Cutie Pies and Deadly Lies: A Cozy Mystery Page 3

  He smacks his lips. “The commentary at the end was completely unnecessary.” He turns to the sisters. “Normally, this is where I would pause to consider the facts, make up my mind, and deliver a judgment. But since the fact this case is solely built on slander—and absolutely no proof that the defendant caused it to begin with, your entire case rests on hearsay and speculation. This case is dismissed. Ms. Lemon, you are absolved from the accusations.”

  I suck in a quick breath and clap, silently yet enthusiastically. “Thank you,” I say and give an awkward wave as he abandons his post.

  Mora Anne and Merilee head over, sour-faced, tight-lipped, and beady-eyed. I can feel their wrath as sure as a furnace.

  “Isn’t that nice?” Mora Anne’s lips expand like a rubber band. “Make cute with the judge and, sure enough, he sides right along with you.”

  Merilee sniffs my way. “Well, you can start packing.” She hands me a thin vanilla envelope. “This is your official eviction notice.”

  “I’m being evicted? On what grounds?” Need I ask? Really?

  “Our cousin is moving in the first of October.”

  “But that’s in less than three weeks. Where will I go?”

  “That’s not our problem.” Mora Anne giggles as they exit, and for the first time since I’ve known her, it seemed genuine. Figures.

  It takes a full five minutes, and the pointing finger of the bailiff for me to find the exit. The marbled hall is empty save for the laughter of a female and the murmurings of a man, and just as I’m about to round the corner to leave, I bump into Judge Baxter, although far less violently than before.

  “Geez.” He takes a full step back and holds an arm over his lady friend as if to shield her from my gravitational pull. Probably a smart maneuver on his part.

  “Thank you once again, Mr. Sex—um, Essex, or um, Judge Baxter,” I say sheepishly before glancing to the sleek and polished brunette by his side. She’s wearing a royal blue power suit, and those heels she’s walking on have to be at least six inches tall. My own feet hurt just looking at them. Her face is smooth and heavily made up as if she just had a professional airbrush her into oblivion. Her lips are understated, not a garish shade of red in sight, and yet that shade of judgment in her eyes isn’t exactly appealing.

  He offers a curt nod. “You’re welcome. And it’s Everett. I go by Everett. I don’t expect to see you on the inside of my courtroom again, Ms. Lemon.”

  “Oh, you won’t—Everett. In fact, if you’re lucky, you won’t see me at all, ever again!” A tiny twinge lives and dies deep in my belly as if it mourned the fact.

  He frowns at the thought. “Have a good day. And, please, for your own sake, watch your step.”

  Both he and the brunette are careful to make their way around me as she giggles against his shoulder. “Essex, what’s this Everett business? Don’t you ever con me into calling you that.”

  “I think you know just what to call me and when,” he growls back with a dark laugh of his own.

  I clear my throat and wave until I’ve managed to garner his attention once again. “Essex, Mr. Sexy, Everett, Judge Hard-as-Flint, whoever you are—I’m glad you were in that courtroom today.” Both he and his paramour go slack-jawed before taking off once again. “Too bad you don’t have the ability to straighten out the rest of my life,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “I’m so steaming mad at Mora Anne and Merilee I could wring their necks.”

  Everett turns around and glances my way before they disappear down the hall.

  And to think Merilee didn’t have the courtesy to skin a knee.

  The day is young yet.

  Chapter 3

  “Lottie Lemon, I never knew you!” Keelie Nell Turner moans as she digs a fork into a half-eaten cutie pie. “I swear on the Honey Pot’s dusty soul, I have never tasted anything so decadent in all my life. And are those walnuts I’m loving so much?”

  “They are,” I say, putting my purse into a cubby in the back of the kitchen before heading to the baking nerve center of the Honey Pot, my own personal domain, as I like to call it. I do a once-over for the pies I set out, but they’ve up and disappeared. “Please tell me you didn’t eat that stack of goodness I had ready to deliver to Holland Grand at the Orchard.”

