Sneak Peek!
Criminal Coconut Cake
Book Description:
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so I rarely see dead people, mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety, who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner's impending doom.
This time, a ghostly lion has me seeing stars—and not the kind you wish upon. When the Hop Til You Drop Easter Eggstravaganza transforms Honey Lake into a pastel paradise, I’m ready to showcase my signature coconut cake and maybe win the baking competition. With my twins strapped to my chest and my two-year-old in tow, what could go wrong at a peaceful Easter festival?
Of course, when an heir to a chocolate empire ends up dead with my Grandma Nell’s antique knife buried in their chest, I realize someone just turned Honey Hollow’s Easter celebration into a murder investigation. Between a cheating scandal that involves a steamy romance author, a wellness guru’s vendetta, and a money-laundering operation that makes organized crime look like a church bake sale—half the festival had motive to kill the chocolate heir.
But when the investigation reveals this murder has more layers than my coconut cake, I know I’m dealing with a killer who doesn’t leave anything to chance. With my spatula in one hand and my sleuthing skills in the other—plus a supernatural sidekick who has a mighty roar, and enough suspects to populate a small town—I’ll need to crack this case before the killer decides I know too much.
Living in Honey Hollow can be deadly.
Includes RECIPE!
Lottie
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Well, mostly I see dead creatures of the furry variety who have come back from the other side to warn me that their previous owners are about to join them in the great beyond. But right now, the only thing I’m seeing is chaos wrapped in bunny ears and tied up with a coconut cake bow.
It’s Sunday afternoon at Honey Lake, and the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Eggstravaganza is in full swing. The lake is so crowded it’s clear all of Honey Hollow is here—and probably half of Vermont, too. The air smells like sugar, blooming lilacs, and that particular Vermont spring scent of mud mixed with optimism—and maybe a touch of my sweet treats. Cherry blossoms drift down like confetti while the lake sparkles in the sun, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band is murdering what I think used to be “Here Comes Peter Cottontail”.
Giant inflatable Easter bunnies tower over vendor booths, their plastic grins slightly unnerving in the afternoon light. Pastel streamers flutter from every available surface, and someone has gone absolutely wild with the Easter egg decorations. They’re hanging from trees, scattered across picnic tables, and floating in the lake like colorful bath toys. This entire festival is going to run for a week straight, right through Easter Sunday, building up to the grand finale egg hunt.
Kids dart between game booths—ring toss with carrot-shaped prizes, a bean bag throw featuring a giant Easter basket, and something called Pin the Tail on the Bunny that’s causing more arguments than a political debate. The dunking booth has been converted to Dunk the Easter Bunny, and judging by the line, people are taking their spring frustrations out on whoever’s brave enough to sit on that platform.
The 5K just finished, which means I’m surrounded by three hundred people in various states of exhaustion and mandatory bunny ears. There’s a forty-something woman in a pink tutu catching her breath next to my cakewalk table, a woman in full Easter Bunny regalia fanning herself with a bouquet of plastic carrots, and approximately seventeen children who’ve discovered that bunny ears make excellent weapons when wielded correctly.
“Round five of the cakewalk!” I announce into a microphone as it drowns me out with a squeal loud enough to be heard on Mars. I arrange my serving supplies on the table—paper plates, plastic forks, and my good serving knife with the pearl handle that once belonged to my Grandma Nell. She always said a proper cake deserves a proper knife, and this one has been cutting celebration cakes in our family for three generations. “Please find your numbered squares and prepare to walk for a scrumptious cake to call your own!”
A cakewalk is basically musical chairs for people who’d rather win one of my delectable delights than a plastic trophy. Participants walk around numbered squares to music, and when it stops, I draw a number and whoever’s standing on it wins their choice of cake. Simple in theory, total chaos when you add dozens of sugar-hyped people in bunny ears.
I wiggle the mic again, and the feedback makes every person within a fifty-foot radius wince, including my twin boys Ozzy and Corbin—officially Essex Everett Baxter and Corbin Noah Baxter, though at just over a month old, they’re more concerned with eating and sleeping than formal names. They’re strapped into their triple stroller next to my sweet two-year-old baby girl, Lyla Nell, who’s clapping like mad for all the human-sized bunnies while trying to escape her safety harness with the determination of a tiny Houdini.
