15. Hattie

Once six o'clock sharp arrived so did the members of my book club.

My little A-frame cabin sits on the periphery of the Moonlit Meadows enclave on the edge of town, and my little rental just so happens to have an ocean view. The sun is just setting and the orange glow over the expanse of the Atlantic is mesmerizing. Although, not a soul in this cabin seems to be paying attention to that.

Peggy and Clarabelle hold Cricket and Rookie hostage over on the sofa while trying their best to read their little animal minds. I'm not sure how they figure they can achieve that feat, but I gave up on trying to understand those two mischievous grannies ages ago.

Tipper brought over a pitcher of margaritas, Hillary brought a carafe of mocha lattes from the new coffee shop that opened up on Main Street, the Whisk and Whip (word on the cobbled streets of Brambleberry Bay is that they serve desserts that are to die for, too), and Chevy picked up a gourmet Fourth of July-themed dessert platter from the bakery complete with fresh warm cookies brimming with red, white, and blue white chocolate chips. In fact, there are sugar cookies in the shape of stars, and more than enough vanilla-frosted brownie bites decorated with patriotic-colored sprinkles to make me explode with delight. My bathroom scale might do a little exploding, too.

Of course, I decorated for the upcoming holiday as well by way of the wreath on my front door that Winnie gave me. It's laden with miniature flags and has a tall makeshift sparkler shooting out of the middle of it. I just about poke my eye out with it each time I come and go, but it's so cute it's worth the risk of losing my vision.

"Hattie Holiday," Peggy snips as she trots my way while caging Cricket in with her arms.

Clarabelle is hot on her heels, as is Rookie.

"We just have to know what these sweet babies are thinking," Peggy says, looking a little distressed in the process. "I heard cats and dogs hold the secret to living a long, healthy life. And if I'm expecting to date my way through my ex-husband's rolodex, then I'd better do all I can to extend my lifespan. He had quite the list of friends—wealthy, healthy sons of guns who have always had a roving eye for me, if you know what I mean."

"Ditto," Clarabelle says with a shrug. "Sort of. Anyway, it's no fair you get all the dirt on anyone you want—and you get to live to be a ripe old age of one hundred and ninety-nine."

"I won't even ask how you came up with that number," I say as Cricket practically leaps into my arms.

Clarabelle nods. "My grandmother Margie lived to be one hundred and ninety-eight and I'd like to beat her by a year."

"Oh, she did not." Peggy waves her off.

"She did, too," Clarabelle insists. "Just like she was the first female to win the Iditarod using a team full of feral cats."

"Oh, good grief," Peggy grunts. "Hattie, tell us the secret to living to a hundred and ninety-nine." She tips her ear my way. I'll give you a hundred bucks if you tell Clarabelle it has to do with steering clear of bars. She's been putting a damper on my dating mojo with those crazy concoctions she pulls from her imagination and half the men end up getting her number instead of mine.

"I can see how that could be a problem," I tell her. "But the truth is, these furry little cuties aren't harboring some deep, dark secret when it comes to living to a ripe old age, with the exception that becoming a pet owner offers some benefits that range from reducing anxiety to sleeping better, to living longer. So the answer would be to get yourselves to a shelter and rescue a couple of cuties for yourselves. And I bet in a year, you'll both be asking who rescued who."

Peggy groans, "All that hair getting every place, the constant nagging to be fed, and let's not forget the little treats they leave in the yard that stink up the entire neighborhood. I'm not sure I'm ready to sign up for that."

Clarabelle nods. "And that's exactly why I'm not getting married again."

"You're preachin' to the choir, sister." Peggy holds up a hand and Clarabelle offers up a high-five.

What just happened?Cricket chirps.

I think they likened us to men.Rookie gives a soft woof. I'm pretty sure that's the highest compliment they could give us. I'd better go find Jolly. He doesn't want to miss the meeting. He takes off and Cricket shoots me a look.

Much like with men—Cricket starts—sometimes it's best to let Rookie think he's right.

Have I mentioned that Cricket is wise beyond her years?

Soon enough, the entire lot of us is sitting in the heart of my living room, which just so happens to double as my bedroom considering it's a bachelor's unit.

Chevy has erected an easel and set a giant whiteboard on it with the words murder board written boldly across the top. There's a circle in the center with Jane Jordan's name—and a small picture of the woman taped in the center of it—and a few spokes made out of yarn poke out from it, pointing to bubbles that have yet to be filled with the names of suspects.

