24. Hattie

HATTIE

Murder Club Group Chat

Hattie: Happy Halloween Eve! I come bearing good news. Clarabelle and Peggy survived last night's chocolate fiasco. Long story short, a bonbon eating contest went awry. Both women passed out. An ambulance was called. Rumors of a double homicide are greatly exaggerated. I'll see you all tonight at my place for the book club. We still discuss books at those things, right?

Chevy: Yes, but it's a secondary topic. We've got a murder to solve. Scratch that, we have an entire rash of murders to solve!

Tipper: And I've got some juicy news regarding a certain someone's brother. And guess what else? It involves me!

Hillary: You think everything involves you. ??

Kick: You know what involves me? Food. Brings lots of it because I haven't eaten all day and I'm feeling hangry.

Peggy: Bring a few stiff drinks, too. After all, what pairs better when discussing a stiff?

Clarabelle: Chocolate need not apply. I'm sticking to candy corn this year.

Bunny: I'll bring a cache of knives so we can run around stabbing one another in the back. Sort of a Halloween version of pin the tail on the donkey.

Bunny: Too soon?

M oonlit Meadows, or Moody Meadows as most of the residents here like to call it, is its usual charming self tonight, and it just so happens to be the enclave of cabins that I choose to call home.

Ida Brickner happens to be my forty-something grump of a landlord who inherited the grounds from her father. She loves booze and cigarettes and has zero tolerance for people or pets. It seems Ida only finds joy in one thing—being left alone. And as the years go by, I aspire to be more like Ida.

But I digress. It's Halloween Eve indeed and my tiny A-frame cabin is all decked out with frilly black-and-white checkered curtains and a braided rug that takes up most of the space. Since it's a studio, the living room is essentially the bedroom. In addition to the trundle bed tucked against the wall, I do have a sofa, albeit the thing is so small it makes a loveseat feel the size of a 747. String lights and pumpkins give the place a cozy, festive appeal, and I took home some extra decorations left over from the country club so I have a few rhinestone ghosts lining the bookshelves as well.

It's the night of the book club, aka murder club, and soon all of the twisted members will start arriving for our Halloween-themed potluck. Something that Cricket, Rookie, and I all look forward to. Mostly because we're foodies.

I've provided the coffee and hot apple cider, but the real treats are about to be hauled in by the other members.

Chevy is the first to show up, lugging a dish of pumpkin ravioli in sage butter sauce that I will never refuse. Her lemony locks are twisted in a chignon, and she's nestled in a pumpkin-colored sweater that matches her dish.

"Hey, Hattie," she chirps. "Ready for some serious carb-loading?" She gives a short-lived smile as she sets the casserole dish down on the counter. And by carbs, I mean wine. I suppose it's too much to hope that Hattie has a nice bottle of red. Argentinian vino would be best. She frowns my way and shakes her head because we both know the answer. I think I know what to get her for Christmas. "And by the way, I'm about ready to make you an offer you can't refuse on that cozy mystery of yours. I just finished the read-through and you really knocked it out of the park."

My mind spins with a thousand thoughts at once. It's one thing to have a dream. And it's entirely another thing to see it come true.

"I can hardly wait," I tell her just as there's another knock at the door.

Tipper walks in, balancing a tray of what looks like ghost-shaped meringues. Her brassy blonde locks are windblown and her lips look bloated twice the size the last time I saw her. I guess she's not as minimally processed in the fillers and Botox department as previously reported. "Henry's restaurant is wearing me out, but I wouldn't miss this for the world," she says, clearly exhausted. Although that boy sure does appreciate all that I do for him—especially when we're off the clock.

Oh, good grief. That's exactly what I was afraid of. Tipper and Henry fooling around in the bedroom. Worst fear unlocked. Not that Henry didn't already confirm the lewdness.

Hillary Pepperwood breezes in next, holding a platter of deviled eggs with little olive eyes. Her red hair rises over her head like a flame due to the wind, and yet the rest of her is flawless. Hillary is so gorgeous, even her flyaway locks only seem to add to her beauty.