“Sweet honey on a burnt biscuit, Lot!” Carlotta appears at my side wearing what appears to be an entire spring garden on her head—complete with plastic flowers, ribbon streamers, and what might be a small bird. “This place is crawling with eligible bachelors in bunny ears! It’s like someone threw a singles mixer and decided to call it a sexy 5K. Check out all those hairy thighs in those tiny short shorts!”
“Your mind would go there,” I sigh.
“Of course, it would, Lot. My mind’s already taken a first-class ticket there, checked into the penthouse suite, and ordered room service.”
Carlotta Sawyer, also known as my biological mother, has never met a metaphor she couldn’t make inappropriate, and today is no exception. Her eyes are scanning the post-race crowd with predatory precision, never mind the fact she’s seeing my biological father and happens to be committed to him—mostly.
Both Carlotta and I share the same caramel-colored medium-length locks and hazel eyes, albeit Carlotta has more tinsel in her hair and wrinkles. She’s pretty much a preview of what I’ll look like in twenty years if I let myself go and decide to dabble in a beard. Have I mentioned her moustache? I have zero plans on stopping my waxing régime anytime soon. My bestie Keelie and I have a pact that if either of us becomes incapacitated for any reason, we’ll discreetly shave one another’s faces if need be. Now that’s a real friend.
“That gentleman in the metallic gray shorts, paired with the blue bunny tail and matching tutu, has excellent form,” Carlotta continues, pointing at a man who’s still catching his breath near the refreshment stand. “Both athletic form and fashion-wise. It takes confidence to pull off that look.”
“That’s Mayor Nash,” I point out. “You know, as in your quasi-fiancé.” And my aforementioned father.
“Well, of course, he looks good! I’ve been training him for months.” Carlotta’s gaze drifts to the men standing opposite him. “Check out the quads on that one, Lot. They could crack walnuts. I might be tethered to a man, but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t appreciate the rest of the scenery, does it?”
The fact my biological father is once again dating the woman who gave birth to me, then promptly abandoned me at the fire department, still feels like something out of a soap opera, but I’ve learned to roll with it.
In Honey Hollow, stranger things have happened, usually involving murder. And Carlotta’s wandering eye is just part of her charm—or her curse, depending on how you look at it.
“You do realize Mayor Nash—the man you’re supposedly exclusive with—is right there in the puffy blue tutu?” I say, fighting with the microphone cord.
“Oh please, Harry knows I have eyes.” Carlotta waves dismissively. “Looking at the menu doesn’t mean I’m ordering. Though that gentleman in the purple shorts does look like today’s special.”
“I don’t think Mayor Nash sees it that way.”
“Then he should work harder to keep my attention. Competition builds character.”
The booth to our right suddenly grows in volume as people swarm it from every direction at once, and I give a knowing nod. That would be the Whitmores’ booth—as in the people from the Whitmore Chocolate empire.
The family still runs the operation and the booth as well, and they’ve just announced their hourly giveaway winner. Some lucky person just scored a chocolate bunny the size of a kindergartener. Duncan Whitmore, one of the three Whitmores who owns the company, presents the chocolate treat with a big smile while his wife, Muffin, stands behind him, her expression suggesting she’s counting the seconds until this shift ends.
“Now there’s a happy couple,” Carlotta snorts. “She looks about two seconds away from a chocolate-fueled murder spree.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” I mutter. “He’s been flirting with every woman who walks by their booth.”
Including me. Although I have no intention of sharing that saucy tidbit with either Noah or Everett. I may be married to Judge Essex Everett Baxter, but I was once married to Noah Corbin Fox as well, and both men would kill for me if need be—maybe even for a tiny infraction such as a little flirting.
Duncan howls out a catcall at a group of women who saunters by with cute little bunny ears on their heads as if to prove my point.
Carlotta grunts in his direction. “That Duncan Whitmore is dumb as a box of rocks. Everyone knows you wait until your plus-one turns their back before ogling the rest of the meat market.”
