Cake Pop Casualties (MURDER IN THE MIX Book 22) Page 2

  The original Mrs. Pemberley stands before a heavily lacquered snow-white grand piano, tipping her strawberry blond curls back as she shares a laugh with a group of women. Keelie is right. That’s her. I remember her too and she looks as if she hasn’t aged a day. Although I suspect some major self-induced facial paralysis can be thanked for the wrinkle-free feat. Her face looks stiff as concrete.

  The Pemberley mansion is as exquisite inside as it is outside with its marble floors and walls. Its floor-to-ceiling windows face Honey Lake and extend the length of the stately structure. And the entire place holds the floral scent of fresh gardenias. I’ve just set a platter of my delicious cake pops in every shade of pastel down onto the dessert table. Scarlet suggested I bring them and leave a few cards since my cake pops are not only Keelie’s unorthodox version of a wedding cake, but they’re a great way to showcase different cake flavors to the brides-to-be at the present event. Scarlet called ahead to the waitstaff and they more than loved the idea.

  Keelie, Mom, Carlotta, Evie, and I haven’t stopped marveling at the opulence of this place.

  Carlotta winces at the woman. “Looks as if her face has been ironed out real good. Nothing but top-notch work. She doesn’t look a day over twenty, and you know she’s on the heavy end of a million.”

  “Would you hush?” I whisper-hiss at the woman who bore me. “I don’t want us to get kicked out before Keelie has the chance to snap up a gown.”

  “Or me,” Evie says as she takes a look around. “I see a bunch of short black dresses. I think I’ll start there.”

  Mom groans, “No, no. A beautiful young girl like you would look much better in pink. I’ll help you find something suitable.” Mom links arms with Evie before she can protest and they’re off in an entirely different direction.

  The palatial ballroom before us has been transformed into a wedding boutique with a flurry of white dresses everywhere you look, ranging from satin to sumptuous lace. A handful of bridesmaid dresses and dresses for the mother-of-the bride are strewn about, and there are waiters and waitresses in formal attire walking around with platters of crystal champagne flutes brimming with bubbly. Nothing but the best, I’m sure.

  There’s a live pianist strumming away a classical ditty, and the only sound competing with it is the din of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

  Carlotta leans in. “Don’t worry, Lot Lot. I’ll make sure Evie finds a hot little number that puts every boy in Honey Hollow on high alert.”

  “Are you nuts? She’s fifteen. She doesn’t need to put the boys on high alert.”

  “Why not? I did.” Carlotta lifts her chin as if daring me to contest her. “In fact, I was just about the same ripe old age as Evie when I brought you into this world.”

  “My point exactly,” I say.

  “Get off your high horse, Lot. I’m perfectly capable of raising Evie to be an upstanding citizen. In fact, I’ve taken it upon myself to teach her the ways of the world. You and Mr. Sexy can thank me later.”

  My mouth opens and closes. “I think I can speak for Everett when I say that’s not necessary.”

  Carlotta squints over at something just past my left shoulder. “Do rich people let baby goats wander around their homes willy-nilly?”

  “I doubt it,” I say as I watch Keelie embrace her mother. Keelie looks like a princess in that pale yellow flowing gown she’s donned, and I’m half-afraid if she doesn’t pick something out this afternoon, it just might have to double as her wedding dress. Before we left the bakery, she invited both her mother and her twin sister, Naomi, to join the frock-laden festivities. “Goats aren’t exactly easily housebroken.” And neither is Naomi, I muse as I examine her. Naomi dyes her blonde locks jet-black and it looks great on her. But that feathery lime green dress, that looks more like a baggy sweater dripping down to her thighs, does not.

  Naomi has pretty much disliked me from the get-go when Keelie and I decided to cement our BFF bond back in preschool. Naomi and I have been on a downward descent ever since.

  “No pet goats, huh? Well then”—Carlotta shakes her head—“it looks as if we’ve got a ghostly guest. I’d better go meet the tiny little spook.” She takes off before I can stop her.

  I’ve known from a young age that I could see creatures and people that others around me couldn’t. And I quickly put together the fact their presence meant trouble for whoever they were once near and dear to.

