12. Lottie

LOTTIE

C harlie, Carlotta, and I boot-scoot down the street until we’re standing in front of a square brick building with a wooden sign that has just the name we’re looking for scrawled across it.

We head on in, and soon we’re enveloped with the scent of seasoned fries and?—

“Are those soft pretzels I’m picking up?” I ask as I sniff the air once more just to be sure.

The Cozy Croon Café is exactly what it sounds like—a warm, inviting little nook where comfort food meets live music, with an atmosphere that seems to wrap itself around you like a well-worn quilt.

The lighting is soft, the floors are dark, the furniture matches, and there are wooden beams overhead and mismatched vintage chairs that somehow work together to make you feel like you’re standing in your grandmother’s kitchen. Dozens of wood carvings are scattered about, mostly wooden bears clutching jars of honey as an homage to our hometown I guess. And there’s also a red and white checkered tablecloth on every free surface that makes it that much more homey.

Charlie gives a good sniff, too. “It smells like a combination of roasted coffee beans, buttery biscuits, and something sweet baking in the back that makes your mouth water before you’ve even cracked open the menu.”

“You’re so right,” I tell her.

The walls are lined with old records, and the tiny stage tucked into one corner of the room is home to a live singer crooning soft jazz that could easily soothe even the most frazzled of nerves.

It’s some hairy guy with a voice smoother than whipped butter, strumming a guitar and singing a tune about lost love. His voice is the kind that could make you believe every word, even if you’ve never had your heart broken.

My eyes scan the room as I take in the patrons enjoying their meals, losing themselves in the music. Most of them look as if they’re regulars, judging by the easy rapport they seem to have with the waitstaff, but there’s one person in particular who catches my eye, and I know for a fact she’s not a customer.

Francine Dundee—the very definition of a mama duck with far too many chicks—is bustling around like a woman on a mission. Her ankle-length long hair is pinned up into a bun that could double as a noose, and she’s wearing one of those floor-length prairie skirts that makes her look like she just stepped out of a time machine set to 1852.

She has that no-nonsense look on her face as she whisks plates from the kitchen to the tables, moving with a grace that only comes from years of doing the same thing day in and day out. And oddly, I think she got the brunt of her experience from bussing tables in her very own home.

“Welcome to Cozy Croon Café,” she chirps our way. “Grab a seat and I’ll get your menus.” Her voice is as sweet as the tea she’s probably served a thousand times over, but I can’t help but wonder if there’s a bitterness beneath it, one that’s been simmering for years. She does a double take our way and that smile glides right off her face as she narrows her ire in on Carlotta. “What do you want?” she snips at her.

This is going to be fun.

“We want to eat,” Carlotta snips right back. “And if we wanted an attitude, we would have asked for it with a side of extra sass. Now hop to it and get those menus. We haven’t got all day. Some of us still have boyfriends to steal and secrets to unearth.”

Charlie and I exchange a glance.

We both know that’s not true. Carlotta is one hundred percent dedicated to Mayor Nash after he threatened her with an ultimatum. And as much as she loves to ogle and goose men by the dozens, she knows what side her ogling and goosing bread is buttered on. I think it’s going to take a while for her brain to comprehend what’s happening. Her body will most likely never surrender.

Francine cocks her head to the side and squints our way while the crooner among us sings about a woman he lost track of in a train station. I can commiserate. I lost a dog that way once, too—for a solid half hour.

“What are you really doing here?” Francine looks from Carlotta to me with a threat in her eyes.

“All right, fine,” Carlotta spits it out. “Put your hands in the air and give us all your money. My name is Ma Baker and this is a stick-up!”

“Oh, would you hush.” Charlie all but steps on Carlotta’s foot, but seeing that Carlotta swiped my steel-toe snow boots out of my closet, that little tap dance doesn’t get much of a rise out of her.

“All right, I’ll get to the point,” Carlotta huffs once again. “We’re here on official business.” Carlotta whips out her phone and flips it open—yes, a flip phone. “Francine Dumbee, you’re under arrest for the murder of Ursula Wingate.”