I avert my eyes at the thought. “I’d offer to set you straight on how a committed relationship works, but your brain rejects commitment the way my body rejects kale.”
“True facts,” she says as we watch Duncan’s chocolate booth attract the masses at a rapid pace. “That Whitmore Chocolate booth thinks it’s hot stuff. But has the booth sold out of anything? I don’t think so. Meanwhile, your bunny cupcakes are flying off the stands faster than gossip at a church social. The Whitmores are nothing but a bunch of flash-in-the-pan cocoa peddlers whose chocolate bunnies can’t even handle a warm day.”
Actually, Carlotta is completely wrong about the Whitmores; they are not flash-in-the-pan cocoa peddlers. They actually run a successful business that has made them multimillionaires many times over, but I’m not about to correct her. The truth is, they can’t restock their ten-inch chocolate Easter bunnies fast enough, and I should know—I’ve already devoured six of them this morning. The fact that I managed to consume approximately thirty inches of premium chocolate while running a cakewalk and managing three small children is either impressive or deeply concerning. Probably both.
“Come and get your coconut Easter bunny cupcakes!” Suze Fox shouts, and I turn toward the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery booth with its shimmering pastel banner. Suze, Lily, and Effie—three of my most trusted employees—are running my booth with the kind of cheerful chaos that somehow still gets everything done. And thanks to Suze’s foghorn-level voice, my coconut bunny cupcakes are vanishing faster than dollar bills at a strip club.
I can’t blame anyone for wanting to snap them up. My cupcakes are darn right adorable. Each little cake sports coconut “fur,” chocolate chip eyes, licorice whiskers, candy ears, and an adorable pink marshmallow nose that’s making grown adults abandon their good senses in ways that should probably require intervention.
I’m about to give Suze a thumbs up, but before I can raise my hand, two of the most handsome men in all of Vermont land by my side. I should know—I’m married to one and was once married to the other. And if you count that mass wedding at the end of our Vegas trip last week, I’m technically married to both, albeit not legally. However, to hear Noah say it, it’s legal enough in his books.
They’re both decked out in shorts, t-shirts, sunglasses and, well—bunny ears.
You couldn’t participate in the 5K unless you were in costume, and for those who chose not to dress up were given bunny ears to deal with. And believe me when I say, it’s not a bad look on either of them.
My handsome hubby wraps his arms around me tight. Everett is tall, has a thicket of black glossy hair, blue eyes that threaten to steal your soul, and has a body chiseled of steel. He’s lethally handsome, and his superpower seems to be commandeering the attention of women in a fifty-foot radius at any given time. In fact, it’s not unusual to see random women drop to their knees in worship of him now and again. And oddly enough, I think I see three different women doing that very thing, right now.
Judge Essex Everett Baxter prefers to go by Everett, although the nickname granted to him by baristas the world over—Mr. Sexy—is still sticking pretty well, too. Even though he doesn’t go by Essex, the myriad of women he bedded prior to settling down with yours truly call him Essex as if his formal name were some sort of parting gift. Oddly enough, Suze calls him Essex as well, but she’s sort of the exception to the rule.
Noah Fox, as in Homicide Detective Noah Fox, stands beside him, his hair disheveled from running and bunny ears sitting at a funny angle, giving him that dangerously charming look he pretends not to know he has.
Carlotta belts out a whistle and claps up a storm at the sight of them. “Great job, Foxy. Way to outfox that pack of senior citizens trying to outpace you with their walkers. And you did pretty great, too, Sexy.” Foxy and Sexy are the nicknames Carlotta has gifted the two of them. “Way to keep ahead of that pack of women who were chasing you down.”
I can’t help but laugh. Race or no race, there always seems to be a pack of women trying to chase down my husband.
“We tied for first in our age group,” Noah announces, wagging a small medal that catches the light.
“Tied for first,” Everett confirms, reaching up to remove his bunny ears, but I catch him by the wrist just in time.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn him. “Not until I kiss you.”
He’s quick to frown. “Lemon, these things are—”
Everett always calls me Lemon.