  But not until lately has it imminently meant death. And not until just before my grandma Nell passed away did I know what my gift, or curse as it were, was called. It turns out, I’m something labeled as transmundane, further classified as supersensual. There are many supernatural abilities that fall under the umbrella of transmundane, and my supersensual powers are one of them.

  I narrow my gaze in the direction Carlotta took off in.

  A baby goat, huh? I bet that means some poor soul holed up in this building isn’t getting out alive. That also must mean a killer lurks among us. The thought alone makes me wish I had brought Ethel with me.

  Ethel is the name I gave to the Glock handgun that Noah and Everett bought for me a while back. I may have promised them I’d take her with me wherever I go and, much to my detriment, that’s one promise I can’t seem to keep.

  Keelie scuttles over, holding her baby belly as she shifts from side to side.

  “Where did your mom and sister go?” I ask, craning my neck past her.

  “My mom went to find your mom, and Naomi is talking to friends.” She glances back, and I follow her gaze to Naomi laughing it up with a girl who looks to be a little younger than Keelie and me. We’re both in our late twenties, and that girl looks as if she’s hardly crested her teens. Her hair is dark with thick chunky blonde highlights, and she’s wearing a tight red dress that looks as if it’s made from some stretchy fabric designed to cling to your skin.

  “Who is that?” I whisper.

  Keelie huffs, “That’s Analise Johansson, AKA the woman in line to become the next Mrs. Pemberley.”

  “What?” I squawk so loud a hush falls over our quadrant of the room. I lean in. “She looks like a kid, and Mr. Pemberley must be ancient by now.”

  Keelie’s eyes double in size as she looks at something behind me in horror.

  I glance back and scream before ducking behind my bestie.

  “Mr. Pemberley.” Keelie lifts her chin to the older—much, much older—and yet strangely handsome man with his dark hair graying at the roots as if it were in need of a touch-up, his thick skin, his cut and paste smile—no, really, I’d bet my bakery this man has surgically enhanced his lips and not in any good way. Think Joker from Batman.

  “Afternoon, ladies.” He gives an amicable nod before heading for his child bride-to-be.

  “Wow,” I say as I walk Keelie over to a puddle of white dresses taking up a majority of the center of the room. “We should run from that fire and stay focused on the task at hand.”

  “But think of all the entertainment they could provide.” She glances back in their direction. “His daughter Debbie is here, too.”

  “Does she really go by Debbie?” I’ve met enough socialites to know they don’t dare share names with commoners like us.

  “It’s actually Dolce, or is it Gabbana? Anywho, I could never get it right, so I’ve resorted to calling her Debbie.”

  A small laugh bounces through me. “And has she resorted to calling the cops?”

  “Not yet.” Keelie cranes her neck back toward drama central. “But as soon as Debbie spots Analise, she might just do that.”

  A couple of older women bristle their way next to us as they pluck and gawk at the lush dresses before us.

  “Am I ever glad my husband is dead,” bleats the older of the two with her short red hair and chunky neck jewelry. “No more sharing the remote. No more hostile opinions I have to pretend to go along with. No more holidays spent with people who aren’t worth an ounce of my time.”

  The shorter, seemingly younger looking of the two chortles. “If only my husband would have taken his mother with him when he left. But I suppose it’s frowned upon to bury the living.”

  They break out into a sharp cackle.

  The shorter one waves it off. “William was a cheat. He deserved exactly what he got.”

  “Oh please, May. Nobody deserves to be chopped in half by the garage door of all things.” She squints over at her friend. “Not everyone lines their door with razors, you know. I’m shocked the sheriff’s department hasn’t arrested you yet.”

  “As long as I keep donating to the sheriff’s ball, they’re more than happy with me.”

  They move along to the next row of dresses and I gasp at Keelie.

  “That woman all but confessed to killing her husband! Do you think that’s the murder I’ll have to solve?” My fingers clamp over my mouth.

  Keelie might be my best friend, but she doesn’t have a clue about my supersensual status. Outside of Noah and Everett, the only other person in town who knows of my supernatural quirk is Carlotta, because we happen to share the same unnatural abilities.

  Keelie slumps. “Lottie, those women sounded miserable. You don’t think I’ll be moved to kill Bear in a few years, do you?”