Half the patrons turn this way and gasp.

“False alarm,” I shout and motion for the customers to carry on with their meals, which by the way look scrumptious enough to commit a class A felony for. And if I’m asked to wait any longer, I might just have to. “Francine, I’m starving. Can you help us get settled?”

She ushers us to a nearby table for four and slaps a few menus in front of us.

“Lottie, you and Charlie are welcome to stay,” she snips. “But seeing that I’m the acting manager until a fitting replacement is found, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask Carlotta to leave.” She sheds a maniacal grin. “It’s up to my discretion who we serve here at the Cozy Croon.”

Carlotta gets right in the woman’s face. “I ain’t leavin’ until I’ve had some of that lobster mac and crack I’ve been hearing all about.”

“ Ooh , mac and crack?” Charlie muses. “I might have to try this myself. I’m sort of addicted to mac and cheese.”

Carlotta ticks her head at Francine. “And I’m addicted to finding out the truth. If you let me stay, I won’t spread any more rumors about you stealing from the church kitty.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Francine groans. “I told you a thousand times that wasn’t me.” She blows a stray hair from her eyes. “Fine. You can stay, but only because I want each of you to hear what I’ve got to say.” She pins me with her beady eyes. “And only because I want to scratch myself off your suspect list once and for all.” She glances down at my belly. “Why don’t I start you all off with one of our famous sampler platters, a little of all our greatest hits—including the lobster mac and cheese ,” she snips that last word at Carlotta before taking off for the kitchen.

“Crack sounds better and you know it,” Carlotta shoots back. “I’m a genius when it comes to naming things. I’ve been told so many times in bed.”

“Good gravy,” I mutter as I swat her. “Would you keep it down? People are trying to eat.”

“That’s right,” Charlie snips at her. “The last thing they need is visions of you barking at someone on a mattress.”

Before Carlotta can contest it, a spray of miniature blue stars sparkles to our right and Petey shows up in all his monstrously adorable glory.

“What’s for lunch?” He pats his furry belly while settling between Charlie and Carlotta. “I’m starved. Ooh , is that karaoke?” He tips his head toward the stage and he’s so cute I just want to squish him.

“I hope so,” Charlie says. “And if there’s a lineup, I’m so signing up. I haven’t used my vocal cords to belt out a tune in ages.”

Carlotta leans my way. “Sounds like someone is having a dry spell.”

“It isn’t me,” I say without missing a beat.

“And it sure isn’t me,” Carlotta lifts her hand and I offer up a high-five.

“I’m having a dry spell.” Petey harumphs and the three of us look at him with our mouths agape.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I say. “But we can’t help you with that.”

“That’s not true, Lot,” Carlotta starts before turning his way. “I know a couple of women down at the bingo hall who’ve taken on a beast your size before.”

I wave her off. “Petey, I’m sure when you get back to Paradise you’ll find a soulmate or two.”

I bite down on my lip because I’m not sure if I just lied to the dead. I have no idea how dating or mating works in the great beyond.

“You’re right, Lottie.” Petey sighs and my hair picks up a notch from the breeze. “I’ve got fifteen women after me and I just can’t decide which one of them I want. You see, in Paradise, once you pick a mate, you’re stuck with them forever.”

“ Whagabuga! ” Carlotta trips over her tongue at the thought. “Lot, do something. It’s bad enough I’ve got to commit myself to Harry until death do us part. I can’t take an eternity chained to his side!”

“Would you stop,” I tell her.

“Yeah, Carlotta.” Francine scoffs as she sets down three overloaded platters with what looks like just about everything delicious. “You don’t have to worry about who you’ll be paired up with up there. I think we all know you’re going downstairs .”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Carlotta picks up a curly fry and sighs with relief. “Here’s hoping they’ve got some hot men down there.”

“Hotter than you think,” Petey muses.

“All right, Lottie,” Francine says, planting herself in a chair. “What do you want to know about Ursula Wingate? I’m about ready to tell you everything.”

And just like that, my investigation is off to a hotter-than-heck start.