  “I wish.” Keelie rolls her eyes, her lashes batting away a mile a minute as she moans through another bite. Keelie has been my best friend as long as I can remember. And her twin, Naomi, has been my nemesis since about the eleventh grade. Naomi had a thing for Bear at the time, and Bear had a thing for me. By and large, Naomi has never done well with not getting her way. One would think her hatred for me stemmed from far more close to home reasons, like the fact Keelie and I were inseparable since preschool. But Naomi has her own best friend, and she’s just as snooty as Naomi is. But both Naomi and Keelie are gorgeous lookers, born with long blonde curls right out of the womb—Naomi has since dyed hers black, blue eyes for days, and a smile that could illuminate the Western Hemisphere—just Keelie, that is. Naomi is made of piss and vinegar, and that’s precisely why I go out of my way to avoid crossing paths with her. She runs the Evergreen Manor, the one and only inn at the foot of town, and it’s a shocker she hasn’t scared away all the tourists by now.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, girl.” Keelie dips her pinky into the caramel sauce and licks it clean. “Forget working for the Honey Pot. We need to open up a pie stand. This stuff is G-O-L-D.”

  “Quit the Honey Pot?” the voice of an elderly woman sings from behind, and both Keelie and I turn with a laugh caught in our throats because we’d recognize that sweet voice just about anywhere.

  “Nell!” I’m the first to throw my arms around the woman I couldn’t love more if she were family. Keelie piles on, and poor Nell is left gasping for air until we land back on our feet. Nell looks every bit the Queen of England with a dark maroon coat and matching pillbox hat. Her white little curls have been carefully coifed, and she has a smidge of pink lipstick on to boot. Nell is the one who gifted Pancake to me exactly a year ago. She went over to a breeder in Leeds to pick out a Himalayan for herself and couldn’t decide between two brothers and wound up taking them both. She said she’d let me keep one if I simply took one home. I suggested she keep the brothers together, but Nell insisted she just wanted the one. So we named the tiny fluffy kittens together. Pancake and Waffles. I can’t help but think the fact our cats are siblings somehow bonds us that much more.

  Keelie gives her hat a quick tap. “Grammy, where are you headed all dolled up like this? You’re not headed to the senior center trolling for another boyfriend, are you?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. Nell might be ninety-two, but she’s still pretty spry, and that boyfriend thing is no joke. About six months ago, she took up a suitor, and he took her out to dinner at the fancy Italian place across the street and everything. The entire town was in a tizzy.

  “I may. May not.” She winks my way. “Actually, I came to check up on things.” She looks around the inner workings of the diner she’s owned for going on fifty years. A tiny cough bubbles from her, and she’s quick to cover her mouth. “Oh Lord, get me out of here before they shut the place down because I’ve croaked in the kitchen.”

  Keelie gives me the side-eye. Nell has made a habit of trying to predict her demise. Much to our delight, she’s wrong every single time.

  She tousles Keelie’s hair as best as she can, and even with that Keelie only looks better. Now it’s me giving her the side-eye. “Your mother is down the street at the bank, so I’ve only got a minute.” She looks my way. “Why don’t you ladies walk me out front before I trip over a dishrag or slip in a grease puddle? You know I’ll have no one to sue but myself.”

  “Sure thing,” I say as Keelie and I each thread an arm through hers and lead her proudly through the kitchen into the Honey Pot proper, which is already decorated for fall with red and gold silk leaves lining the windows, a miniature pumpkin on each table, and a life-sized scarecrow with the cutest little s
mile that the tourists can’t stop taking selfies with at the entry. The Honey Pot isn’t your typical greasy spoon. We serve only the best comfort food you can find. Both Margo and her husband, Mannford, are chefs who used to work in a fancy revolving restaurant in Manhattan, but left city life about six years ago. Ever since they’ve been working their magic at the Honey Pot, we’ve received write-ups from just about every national newspaper and have even been featured on the Good Eats network as a noteworthy stop to visit.

