Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

T he bakery begins to percolate with customers once again, the scent of fresh pastries mingles with the aroma of coffee, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere, and yet all I can smell is a corpse—and suddenly I wish it was mine.

"Fine," I say to Cooper. "But don't think this sandwich gets you out of answering my questions either."

Not that I know what my questions are just yet. It's not like I'm going to ask him what my picture was doing in the center of that murder board in his office, acting like the sun to a solar system of men I've tried my best to gun down.

"Deal," he says. "So what do you know about Peter Honeycutt?"

"Why would I know anything?" My voice squeaks like a pubescent teenager, and it all but implicates me in the guy's pumpkin pie demise despite the fact I'm innocent.

He frowns in response. "You were there before me," he counters. "And you were serving pies."

I glare in the direction of the Honey Pot Diner where Niki is currently busy gossiping or spilling a drink on someone—most likely both.

The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery and the Honey Pot Diner are connected through a pass-through carved into a shared wall. Lottie's sister runs the Honey Pot; meanwhile, my sister tries to run me into the ground.

"So I was," I say. "Serving pie is a part of my job description. So what did the guy drop dead from? Heart attack? Stroke? Some other bodily malfunction that nature had in store for him that just so happens to be a perfectly natural way to land yourself in the cemetery?"

His lids slit to nothing. "The coroner says he had an anaphylactic response to a common allergen—one he happened to have a lethal allergy to."

"Strychnine?" I ask a little too eager. I can't help it, Carlotta has crawled into my brain and made a home there.

Coop is back to frowning. "How is strychnine a common allergen?"

"I'm a baker, not a scientist." Technically, neither of those is true. I don't know my way around a mixer any more than I do around a Glock, but that hasn't stopped me from being a proud owner of both. "Strychnine kills people, Coop. Do I have to do your job for you?"

He cocks his head and gives me a warning look. "The culprit was peanut butter," he flatlines.

"Peanut butter?" I inch back. "But there's no peanut butter in Lottie's pumpkin pies. I should know, I'm a heavy connoisseur of both Lottie's pumpkin pies and peanut butter."

"As am I," he says with a sigh. "I know it's not an ingredient used in pumpkin pie. I already spoke to Lottie and she assured me it wasn't an ingredient she added."

"So case closed as far as the bakery goes," I say. "The guy obviously picked up a peanut butter goodie somewhere else last night. All of Main Street was crawling with sweet and savory treats. He could have picked it up anywhere from anyone— except from me. I have a strict no-peanut-butter-for-almost-dead-guys rule."

Cooper's chest rises and falls and he gives me a look that says, what am I going to do with you .

I could give him a list of at least ten naughty things if he wants. Handcuffs are a part of the equation but only for funsies.

"Forensics says the pumpkin pie had peanut butter in it." He raises his brows my way. "We tested the other pies at the table and they had none."

"What are the odds?" I say, mostly to myself.

"Zero to homicide."

I gasp. "Are you saying it was murder?"

"I'm saying someone out there wanted Peter Honeycutt dead and that's exactly what they got." He leans back in his seat and pins his eyes to mine as if he were trying to coerce a confession out of me.

Cooper Knox has the most intoxicating blue marbled eyes, coffee-brown wavy hair, and don't get me started on that rock-hard body I've yet to fully appreciate.

"So who do you think wanted to off the guy?" I ask as I narrow my own eyes on his. If Cooper thinks he's the only one around here who knows how to intimidate, he's wrong, dead wrong.

Although baiting my soon-to-be ex into a conversation that might lead to a discussion of why my face was on that murder board of his isn't the most prudent direction to head in.

I never said I was smart. But a smart aleck? Now that's another story.

Cooper leans in and parts his lips—just the way he used to when he was about to kiss me—ironic since he's most likely about to kiss me goodbye, as in arrest me for being a terror to the community.

But before he can pucker up, or fill me in on his theories regarding Peter Honeycutt's murder, the bakery door opens with a whoosh and lets in a wicked wind—and it lets in a wicked witch, too.

