30. Lottie

LOTTIE

I t’s four in the quasi-evening and the penthouse event room glows with its pastel decor, the sound of a chaotic karaoke duet squeaks through the speakers, and the tables around us groan under the weight of countless gifts. Honestly, it looks like the entire population of Vermont decided to donate to this do-over baby shower.

“Isn’t this just lovely?” Mom clasps her hands as she looks at the towers of baby gear that look as if they could take any child from infancy to college. “Just look at all of this! It’s like Christmas morning, but instead of toys, it’s practical things like burp cloths and diaper rash cream.”

“Well, you know what they say, nothing says holiday spirit like a nice, soothing ointment,” I deadpan, admiring a particularly large stack of baby wipes. “The women at the shelter are going to feel as if they’ve hit the jackpot.”

“Oh, they will! This was such a great idea, Lottie. People just love to spoil newly expectant mothers,” Mom says while craning her neck past me into the crowd of women already gathered here. “Speaking of expectant women, here come Agatha and Orson. Invited them both back.” She frowns a moment. “Although to be honest, I didn’t think Orson would show.”

I glance over as Agatha Reed and Orson Wingate waltz in, both of them dressed as if this isn’t just a baby shower, but some high-society gala. Agatha’s wearing a floral gown that probably costs more than the bakery’s monthly rent, and Orson looks like he stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad for senior citizens—polished, but with a rugged edge.

“Lottie, Miranda”—Agatha coos—“this is such a beautiful thing you’re doing for the community. I just can’t get over how kindhearted you both are.”

“Well, we do what we can,” I say, smiling politely. “But it wouldn’t be half as good without everyone’s help. The women at the shelter are going to be set for months—years maybe.” Possibly decades.

Orson nods approvingly and his white hair gleams under the soft lighting. “I had boxes of diapers, in every size, sent straight to the shelter this morning. My assistant took care of everything.” He smiles, the sort of smile you give when you’re happy with yourself for being generous but also subtly fishing for praise. “In Ursula’s name, of course.”

“Oh, Orson! That’s so wonderful,” Mom says, patting his arm. “The shelter will be so grateful. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do to make things better for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“You’ve been far too kind already.” He nods my way. “Your mother has comped my stay at the B&B.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Mom says, clasping her chest.

“Well, ladies, I’ll leave you be.” He glances toward the door. “You know, I hear there’s a secret casino next door. I might just check it out. Test my luck.”

“Good luck, Orson,” I say as we watch him saunter off with the air of someone who thinks they can charm Lady Luck herself.

Spoiler alert: Lady Luck doesn’t like to be charmed. She likes to be cheated. That’s how casinos make their money. At least the illegal ones.

In fact, Everett is over there now, but only because Noah and the gambling task force down at the sheriff’s department gave him the green light. They’re planning a bust, but not until Noah gathers a few more clues about who’s really behind all of this. Other than Francine, that is.

A thought hits me like a sugar crash after too many cupcakes. Wait just a hot-to-trot minute. Is Francine the one running the illegal gambling ring?

Everett said that Johnny person was just a lackey. That means there’s someone else sitting on top of the cash-riddled totem pole.

But Francine?

I shake my head at the absurdity of it.

Francine running an underground casino? That’s a stretch.

Agatha lingers a moment longer. “You know”—she says in a hushed tone—“Ursula always had a thing for stirring the pot. It’s no wonder trouble followed her everywhere.” She pauses and her eyes flicker with a hint of darkness. “But then, we all know Francine isn’t exactly innocent either.”

Mom and I exchange a glance.

“How so?” I’ll bite.

Who knows? Maybe Agatha will say something to solidify everything we think we already know about Francine Dundee.

“Well”—Agatha glances over her shoulder briefly as another crowd pushes in—“let’s just say that Francine has a knack for getting involved in… questionable activities. She’s always been good at keeping things quiet, but we all know nothing stays quiet in Honey Hollow for long. Especially not when you’ve got a temper like hers.” She blinks past me. “Oh good, there’s not a long line at the crepe station. I’ve been dying for another ever since that horrible day. I never did get to finish my last one.”

She takes off and I make a mental note to come back to that little nugget regarding Francine. It sounds to me as if Agatha knows something else.

Before I can figure out how to shake it out of her, Lily strolls in, balancing a few boxes of sweet treats in her arms.

“This is it for now, Lot. But I need to move the bakery van,” she says as she nods my way. “I left it in the loading zone, and unless I want to play chicken with a tow truck, I better scoot.”

“I’ll move it,” I say, grabbing the keys from her and offering a quick smile. “I need some fresh air anyway. Too much lobster mac and crack in one sitting is a dangerous game.”

Lily gives a grateful nod and disappears into the crowd. My mother and I split ways as I head down to the loading dock. The frozen air outside is a sharp contrast to the cozy warmth of the penthouse.

Leeds isn’t exactly known for its scenic beauty, and the alley by the Fletcher Hotel isn’t helping the reputation either. The streetlights are flickering like they’re one bad day away from quitting, and the shadows seem darker here—heavier. If cities had back alleys where regrets went to die, this would be it.

I head toward the bakery van with its back doors still wide open. I’ll be lucky if I don’t find a dozen stray cats taking up residence in it by now. And if I do, they’re all coming home with me.

I’m about halfway there when I spot Francine across the street, wrestling another silver tray out of her beat-up burgundy minivan. She’s hunched over, grunting and groaning as she finally hoists the tray free, and I can only hope she’s bringing more of that lobster mac and crack upstairs.

I don’t care if that dish is enchanted. At this point, I’d sell both Pancake and Waffles for another plate.

Okay, so I wouldn’t dare sell my sweet cats for a single bite. But you get the point.

She takes off and leaves the trunk ajar, probably thinking there’s safety in open trunk numbers. And instead of heading toward my van, curiosity gets the best of me, and my feet take me in the direction of hers instead.

I lean in toward the opened back hatch and the aroma of that mac and crack hits me hard.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I moan. I’m about to step away when I spot a denim duffle bag sitting to the right. It looks filled to the brim with the zipper partially opened, just sitting there like an open invite for me to peek inside.

I give a quick glance over my shoulder before leaning in and pulling back the zipper. My head leans deeper into the van as I look inside the bag and I freeze solid.

My heart stops cold.

I know exactly what Francine’s deep, dark secret is.