  Keelie leads the way outside, and the cool September air kisses us unrepentantly. I traded my flip-flops for boots about two weeks ago. Fall has a habit of arriving just a touch early in these parts, and not one person is the slightest bit angry about it. Our summers can be as hot as our winters are frozen. As my mother likes to say, you can always put on another sweater, but you can’t take off your skin. As grisly as that sounds, Miranda Lemon is a lot of things, and right is always one of them.

  The sound of hacksaws and jackhammers steals the tranquility that Main Street typically holds, and we look next door to find the old vacant deli being gutted by none other than my grizzly ex, Otis Bear Fisher. Once he spots the three of us, he stops that bandsaw he’s close to shaving off his fingers with and heads on over.

  “Hey, Bear.” I give a half-hearted wave. Bear and I are on pretty good terms. He’s still convinced there’s something between us, and I’m still convinced there’s not enough air space in the world to create a proper buffer. But he’s just as happy-go-lucky as he was when he was a kid. Nothing or no one, and that includes me, can sour his mood.

  He offers me a great big hug before pulling back with that toothy grin he’s known for. Bear is tall and handsome, blond, and tan most of the year, even though our little corner of Vermont rarely sees that ball of gas otherwise known as the sun. His good looks keep the girls coming in strong, and lucky for Bear, he’s learned the fine art of keeping them all on a rotation. There was a little scuffle for his attention last year, and there might have been fists flying—between the girls. Yes, Bear is very much in demand, just not by me.

  “What do you think, ladies?” Nell tips her nose at the plume of drywall dust blooming out the door. “What kind of a shop would you like to see go in next door?”

  Keelie’s eyes grow wide. “A tattoo parlor and we can come over with pies and take a look at the beefcakes walking around this place. God knows I haven’t had me a good slice of beef—”

  Bear grunts as he cuts her off, “How about a bar? You can’t get a decent drink on Main Street. As it stands, the boys and I have to drive down to Leeds to wet our whistles.”

  “Not a bar.” I avert my eyes at the thought. I know firsthand what kind of bars Bear and the boys visit when they head down to Leeds. His cousin, Hunter, yes, Hunter Fisher—his mother has quite the sense of humor—anyway, Hunter took my side in our messy breakup and informed me there were a few places in Leeds where a hormone hungry man like Bear could get his appetite filled in more ways than one. “How about a bakery?” My heart thumps wild in my chest at the prospect. “I could run it for you, and I’d happily bake my heart out to make all the tasty treats that place could ever need or want.”

  A squeak comes from Keelie as she looks forlorn. “You can’t leave me. We’re a team, remember? Once you came back from New York, you said we’d never be apart again.”

  “I’ll be next door.”

  “With a wall between us.” She gives a slight wink because she loves to get me going. Keelie is only slightly kidding. We’ve appreciated every minute we’ve gotten to spend together at the Honey Pot.

  Otis plucks a hammer from his tool belt and points it at the window next to me. “I can bust a hole through the wall and connect the two together. Sort of a walkway.”

  I gasp at the thought. “Who said you weren’t full of bright ideas?”

  “You.” His lids close just enough to let me know he’s smoldering for me, and I can’t help but laugh.

  The sound of a car horn goes off, and soon Otis is helping Nell into the passenger’s seat of Keelie’s mother’s Town Car.

  “I’m all for the bakery!” Nell calls as Otis is kind enough to buckle her in. “You’ll have to get the equipment. I don’t know anything about that, but my guess is it’s more than a pretty penny. You’ll need a loan if you can get one. We can work out the details some other time!”

  They take off, and Otis blows me a kiss before heading back to the disaster zone next to the Honey Pot.

  “I’m going to need a loan? There’s not a person in their right mind who’ll give me two nickels to rub together.”

  “How about your mom?” Keelie wrinkles her nose because the answer is clear before either of us verbalizes it.

  “She’s already struggling to keep the B&B alive and kicking. I keep telling her to raise her rates, but she’s afraid she won’t be able to compete with the Evergreen and all those sales they keep having—buy two nights get one free.” It’s true. My mother’s bed and breakfast has been struggling since Naomi took the helm down at her only real competition, the Evergreen Manor. Lucky for Mom, there’s a surplus of tourists this time of year, so it doesn’t seem to matter.

