29. Lottie

LOTTIE

S everal important things happened within the span of a very short time.

The Fletcher Hotel was designated as the new locale of the quadruple baby bop gift drop.

All gifts were moved from the B they were practically taunting me to do it.

Lastly, there is enough lobster mac and crack here to turn all of Vermont into a strung-out, carb-fueled junkie who will do anything for his next hit—including inviting a would-be killer to the party. And since I’m having the Cozy Croon Café cater the event as well, we’ve set up a karaoke station near the back, and it’s been nonstop busy as women of all ages take turns at crooning with the best of them.

So far I’ve heard thirteen renditions of “Islands in the Stream”—not that I’m complaining. I secretly love that song, so I’m not the slightest bit annoyed that I’ll probably be hearing it in my sleep for the next five decades.

The Fletcher Hotel, with all its faded grandeur, really knows how to gussy up when it wants to impress.

The penthouse event room is decked out in pale blue, pink, and soft yellow, with delicate streamers cascading from the ceiling like some sort of waterfall made of crepe paper. The chandeliers glisten, reflecting off the crystal punch bowl, while baby-themed decorations—including an alarming number of diaper “cakes” and stuffed animals—dot every available surface. There’s enough baby gear in this room to open up a department store, and I’m pretty sure at least half of it will never see the light of day once the twins arrive.

Who needs this many baby blankets, anyway?

I’ll tell you who. A killer like Francine Dundee, that’s who, because the woman has gone on a knitting spree that could rival Santa’s workshop. Every last baby blanket on the premises is from her, and yes, each one is meticulously knitted and stitched in various shades of baby blue, pink, and yellow.

But right now, neither Meg, Sam, Lainey nor I are focused on the gifts. And well, Carlotta’s not either.

No can do. We’re huddled around the buffet table, more specifically, around the lobster mac and crack, which is the true star of the party. And by huddled, I mean we’ve essentially made a protective barrier around it, like a bunch of cavemen guarding their last scrap of mammoth meat.

“Oh my goodness,” I moan deeply through my next bite. “It’s like I’ve died and gone to mac and cheese heaven.”

Sam spoons another bite into her mouth, moaning in a way that makes me wonder if she’s having an out-of-body experience, which I for one am.

“What’s happening here?” she mumbles with her eyes rolling back in pure bliss. “I’m starting to think we might need an intervention.”

“I’ve been telling you for years,” Carlotta chimes in, her voice muffled by the obscene amount of cheesy, buttery goodness she’s just crammed into her mouth. “Francine Dundee is a wicked witch. She’s definitely cast a spell on this here dish. There’s no other explanation. Lot, what are we going to do if she gets locked up for killing you-know-who? I’m not ready to live in a world without this.”

I nearly choke on my bite of lobster crack. “Oh my word, I didn’t even think of that.” I gasp. “We can’t lose this recipe. It’s basically a public service at this point.”

“Maybe we can imprison her in our kitchen?” Carlotta suggests with a look in her eyes that suggests she’s willing to set the trap herself. “Twenty years to life making lobster mac and crack for me should teach her a lesson.”

Meg, who is balancing her third plate of the stuff on her pregnant belly, snorts at the thought. “Right, because the sheriff’s department is totally going to sign off on that. Imprisonment in your kitchen? I’m pretty sure that violates some Geneva Cooking Convention thing or whatever.”

I glance at Carlotta. “Maybe we don’t need to imprison her. Maybe she’ll give me the recipe if I can convince Everett to go easy on her when it’s time for sentencing.”

Lainey, who’s been suspiciously quiet for the past few minutes—a rarity, raises a brow. “So your plan is to blackmail Francine Dundee into handing over her prized recipe in exchange for leniency in court?”

“Seems reasonable,” I mutter through a mouthful.

Sam lifts a fork poised in midair. “I don’t know, Lottie. She might consider her lobster mac and crack recipe more valuable than her freedom.”

“Exactly,” Lainey agrees. “This is Francine we’re talking about. The woman takes pride in three things: her floor-length hair, her unshakable sense of moral superiority, and this unholy creation wisely called mac and crack. Do you think she’s just going to hand over the recipe like it’s some kind of basic church potluck dish? Think again. This is the kind of stuff that goes to the grave with you.”

It’s safe to say I’ve let the killer theory out of the bag—well technically, it was Carlotta, but I didn’t exactly stop the train.

And who could blame me?

It was Carlotta who gathered us around to dig into the killer cook’s killer creation. And sadly, I’m afraid she’s not wrong on either point.

“Let’s not spread any more rumors about our supposed killer,” I say to those with bloated bellies gathered around me, and yes, I’m counting Carlotta in that equation. “Noah says he needs to do a little more digging before he makes an arrest. Besides, I find it very hard to believe that Francine killed Tom Darius, too. What reason would she have to do that?”

Lainey shrugs. “Maybe he found out some deep, dark, and totally twisted secret about Francine. I mean, that woman’s entire reputation revolves around being pious and perfect. If there’s something dark lurking under there, I could see how it would be an embarrassment to her and her family. Maybe it was so embarrassing that she’d rather die or kill than have her secret exposed.”

“I suppose nothing is impossible,” I say. Although I have a hard time believing it. That woman is so clean she squeaks. The fact she committed a double murder is a hard sell for me, despite the mounting evidence against her.

“Lottie!” Mom waves me over from where she’s admiring the mountain of baby gifts, each one lovingly wrapped and ready to be sent to the women at the shelter.

“ Mmm ,” I moan through my last bite. “Don’t be greedy, girls. Save some for the rest of us—aka me .” I take off and waddle toward my mother as the guests begin to swarm the event.

Since Evie decided to sit this one out, she offered to watch Lyla Nell, and I took her up on it. I wasn’t so crazy about having the girls here since the last shower went sideways—all the way to the morgue to be exact.

Here’s hoping we don’t lose another life at this little do-over event. Although judging by the size of all these bellies, we might just welcome a life or two into the world.

And to think a killer might be among us.