"My famous deviled eggs for Halloween? Seemed fitting." She winks as she sets them down and heads for the sofa. Little do these women know I've tweaked the recipe. I'm dying to know if they notice a difference and if there will be rave reviews. I'd never admit it out loud, but I'm actually enjoying this domestic devilish side of life. Come to think of it, there's a recipe contest next month at the community center. I might just enter under a pseudonym. I just know my deviled eggs will win. They're a winner, just like me. She gives a satisfied smile as she picks up Cricket and begins to stroke her fur.

Hillary is a long-time member but one that I haven't always gotten along with. She has as much attitude as she has looks. But she's whip-smart and not afraid to wield her intelligence where it counts. It's safe to say, I've grown to like her.

Kick Lawson steps in with her short dark hair and impish grin. Kick is married, has an entire gaggle of children, and she loves food almost as much as I do.

"Hattie ho," she sings while holding a cauldron-sized pot of chili with steam wafting off the top. "Made it extra spicy this year," she announces. "We'll see who can handle the heat." And who will sing my praises to the moon? Even though I have a live-in chef for all those mouths to feed, cooking has always been my passion. Of course, not cooking on a nightly basis. Nobody wants to have their feet held to the culinary fire each and every night. I'm talking about cooking for fun.

Hey? I should totally enter that cooking competition at the community center next month. The one that Hilly brought up at lunch yesterday. I mean, why else would she have brought it up if she didn't mean for me to enter? She didn't come outright and say those words, mostly because it would be beneath any club member to enter. We both know that. But anyway, it couldn't hurt to enter under some fake name. I bet I'll win, too.

Good luck to both of them. I have a feeling once they spot one another, they're going to need it. My guess is they'll use it as fuel for blackmail for months to come. That is, unless one of them actually wins. Then it will just be plain ol' bragging rights.

Bunny, true to form, waltzes in with a dozen elaborately decorated cupcakes, each one a mini Halloween masterpiece, bright red with devil horns. "We're renaming thorns and roses to halos and horns tonight just like we did last year. You can't fight tradition."

"I wouldn't want to try."

Bunny has donned a shimmering little black dress that makes her shine like an entire universe of stars. It's going to take a lot of restraint for Cricket not to try to sharpen her claws on that frilly frock. Cricket seems to have an affinity for anything that sparkles.

I look amazing, don't I? Bunny muses to herself, all the while giving me the stink eye. Why isn't Hattie saluting my sexiness?

"That dress is to die for," I'm quick to tell her. "You look like a supernova, gorgeous and mysterious all at once."

"That's better." She winks my way before joining the fold.

Peggy and Clarabelle are the last to stumble in with their arms full of assorted candies, chocolates, and a cauldron. It's mostly bags from the grocery store, but there are a few boxes of Moon's chocolate in the mix, too.

"We couldn't decide, so we brought everything," Peggy says, dumping the treats into the empty cauldron.

Peggy picks up a bag filled with orange and white striped treats. "And I brought the candy corn."

A choir of boos goes off from the living room.

"I happen to like candy corn," I whisper to her.

I don't see the need to incite a riot.

Peggy snaps up a milk chocolate bar as they trot off for comfier pastures.

And to my surprise, Peyton shows up looking extra annoyed, with a tray of finger sandwiches in tow—shaped like fingers, complete with an almond sliver for a fingernail.

"Oh, stop looking at me like that. I'm here, aren't I? Let's get this over with," she snips as she heads to the trundle bed and takes a seat. Why do I even bother with these things?

I'm wondering the very same thing.

Peyton is rarely invited, never has anything good to say about the meetings, and is always grumpy about showing up. I have never understood the math in that equation.

I take a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure despite their thoughts—especially Tipper's.

"All right." Bunny cuts through the chatter. "Let's start with halos and horns. Who's up for spilling a little dirt on their week first?"

Chevy raises a hand. "My halo is that I have been given first dibs on acquiring our very own Hattie Holiday's cozy mystery." The room breaks out into oohs and ahhs and a few loose cheers. Peyton looks livid. "And my horn is the fact there's still a killer out there—who Hattie and I both narrowly missed meeting the other day in a dark alley. It's been a hell of a week."