  “Sorry.” She winces.

  “It’s not your fault. And probably not your sister’s either.” Like heck it isn’t. There’s no doubt in my mind Naomi has taken the vendetta she has against me and extended it to my mother.

  Keelie’s eyes light up like torches. “I have an idea.” She spins me around until I’m facing the south end of the street and gives me a firm shove. “Get that loan right now, Lottie Kenzie Lemon! There’s no time like the present.” She scuttles me down a few yards further until my feet start in on a forward motion of their own. “Go on. Right now head into that savings and loan, and don’t you leave until they’re throwing dollar bills at you!”

  Shockingly, my legs keep up with the farce. “But I didn’t get to tell you about Mr. Sexy! And have I mentioned I’m getting evicted?”

  “You can live in the bakery!” she shouts back. “Or with Mr. Sexy! Better yet, give him to me for safekeeping!”

  I’d laugh if I thought at all it was funny. Everett Baxter is far too ornery for either my best friend or me.

  * * *

  No sooner do I get into the bank than I get tossed right back out. It turns out, the loan department is having a few renovations of their own, so in the interim, the loan department is taking up residence in a small office next door. I take a quick breath before staring at the dismal looking box of an entry. I can’t believe that I, Lottie Lemon, am going to have the moxie to walk up to some poor financially bound soul and ask for a piece of the monetary pie. It’s not like me. It’s dangerous. It’s daring. It’s downright exhilarating is what it is.

  “Unique New York. Unique New York. Unique You Nork.” Drats. I always botch that up. It’s an old vocal exercise I used to employ whenever I went on an interview when I actually lived in the city—and I did go on my fair share of those. Suffice it to say, I didn’t get a sweet, tasty bite of that big red apple. Instead, it was rotten and mushy, and I ended up with the worm of the bunch. But enough about my exes for one day.

  I head on in and find a comely man who looks to be a little older than me in a baby blue dress shirt sitting behind the desk looking up at me wild-eyed before springing to his feet. His eyes are the color of fresh spring grass, and there are two comma-like dimples that dig in on either side of his cheeks despite the fact he doesn’t look happy to see me in the least. I’m guessing he hates the hole they’ve stuck him in. I’m pretty sure there aren’t too many people vying for loans in Honey Hollow. Come to think of it, that might actually work in my favor.

  “Lottie Kenzie Lemon.” I extend a hand, and he offers up a warm, firm shake. Something about the way he looks at me while doing so sends a dizzying wave of delight right to the pit of my stomach, but I’m betting that’s less an instant attraction I’m feeling and more bats in the digestive belfry ready to vomit out of me. I’
ve never asked for anything in my life, let alone a bouquet of dollar bills.

  “Noah Corbin Fox.” He motions to the plastic lawn chair in front of me, and we both take a seat. “How can I be of service to you today?”

  “You sure can be of service to me!” That wave of nausea gets a bit stronger, but it’s not my breakfast I’m about to hurl up between us. It’s an entire ocean of words I can feel bubbling to the surface. It’s a bad habit I have. When I get nervous, I get chatty. I’ll talk about how bright the sun is or how dark the dirt is. It doesn’t even matter if the words string together in cohesive sentences so much as it does that my vocal cords are doing their job. “I went to court this morning and won. My landlords, the Simonson sisters, have had it in for me for quite some time. They hate me something awful, but don’t you feel sorry for me. The feeling is mutual. Mora Anne used to be in charge of the cheerleading squad at Honey Hollow High, and I was her minion. Boy, did she ever try to drill sergeant me to death. But I won us the trophy in the tri-city competition, and I swear on all things delicious that she’s been even angrier with me ever since. And Merilee? I could strangle her with my bare hands for accusing me of hurting their business and turning the last few weeks of my life into a constant stream of worry. She’s the one that pointed the accusatory finger at me first.”