22. Lottie

LOTTIE

W ith the snowman competition wrapped up, the air around Honey Lake tingles with a post-event buzz—a mixture of laughter, happy chatter, and the occasional whiff of hot cocoa and my freshly baked cookies.

I spot Clara near the cookie table and her eyes are scanning the array of sweets like a judge pondering a difficult verdict. And let's face it, my sweet treats don't make it easy on anyone who needs to decide between them.

"Let's do this," I whisper, pushing Lyla Nell's stroller in that direction as Thimblewick floats by my side.

" Thimby Wicky ." Lyla Nell laughs and claps as I navigate the thick crowd.

Lyla Nell is almost as enamored with Thimblewick as Carlotta is—for entirely different reasons, of course.

Honey Lake glitters even under the duress of the dark-sooted clouds hanging heavy overhead.

Rumor has it, we're due for another snowstorm tonight. If this white Christmas gets any whiter, we're going to have a total whiteout. But I'm not going to let a little snow slow me down in the investigative department. Come heck or high snow berm, I'm solving this case. Mostly because I just have to know if either Suze or Eudora is the killer. I'm nosey that way.

Clara Dickens Greenmantle is wearing the requisite red wool coat, the requisite purple Santa hat, and the requisite look of longing in her eyes as she stares down at my fresh baked cookies. A tuft of her dark hair pokes out from underneath her cap, and her ears look all that much more pointy against the white felt strip of her cap as well. I'm not sure why, but I find it so unsettling.

"They're hard to choose from," I tease, reaching past her to pick up a peppermint thumbprint for Lyla Nell. "I can give you a tour," I tell the woman. "We've got peppermint thumbprints." I hold the cookie up before giving it to Lyla Nell's happy-to-grab-it hands. "We've got eggnog snickerdoodles, gingerbread reindeer, peppermint pinwheels, frosted Christmas tree shortbread, hot cocoa cookies—double chocolate chip cookies with tiny little marshmallows baked in—Rudolph's red nose macarons, snowflake sugar cookies, Christmas wreath pavlovas, and it looks as if the chocolate and butterscotch chip cookies have all but disappeared."

Clara laughs. "Oh honey, that last bit would be my doing. Don't tell anyone, but I had the very last one."

Thimblewick snickers. "So we've got a cookie-hungry killer on our hands, do we? Speaking of women who are hungry for sweet delights, where is Carlotta?" He floats up a notch and cranes his head into the crowd.

I can't help but make a face at him. We've got a killer to catch and all he seems to be thinking about is Carlotta and her bedroom shenanigans. He's been to paradise. Certainly he should know she's not all that great. Although she does have a way of casting her spell on people—men in particular, even dead men.

I blink over at Clara. "I'm glad you enjoyed the cookie. I'm actually the one that donated the baked goods today."

She snaps her fingers. "Oh, that's where I recognize you from. That's right. Miranda introduced us the other night. Your cookies are almost suspiciously good. Makes me wonder what kind of magic you're baking into them. You must be Lottie." She gives a mournful chuckle. "I'm Clara Dickens Greenmantle—in the event you forgot my name."

"Looks as if Carlotta was right," Thimblewick points out. "She does like to include every last stitch of her moniker."

Did Carlotta say that? Or is he so focused on her that he's getting his wires crossed?

Perfect.

All I need is for him to lead me in the wrong direction. Maybe I should find that portal to the North Pole and shove him into it—with Carlotta, of course. Now that would be a great gift for Everett, too.

"I do remember you," I tell the woman. "And I, unfortunately, remember what happened that night as well."

She cringes. "Who can forget? Although I have to say that your mother has been bragging for months about what a good detective you are. I'm sure you'll have this wrapped up just in time for the holidays. You know, a lot of people didn't care for Glenda, but the two of us were really good friends. I guess even the saltiest person out there needs someone to confide in."

"She confided in you?" I take a step forward just as Lyla Nell asks for another cookie and I hand her one of my hot cocoa masterpieces.

Clara nods. "Oh yes. Glenda and I went out to lunch at least once a month. She was forever collecting dirt on people, and even though she liked to hold that dirt close to the vest—for diabolical purposes, of course—she still needed at least one person to vent to."

I suck in a quick breath. "She told you all the gossip?"

" Ooh, gossip." Thimblewick floats back down. "Carlotta says that gossip is her love language. Do spill. It seems my paramour has left the premises with another." He growls that last part out so ferociously that I'm suddenly fearing for Mayor Nash.

I'd tell Thimblewick to get used to it, but I don't dare rock the boat with Clara here.

"Did Glenda happen to tell you any dirt on any of the women in the Purple Bonnet Society?" I ask. "I mean Purple Santa Hat Society."

"Oh, Lottie." Clara chortles. "That's all she ever talked about." She taps her lips. "Let's see, the most recent finds were pretty fantastic, but I'm afraid if I say a word, that will make me a gossip myself. And I swore to my mother I'd never do that."

Drats.

I shoot the lake the stink eye as if it were to blame.

"Hey"—I brighten as a thought comes to me—"could you do it if it helped my investigation?"

She casts a glance at the sky. "I guess I could for the investigation. In that case, I'll tell you everything."