  “Why wait a few years?” I tease. “Kidding.” Sort of.

  Otis Bear Fisher isn’t exactly the easiest person to get along with. I should know. We dated all through high school and I foolishly gave him my virginity. Actually, he’s the real reason Naomi took such a vitriolic dislike toward me.

  Naomi was the only girl that Bear wouldn’t cheat on me with. Well, with the exception of Keelie. And I’m betting right about now he’s pretty glad about it, too. But he’s cleaned up his cheating act. He owns his own construction company now. And, in f
act, I’ve hired him to fix Nell’s old place. The wonky plumbing was just the tip of the disastrous iceberg, but the mold took the cake. He’s basically taking the place down to the studs, all on my unfortunate dime. When Nell died, she left me half of Honey Hollow and her home was part of the haul.

  “You’re not killing Bear,” I say, picking up her hand. “You’re building a family with him. Your little baby bear is due in just a couple months. So let’s find a beautiful dress so the three of you can start your happily ever after.”

  “Fine.” Keelie takes a breath as she starts plucking at the wall full of dresses before us.

  The sound of angry voices escalates from behind and I take a few steps back to find a dark-haired man about my age holding the future Mrs. Pemberley by the elbow and saying something to her that looks to be hostile. His pale, icy-colored eyes lock with mine, and I’m quick to glance away.

  Without thinking, I dart to my right, bumping into a woman wearing a burgundy pantsuit and accidentally sending her champagne spilling onto her blouse.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I blot it with my fingers, inadvertently touching her in places I should never touch a stranger.

  “It’s fine.” She laughs, plucking a dark tissue from her breast pocket and wiping it down in haste. “It’s not like it’s silk or anything.” She dusts the remaining beads of glittering champagne off her shirt. “It’s acrylic.” She wrinkles her nose and smiles my way.

  “Well, I’m still sorry. I can pay for your dry cleaning bill if you like. I own the bakery on Main Street. Just drop the bill off and I’ll be happy to take care of it.”

  “A bakery?” Her brows hike. “What’s a blue-collar girl doing in this white-collar world?” She winces. “Oh, right, you’re probably getting married.”

  “No, actually. My best friend is. I’m Lottie Lemon.” I hold out my hand, and she’s quick to shake it.

  “Brandy Hillenbrand. I’m a nurse down in Leeds.”

  “Are you getting married?”

  “No. Bridesmaid here.” She lifts a hand before glancing around. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the task at hand before I’m caught red-handed.”

  “You and me both, sister,” I say under my breath as I head for the dresses once again.

  “Lottie Dottie!” Carlotta shouts, and I turn to find her shuttling a woman about her age with frizzy red hair and a wily gleam in her eyes that matches that of my birth mother. She’s wearing a blue dress paired with a flowing paisley scarf, and there’s a cartoonish appeal to her. “This is the kiddo, alive and in the flesh,” she says to the woman as she extends her hand my way.

  “Lottie Lemon.” I nod to the woman and her ruby lips fall open.

  “Well, I’ll be a pig’s arse!” The woman jolts as if I had stunned her. “You really do exist. I’m Hartley Kendricks, one of your mama’s oldest, nearest, and dearest friends. We did everything together. In fact, I kept a lookout while she and Harry did the dirty deed that landed you here in the first place.” She gasps as she looks to Carlotta. “Tell me I didn’t ruin the big who’s your daddy reveal, did I?”

  “Naw.” Carlotta waves the idea away. “I decided to forgo the talk show circuit. I called, but they wouldn’t meet my demands, so I just blurted it out one day at a party.”

  That she did. And that’s exactly how I came to learn that Mayor Harry Nash was my biological father. He’s a notorious cheat. Just ask his long-suffering ex-wife. But he’s a good guy overall. Oddly enough, he’s dating Carlotta as of late.

  “So you were the lookout,” I say with a lot less kindness in my tone. I’m suddenly not as impressed with the woman as I was a few moments ago.

  “Yuppers.” She salutes the wind.

  “So what brings you here, Hart?” Carlotta smacks her in the gut and causes the woman to double over. “Looking to shmooze with the ex?”

  “No.” Hartley shoots a wicked glance to the right. “I’m here for a dress.”