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him silly, tasting salt and fresh spring air and that particular Everett deliciousness that always makes my knees wobble. When I pull back, his bunny ears are slightly askew, and his expression has shifted from a frown to something much more interesting, the kind of look that says he’s two seconds away from dragging me behind the funnel cake booth and having his way with me. Or maybe that’s just me projecting. Let’s just say we’ve hit a bit of a medically induced dry spell ever since the twins were born. The doctor said we needed to wait six weeks before resuming full activity in the bedroom, and well, we’re just about at the finish line.
“Save those ears for later,” I tell him with a grin. “I think I can work with those.” Heaven knows he’s said those very words to me a time or two, and meant them. “Besides, you look great in them.”
“She’s right, Everett.” Noah chuckles. “The ears give you that dignified look every judge is going for these days,” he says while swiping off his own ears. “Nothing says judicial authority like pink bunny ears. You should consider wearing them to the courthouse.”
“Maybe I will,” Everett growls at him. “Right after you wear them to the precinct,” he shoots back. “And I might look silly in these, but at least I didn’t trip over my own feet at the finish line.”
“I didn’t trip,” Noah is quick to protest. “I was avoiding that kid in the giant Easter basket costume who was weaving all over the place.”
Everett flexes a short-lived smile. “Convenient excuse.”
“Better than needing a judge’s ruling on proper running form.”
Everett lifts a brow my way. “I’m changing the subject. Lemon, you look beautiful.” He lands another kiss on my lips as if to prove his point.
“Don’t believe him, Lot,” Carlotta is quick to burst my bubble. “That man is just trying to get in your pants. You look like death warmed over in a microwave,” she points out with her usual lack of tact, while noting I look like I’ve been in a fistfight with exhaustion and lost. And truthfully, I tend to believe Carlotta over Everett in this department.
“Thanks for the confidence boost,” I mutter, scooping up both twins out of the stroller while Noah picks up Lyla Nell. Noah is Lyla Nell’s father, and Everett sired the boys—my bestie Keelie is the one who started saying it that way, and I’ve been laughing about it internally ever since.
I bounce one twin while the other decides my shoulder makes an excellent spot to try to spit up his lunch.
The truth is, I’m running on approximately four hours of sleep spread across the last three days. The twins have decided that sleep is for the weak, and they’ve recruited Lyla Nell to their cause. Just when I think I’ve got them both settled, one of them will let out a wail that could wake the dead—which, given my track record with supernatural visitors, is probably not just a figure of speech.
“Maybe you should try sleeping when the babies sleep,” Everett suggests with the helpful tone of someone who’s clearly read exactly one parenting article and thinks he’s discovered the secret to infant management. Okay, fine. Everett has read more books than I have on the subject, but still, that comment begs to differ.
“Brilliant advice,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic and missing by a sarcastic mile. “Except Lyla Nell has decided that regular nightly sleep intervals are more of a suggestion than a requirement. Last night she wandered into our room at two A.M. asking if we could make pancakes for the moon people.”
Noah snorts into his coffee. “Moon people?”
“Apparently, they were hungry and standing in our backyard,” I explain with weary acceptance. Face it, my life has become too weird to question. “And before you ask, no, I couldn’t see them. But Lyla Nell was very concerned about their nutritional needs—and maybe hers.”
“So let me get this straight.” Carlotta chuckles. “You’ve got two little yippies who think sleep is optional, a toddler-size yippie who runs a supernatural bed-and-breakfast, and you’re wondering why you look like you’ve been run over by a truck full of zombies?”
“That’s… actually a pretty accurate description of my life right now,” I admit as all of Honey Hollow bustles around us in bunny ears, cotton tails, and full rabbit regalia.
Everett reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We’ll figure this out, Lemon. Maybe we can hire a night nanny.”
“What we need is a supernatural nanny,” I mumble. “Someone who can handle the living and the dead with equal efficiency.” I’m only half-teasing.
The microphone in my hand decides to channel an air raid siren, screeching so loud that a nearby toddler in bunny pajamas starts to cry.