She fans herself with the book we were supposed to have read. A spicy retelling of Little Red Riding Hood called Racy Red's Rendezvous in the Woods .

Suffice it to say, I haven't had enough time to dig in, but I'm already looking forward to curling up with that little steamy tome and a steaming cup of hot apple cider to go with it. And maybe Killion on standby in the event I'm pushed to the brink of steaminess.

Tipper follows. "Halo goes to Henry for keeping the restaurant afloat this week. And my horn goes to my aching feet." Come to think of it —she muses to herself— I think I'll stop by his place afterward for a much-needed foot rub.

Good grief. That was a TMI alert if ever there was one.

Hillary's turn. "My halo goes to my personal assistant for tracking down the edgiest, sexiest costume around—which you will all see tomorrow evening. My horn is the fact I practically needed to mortgage my soul to procure it." There had better be a decent amount of single men at that haunted house tomorrow night or I'm going to turn into the next Brambleberry Bay slasher.

Wonderful.

Kick clears her throat. "My halo goes to the spicy chili I brought tonight. And my horn goes to anyone who dares complain about it."

The room breaks out into a light chuckle.

Bunny is next. "Halo goes to Hattie for organizing a singles mingle that will dovetail with our ghoulish bling bash for the country club tomorrow night."

I wince because I totally forgot all about that. Where in the world am I going to find a gaggle of single men in less than twenty-four hours?

A prison yard comes to mind. And knowing Bunny, she most certainly wouldn't complain.

Bunny nods my way as if she heard. "Obviously, my horn goes out preemptively to all the men too chicken to approach me on the most frightful night of the year." She cuts a cool glance to her left. Hilly thinks she'll be the edgiest, sexiest woman around come Halloween? She's in for a big surprise. My costume is guaranteed to steal the show, and all the men in the room right along with it.

Peggy chimes in, "Halo to chocolate, and horn to diets. And believe me, I'd rather die than stop eating chocolate." Come to think of it, I almost died last night eating my weight in it.

True as gospel.

Clarabelle pats the spot next to her on my bed and Rookie hops us. "My halo is the fact I discovered there's more to life outside of sexy vampire bartenders—like a shop filled with gourmet chocolates."

"Chocolate beats out men any day of the week," Chevy calls out.

That's ironic, seeing she's been hitched for years.

Tipper gives her the side-eye. Speak for yourself. Things might be drying up at the Von Champs' residence, but they're just heating up at my place—or should I say, Henry's place? Those down pillows of his are sent straight from Heaven.

Why do I feel as if I've been plunged into the bowels of the hot place when I peer in on Tipper's thoughts? Not that I can help peering in on anyone's internal musings.

Peyton begrudgingly joins in. "My halo is that this horror of a week is almost over. My horn is that I still don't have a costume for tomorrow night's Bewitching Ballroom Bash. In the event you didn't know, this year's country club Halloween fiasco is being held at Halloween Hollow. My second horn is that my event planner forgot to send out notifications to our club members about the change of venue." She turns my way and bears into me with the brunt of her ire.

Drats.

I knew there was something I forgot.

"Don't worry, Hattie," Peyton sniffs as she steals a copy of our spicy read off the table. "I've yet again done your job for you."

"Good for you, hon," Peggy tells her. "Someone has to do it."

I give a few solid blinks over at my friend before feigning a smile as I try to stay positive. "My halo is to all of you for being here." The room breaks out into coos. "And my horn is that there's a killer out there still on the loose."

For a moment, I debated on whether or not to include Venetta as one of my horns. I am less than thrilled that she's back on the prowl when it comes to my man. Come to think of it, she's never been off the prowl. She's such a nuisance. And since it's wrong to pray the killer strikes again, I'm sort of praying she's the killer.

Stranger things have happened. And she has a motive. Speaking of motives…

"And now," I say loud and clear to the women among me. "Let the murder club begin."