31. Lottie

LOTTIE

I ’m hardly able to blink before I hear the sound of footsteps coming from around the corner of the hotel. My pulse quickens, my eyes still locked on the nefarious contents of the duffle bag before me, and my heart sinks like a scone in a tall glass of milk.

Of all the secrets I expected to uncover tonight, this was not one of them.

Of all the secrets I expected to uncover in my lifetime , this was not one of them.

Francine rounds the corner and her eyes narrow the second she spots me bent over in the back of her minivan like a raccoon rifling through a dumpster.

Her face contorts into all sorts of unflattering shapes.

“Get away from there!” she barks, rushing forward as if I’ve just caught her with her hand in the naughty cookie jar—though, I suppose in a way, I have.

I stumble back, throwing up my hands. “Francine, what in the world are you doing with a bag full of—” I gesture to the duffle—“naughty adult toys?”

Francine freezes mid-step, her face flushing a deep crimson, and I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or red with rage. With my luck, it’s both.

“How do you know what those things are?” she spits out, her voice trembling with embarrassment and anger.

Before I can formulate a halfway decent response—something other than “I read Cosmo ” or “Google exists” or “Haven’t you heard I like to have a good time with two men at a time?”—which, by the way, is so not true. Although I can’t be blamed for where my mind wanders while I’m asleep. Let’s just say my internal musings have found a way to take the edge off all these hormones in the most explicit ways with both Noah and Everett front and center. If I’m anything, I seem to be loyal to those two even in a subconscious state. Nevertheless, Carlotta barrels onto the scene with one of Francine’s death scarves wrapped around her neck—in pink, the exact shade that was chosen to send Ursula into the next life.

“Don’t you dare hurt my Lot Lot!” Carlotta screeches as she skids to a halt beside me. Her gaze darts to the open duffle bag, and her jaw roots to the ground. “Francine! What in the good Lord’s name are you, of all people, doing with a bag of fun in the back of your Dundee dumbee dumbo baby wagon?”

Francine gasps, throwing a hand to her chest like she’s about to faint from the scandal of it all.

Carlotta howls out a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re taking a walk on the wild side, Franny.” She looks my way. “She’s lost her ever-loving mind! I bet she’d kill to keep a secret like this under wraps—or should I say under the sheets .” She gasps. “This must be why she killed that naked Santa and that floozy at your baby shower, Lot. Quick!” She grabs my arm. “You hit her over the head with one of your poison pies, and I’ll grab this bag of fun and make a run for it. Nobody has to know.”

I make a face. “Carlotta, we are not committing assault by pastry.”

Carlotta huffs, “Suit yourself. But if she comes at you with one of those pleasure pokers”—she gestures to the whip sticking out of the duffle bag—“don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Francine steps forward and raises a hand as if she’s about to teach us both a lesson. “For heaven’s sake, I didn’t kill anyone,” she seethes. “Although I will go on record to say, I’m glad someone offed that awful woman! She was trying to steal my man!”

“You mean the doodling diddle that you’re married to?” Carlotta shouts back. “I’ve got news for you. It takes two to tango.”

“Not unless you kill one,” I point out. “And Francine, why are you letting your husband off the hook so easily? If my husband cheated, he’d be the first to go,” I growl as I say it.

It’s true. Everett had better take note. Although he knows better.

Carlotta shakes her head at the woman. “And here you’ve been running around, playing the part of pious homemaker while hiding your spicy little secrets in the back of your minivan.”

“That floozy drove me to it,” Francine roars back. “She told me that no man was going to stick around for what I had to offer in the bedroom, and I was out to prove her wrong. And just to be clear, Mark didn’t cheat on me. He turned down her advances, but she kept coming at him. It was all a game to her. Well, I had news for Ursula Wingate. My family isn’t a game . Nobody messes with my sacred union. I did what I had to do to prove her wrong.” She points hard at the duffle bag. “And after I took care of business at home, Mark wouldn’t even look at her anymore. That infuriated Ursula twice as much. That woman was a walking, talking spoiled brat who didn’t care who she hurt so long as she got her way. And for the record, that awful woman was a terrible boss to boot. She never thought I had a good idea in my life. The only thing she ever approved of was my taste in men.” She throws a glance at the duffle bag as if it’s suddenly beneath her. “My man, to be exact.”

“I’m sorry she went after Mark,” I say as my voice softens.

Francine’s lips press into a thin line, and she turns her gaze away as if she’s trying to hide the anger simmering.

“I am, too,” she says with a brittle voice. “She went after Mark hard. And the worst part? She flaunted it. Like she could just take him because she wanted to—as if I didn’t exist. The woman had a perfectly good husband. And the man was wealthy as can be.” She motions back to the hotel. “She could have had the world at her feet if she only kept her eyes where they should have been all along—on her own husband. And Orson didn’t take too kindly to it when I blasted him about keeping his wife on a short leash. That’s right. I ratted her out. If she was going to stir up trouble in my home, I was going to do the same in hers.”

“I bet he wasn’t thrilled to hear it,” Carlotta says. “I guess Ursula was about to move on to hubby number six or sixteen.”

“The word divorce was never used,” Francine informs us as if she was proud. “I’m sure they were going to work on their marriage, just like Mark and I are working on ours.”

I nod. “But you didn’t kill her?”

She sniffs my way. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Ursula Wingate isn’t worth spending all eternity downstairs.”

“But what about the crazy note you sent to Suze?” I ask.

“What note?” She wrinkles her nose as if I just let a foul odor fly.

“The one with all the magazine cutouts—with the threats.”

She squints my way. “I think those babies are eating your brain, Lottie. Don’t worry. You’ll get most of your mental faculties back once they’re about thirteen. Then they’ll turn your hair gray. Been there, done that.”

“That explains a lot,” Carlotta mutters. “You’ve lost so many brain cells, you forgot about the time you strangled your husband’s would-be mistress with one of your soft, fluffy scarves.”

Francine scoffs. “I may have wanted to wring her neck a few times, but I’m not a killer. Honestly, I was relieved when someone else did the dirty work. Now I can focus on more important things, like making sure my family stays intact and running the Cozy Croon Café the way a real restaurant should be run.” She steps our way with an aggressive gait and both Carlotta and I belt out a short-lived scream.

But Francine is unmoved as she slams the trunk shut, locks up her van with a chirp, and heads back into the hotel.

“She didn’t kill anyone.” I sigh as I look up at the hotel. “Why did Francine motion to the hotel when she said Orson was wealthy as can be? I mean, I know he had some serious spare change. He bought Ursula that restaurant.”

Carlotta shrugs. “Maybe he’s loaded to the hilt. Hey, I bet that’s why he didn’t want to divorce his new cheat of a wife. She’d get half of everything.” She shakes her head. “On second thought, he probably had an iron-clad prenup.”

I blink up at the hotel.

I know who the killer is.