We all stare at it a moment too long.

"Shall we start with our roses and thorns?" Hillary asks, sipping her latte.

"Fine," Chevy snips. "But only because I know some of us crave order more than justice." Hilly Pepperwood is OCD to a fault. Next time I want to ruffle her feathers, all I'll have to do is rearrange the lineup at our next croquet game. And for waylaying the attention from my murder board for another ten minutes, I might just do that.

Good to know. I glance over at Hillary and make a face. She's irritated me on more than one occasion as well. I've got a few lineups I can rearrange myself.

"My rose is…" Peggy says, raising her hand. "I just learned that a very good friend of mine has the ability to help me figure out men, once and for all." She winks my way. "Thorn"—the smile glides from her face as she looks at Clarabelle—"other friends have decided they'd like to glom on for the ride and ruin my chances of taking home Mr. Right for the Night."

Clarabelle chuffs, "Roses—I've got friends in high places." She turns to Peggy and scowls. "Thorns—I've got friends in low places, too. And the lowest of them all is trying to lock me out of a good time!"

Oh, for Pete's sake. I can't let Peggy and Clarabelle tear apart their lifelong friendship over the fact they think I'm some sort of ace in the hole when it comes to men and gambling. If anything, I'm a tempest in a teapot when it comes to both.

I count it nothing short of a miracle that I have Killion in my life, and as for gambling, I am sort of an expert at one thing—losing my shirt.

"Roses"—Tipper shrugs—"I've officially dumped Tucker O'Malley. But I can assure you that my ring, nor the fact he refused to have an engagement party had anything to do with it." That less-than-stellar ring and the fact he insisted on not having an engagement party had everything to do with it. "I've decided I can do better." She glances my way and thinks, And by better, I mean Henry Holiday. It's not my fault Hattie's brother is a hottie.

"What?" I hiss without meaning to. "I mean, what's your thorn?" Tipper is quickly becoming mine.

Do I want Tipper to pounce on poor Henry? I honestly don't know how I feel about this. Tipper is man-hungry, money-hungry, and loves to social climb with the best of them. Henry isn't any of those things. Not to mention he's stepped into some trouble that has him certain it's about to destroy our family.

Hey? Maybe Tipper is the ticking time bomb that's been vexing him? Maybe he's in love with her and he's afraid to tell us?

I shake my head. That can't be it. But a part of me is afraid I'm not all that far off base.

"My thorn is"—Tipper clears her throat—"I need to find another bauble worthy to grace my ring finger. It feels a bit naked." She waggles her bare left hand our way. I wonder how long it would take Henry to propose?

I practically gag on my latte. I clearly chose the wrong moment to take a sip. Although, holy smokes, this stuff is delicious.

"I'll go since Hattie seems speechless," Hillary volunteers. "My rose is the fact I've been taking cooking lessons at the local culinary school. My thorn is that I have no one to cook for." She gives me a sideways glance. I wonder if Hattie's brother is single? I'll have to look into that.

Oh, good grief. Since when did Henry grow into such a hot commodity among my friends?

"I'll go next," I say, hoping to erase the thought of my brother from both Tipper and Hillary's thoughts. "My rose is"—oh for goodness' sake, what is my rose? "Oh, I know, the fact I received not one but two gifts delivered to the Cottage House this week. Both were decent pieces of jewelry. My thorn is, I have no idea who my secret admirer is. It's not Killion, and I know it's not my ex." Or any of my exes for that matter.

Is it?

The room breaks out into instant chaos and complaints of why they can't seem to get secret admirers who leave pricey gifts.

"I'll go next," Chevy calls out over the cacophony of noise. "My rose is that my children finally left for summer camp. As for my thorn—I'm coming at you with two thorns today. First up, no thanks to that smoothie fiasco out on the sand this afternoon, I had to throw away a pricey pair of Vera Veragamo yoga pants in pastel pink. It's not only a hard-to-find color, but they've recently discontinued it." She takes a moment to glare my way. "My second thorn is the fact I have a murder board with no suspects added to it just yet."

"Then by all means," I say. "Let's get down to the killer brass tacks."

"It's time to pull out our magnifying glasses, ladies," Chevy says. "The murder club is open for business."