.

  “Carlotta!” Charlie barks.

  She calls Carlotta by her proper name as often as she calls her Mama.

  “Doh!” Carlotta smacks herself on the forehead. “Son of a biscuit. All right, fine. The spell has been cast. Time to round up the garlic, the holy water, and all of the crucifixes in the great state of Vermont.”

  “I’m on the hunt with you,” Charlie says as the two of them take off.

  “Hey!” I shout. “And for the record, Everett and I have a kid together, too—two of them.” It’s true. In addition to Lyla Nell, who Everett will be raising alongside Noah and me, Everett and I are parents to Everly—Evie—Baxter, a sixteen-year-old stunner who shares her father’s dark hair, cobalt blue eyes, and brilliant mind.

  Evie’s biological mother is a nutty socialite who basically hid Evie from the world in some stuffy boarding school. Everett just learned about Evie a year ago, and we’re so glad she’s in our life. And I’m so glad I’ve formally adopted her.

  Britney shakes her head in their wake. “And I thought my relatives were insane.” She looks my way. “Lottie, I’d love for you to meet my friends. She pulls the brunette close. “This is Karen Collier. She’s in charge of the mommy social network in Honey Hollow. Karen, Lottie here just had a baby a couple of months ago.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I tell her. “My daughter, Lyla Nell, is just about three months old.”

  Karen has long straight hair that lands right above her bottom. Her hair is so shiny and smooth you can practically see your reflection in it.

  Her mouth rounds out with a pleasant smile. “Nice to meet you, too. I have twin three-year-old boys. Have you hired a decent nanny yet?”

  “A nanny? Oh no, I don’t really have a need for that. My other daughter, Evie, she’s sixteen and she’s babysitting Lyla Nell tonight.” Thankfully, Evie happily volunteered. “I invited her to the ball, but she said she’d rather stab her eyes out with a pencil than hit the party scene with a bunch of old fogies playing dress-up.”

  Karen chortles as if it were the funniest thing in the world. “Well, you just give me a call when you’re ready to haul in the big guns. Britney knows where to find me.”

  “I sure do.” Britney nods to the redhead on her left. “And Lottie, this is my good friend Lorelei Mulligan.”

  Lorelei chortles, causing her tiny pinched nose to wiggle. “So glad to meet you, Lottie.” She offers her hand and I shake it. She’s ice-cold to the touch, but that smile on her face warms up the entire room. “I happen to teach the mommy and me classes over at the community center. You should come. And we encourage fathers to attend, too. You’re just going to love it.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait,” I tell her. “In fact, I think my sister Lainey and my best friend Keelie are already in the class.”

  “Yes!” Her eyes widen a notch and they’re the exact color of root beer soda. “Lainey is my assistant.”

  Someone shouts it’s showtime, and the entire room drains at once as we all make our way to the regency party at hand.

  The Evergreen Manor’s ballroom has an infamous past, but tonight it’s decked out with enough twinkle lights and roses to whitewash anything dicey that may have ever occurred under its roof.

  Classical music filters through the air, and the light citrus scent stemming from the dessert table accompanies it. Naomi, the manager here at the Evergreen Manor, asked me to cater the sweet treats for the evening and, of course, I said yes. I’ve brought over an assortment of cookies, and along with them a plethora of fresh key lime pies. I thought since it was June and summer is at hand, key lime pie would be both an elegant and refreshing addition to tonight’s confectionary menu.

  The ballroom is teeming with bodies—women in elegant pastel dresses and men in fancy era-specific suits. People are doing their best to move and groove on the dance floor as an entire army of docents from the historical society t
ries to instruct them just how to do it.

  The aforementioned dessert table sits along the back wall with my cookies and delicious key lime pies stealing the culinary show, and I spot a couple of my trusty employees manning the table. I glance to my left and my heart thumps wildly at the sight before me.

  Standing less than ten feet away with a couple of people by their side are Noah and Everett. They’re both heart-stoppingly gorgeous, and apparently I’m not the only one who’s noticed that fact, seeing that every woman in the room is craning her neck to get a better look at them. Lace fans are a flutter, and so are hearts, at the sight of those two studs.

  Noah Corbin Fox has dark hair that turns red at the tips in the sun, bright green eyes, and the deepest dimples known to humankind. He’s built for speed with muscles for days, as he should be since he chases down the bad guys every day for the Ashford County Sheriff’s Department.

  And next to him is Essex Everett Baxter, my unstoppably sexy husband with his sleek black hair and deep blue eyes. His body is put together just the way God intended, he exudes far too much testosterone, and he hardly ever smiles. His brand of masculinity is intoxicating and perhaps bewitching, as evidenced by his long history of having every woman on the Eastern Seaboard fall into his bed. That was before he met me, of course.

  Everett prefers to go by his middle name since he thinks it has a far more humble ring to it. But fun side note: the bevy of beauties he’s bedded all seems to call him Essex. It’s sort of a door prize in their eyes for doing the mattress moves with him. I still call him Everett because that’s what I’m most comfortable with, and he prefers it that way, too. Everett is a judge at the Ashford County Courthouse, and he’s finally going to resume his seat on the bench this Monday after being absent from it for the past six months.