Within seconds, Naomi Turner slithers up to our cozy table for two and wraps those vipers she calls arms around Cooper like she's just spotted her prey, and I have no doubt she'd like to take a bite out of my man.

He's still my man, right?

"Exactly the handsome detective I was looking for," she purrs in his ear.

Fantastic. I groan inwardly. Just what I needed to make this day complete.

"Naomi," Cooper says, trying to extricate himself from her vise grip. "What's going on?"

"I'm in charge of the Thanksgiving Day parade and that's good news for you," she beams, looking as if she just manifested her dream prize. "I need you to play Santa Claus during the grand finale. You'd be perfect for it. Tall, strong, and oh-so-good-looking—just the qualities Santa needs. And after the parade, we need Santa at the community center for the Thanksgiving meal for the needy. It's a little thing we do, headed up by the Honey Hollow Hearts Foundation."

Cooper raises a brow, clearly skeptical—as he should be considering the source. "Me? Santa Claus?"

Naomi nods with far too much enthusiasm. Clearly, I'm not the only one around here who has the hots for the big guy—and I'm talking about Santa, but Cooper works in the equation, too.

"Yes, you." Naomi digs her finger into his chest, using any excuse she can to cop a feel. "And guess what? I'll be playing the part of Mrs. Claus. We'll make the perfect pair. And Effie"—she turns to me with a syrupy sweet smile—"you can be an elf if you want. I'm amassing a small army of those critters to help pass out candy canes to the kids on hand."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If I did, I'm pretty sure they'd get stuck in the back of my head.

"Gee, thanks, Naomi. I'll keep that in mind."

Her eyes glint with pride. "Oh, don't mention it. After all, every Santa needs his little helpers. Maybe you can help with picking up after the reindeer, too? You know, something suited to your talents."

"I'll consider it." I flex a tight smile. "And maybe you can help pull the sleigh. I've seen your thighs. You've got the horsepower."

Cooper presses his lips tight as if he's holding back a laugh, but before he can respond, his phone buzzes. He checks it and his expression turns sour.

"I have to go. Duty calls." He stands, giving me a look that says, you're not getting away with this . "We still have a lot to talk about."

A knot tightens in my stomach as I give a reluctant nod.

He walks out, and I'm left with the wicked witch, who suddenly points a gnarled green finger my way.

Okay, so Naomi's digits are perfectly svelte, the color of peaches and cream, and happen to look freshly manicured with a glossy red fingernail attached.

"Fair warning: If I were you, I'd hit the gym," she says as she rises out of her seat. "Those unsightly green tights you'll be wearing come Thanksgiving show off every little lump and dimple. I guess I'm not the only one with thighs strong enough to pull Santa's sleigh. Maybe brush up on your candy cane distribution skills as well. It won't kill you to smile." She winks my way before sashaying right out into the elements where it's bitter cold just like her heart.

"I'd rather brush up on my escape skills," I mutter.

Face it, I'm an elf with a top position on a homicide suspect list.

Solving Peter Honeycutt's murder is now a matter of survival. Because if I don't figure out who's behind it soon, I might be the one Cooper tosses in the big house for it—along with a whole slew of misdeeds he's already eyeing me for. And this time, I'm not sure even the best sandwich in the world could save me.

Just as I'm about to plot my first investigative move, the door opens again, and in walk Aunt Cat and Carlotta, henpecking a glance around the place until they land firmly on yours truly.

Aunt Cat waves a small white envelope my way like it's a winning lottery ticket.

More like a one-way ticket to Trouble Town—or Hitman's Hollow to be exact.

"Hey, Effie," she practically sings my name as the two of them swoop in and sit down. "I've got another job for you."

"Great." I sigh, feeling the weight of the envelope even before I take it. "Just what I needed—another envelope of doom."

I snatch it from her and quickly open it up.

"Frankie ‘The Bull' Santoro," I say below a whisper, and both Aunt Cat and Carlotta belt out a scream because of it.