  Carlotta’s entire body bucks. “You’re getting hitched again? To whom?”

  “Nobody you know.”

  Carlotta barks out a laugh. “Lottie, Hartley here was the second Mrs. Pemberley. I always knew she had the potential to have billions coursing through her veins. Of course, I thought she might make her billions the old-fashioned way—lawsuits. But she took one for the team and went the matrimonial route.”

  “Carlotta”—I stifle a nervous laugh—“the man was her husband. How is that taking one for the team?”

  Hartley gives an odd fire drill of a laugh. “The man is a pig’s arse, Lottie. Everyone knows that. And if they don’t know it, they haven’t met him.” Her expression sours as she eyes something in the crowd. “Excuse me, ladies. I’ve got some bacon to tend to.” She takes off and Carlotta slings an arm over my shoulder.

  “Ain’t she the best?”

  “If you say so.” I pluck an ivory dress made of the softest lace known to man off the rack and hold it to my body.

  “Good choice.” Carlotta is quick to give her unsolicited opinion. “That has Mr. Sexy written all over it.”

  “How do you know it doesn’t say Noah?” I kick my leg out, giving the dress some life.

  “Oh honey, Foxy doesn’t have the money for that snazzy number.” She turns the price tag around and my eyes bulge.

  I gag. “Is that in dollars?”

  “Yup. A cool twenty grand. And if I overheard correctly, it was Mr. Sexy who suggested you pick up what you like. The tab is on him. Foxy can’t make an offer like that. Not without crossing his fingers behind his back.”

  I make a face. “I don’t need a fancy dress.”

  “That’s right.” She sighs. “Both those men prefer you in the nude.”

  She’s not entirely wrong.

  A scuffle breaks out behind us and I’m horrified to find Keelie in the heart of it.

  “Keelie!” I dart that way as she partakes in a tug-of-war over a pink gown with the woman in the tight red dress, the future Mrs. Teen Pemberley.

  And standing behind his child bride-to-be is the old coot himself.

  “Now, now.” He bats his hands in the air. “Do give my Ana what she’s after.”

  “No!” Keelie bites the air with her snippy reply. “This is my dress. And I’ll kill to have it.” She snarls over at the ingénue and the younger girl bares her fangs in return.

  “Nobody threatens me.” She looks to Mr. Pemberley. “Make her give it, or you’re going to bed hungry.”

  Why do I get the feeling she’s not talking about food?

  And eww.

  Mr. Pemberley does his best to get involved, but before there are too many arms coming at my bestie, I whisk her away.

  “I’m so mad, Lottie. Let me at ’em.” She works her way free from my grasp. “They think because they have all the money in the world they can steal my wedding dress.”

  “They probably can.” I shrug. “Let her have the pink dress. We’ll find you a blue one. You’ll look like Cinderella.”

  “Was Cinderella knocked up when she married the prince? I didn’t think so. I’m so angry I could kill them both.” Keelie storms off, and I’m about to go after her when a svelte blonde with tiny, fragile features steps up next to me.

  “I’m rooting for Keelie.” She folds her arms across her chest.

  “I’m rooting for her, too. I’m Lottie,” I say. “And I can assure you, Keelie is not in her right mind at the moment. Her wedding is just weeks away and she’s desperate for a dress. How do you know Keelie?”

  “My mother and Keelie’s mother were good friends. I’m Dolce, but you can call me Debbie just the way Keelie does.” She leans in and wrinkles her nose. “I kind of like it.” The blonde, Debbie, makes a face as she looks back at Analise and Mr. Pemberley. “I wish their wedding day would never come.”

  A thought comes to me. “Hey, isn’t he your father?”

  “Was.” She shrugs. “That man is dead to me now.”

  She takes off and I marvel at how tragic those words are. I would give anything for my father to still be here today—Joseph Lemon, the man who raised me. He died of a heart attack way back when, and I miss him so much sometimes it feels as if it’s killing me.

  He came back to visit this past year—as a ghost, of course, after his good friend was murdered. And boy was that ghostly visit one of the best moments of my life. I sure hope Dolce, Debbie, can mend fences with her father even if she doesn’t approve of him robbing the cradle. Life is too precious to spend any of it pent up with anger.