“I’ll fix that,” Noah says, reaching for the mic. Lord knows he’s wrestled with worse things than stubborn electronics. Although those things didn’t have the power to electrocute him.
“Round six of the cakewalk!” I call out once Noah works his magic on the sound system. “Come one, come all, and win yourself some sugary goodness!”
The music starts—some peppy instrumental version of a folk song that seems to make everyone hop like a bunny—and people begin their happy parade around the numbered squares.
To the left of my booth the cakewalk table groans under the weight of community donations—my mother’s German chocolate masterpiece looks especially scrumptious (that would be Miranda Lemon, the saint that raised me), Keelie’s mother’s strawberry shortcake is slightly listing to port, an entire myriad of scrumptious cakes donated by just about every other woman in town, and at the center of it all stands my coconut cake decorated with bunny ears and a face so precious it’s practically weaponized its cuteness.
“I’ll take another dozen of those bunny cupcakes,” says a woman over at my booth who is still sporting her race bib and a crown made entirely of plastic carrots.
Effie, my sassy bakery assistant who could intimidate a serial killer with her cash register skills, doesn’t even blink. “That’s your third dozen. Are you planning to feed an army or start your own cupcake black market?”
“I’m a part of the Easter brunch committee,” the woman says, as if that explains everything. And in Honey Hollow, it probably does.
The music stops, and I’m back on cakewalk duty. “Number twelve!” I call out. “We have a winner!”
A collective sigh goes up from the crowd when the winner heads straight for my mother’s German chocolate cake instead of my bunny masterpiece. Apparently, even in a sugar-induced frenzy, people have standards.
“Mommy, I want the bunny cake!” squeals a six-year-old in a yellow tutu.
“Get in line, sweetie,” her mother mutters. “Half the town wants that cake.”
Not everyone. Case in point, number twelve.
I’m about to thank everyone for participating when I notice that Lyla Nell has stopped clapping.
This might not seem significant to most people, but my two-year-old daughter has been maintaining a steady rhythm of applause for the past twenty minutes. When she stops, it usually means something has captured her attention in a way that requires investigation.
“Mine,” she says while pointing at the ancient oak tree that overlooks the lake, her little finger aimed at something beyond the festival crowd. Her usual happy babbling has stopped, replaced by an intense focus that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“What’s got Little Yippie’s attention?” Carlotta follows Lyla Nell’s gaze. “There’s nothing over there but trees and a big, giant… well, slap me with a furry tail and hide all the little yippies!”
I look that way and gasp.
There, sitting beneath the oak tree with the majestic presence of royalty surveying his kingdom, is a lion the size of a refrigerator.
A LION! As in those oversized cats that belong in either a savannah or a zoo! Not in Honey Hollow. Definitely not at a holiday festival designed with children in mind. Carlotta is right! We need to hide all the little yippies!
I squint out at it, trying to get a better look.
It’s not just any lion. It’s a translucent, shimmering, definitely-not-supposed-to-be-in-Vermont lion with a golden mane that seems to catch a pale blue light that simply isn’t there. He’s looking directly at us with eyes that hold more wisdom than the entire Honey Hollow town council combined. Honestly, that’s not hard to do.
He turns his gaze my way, belts out a menacing roar, and then vanishes like the morning mist until there’s nothing left but empty space beneath the oak tree and a few miniature blue stars that vanish right after him.
Carlotta and I gasp simultaneously while Lyla Nell starts clapping like mad once again, bouncing in her stroller with the enthusiasm of a toddler who just witnessed the world’s greatest magic trick.
“What’s wrong, Lot?” Noah asks as he follows our stare toward the now empty oak tree.
“What’s happening?” Everett demands, his voice taking on that judicial tone that means business.
“I think we just saw the ghost of the world’s biggest lion,” I say with my eyes still fixated on the spot it just vacated.
“Welp,” Carlotta says, blowing out a hard breath. “We all know what that means.”
Everett nods grimly. “That means a murder is afoot.”
The words hang in the air for exactly three seconds before a bloodcurdling scream ignites behind us, and we turn to see my sister Lainey howling as if it were her life on the chopping block.
Because in Honey Hollow, supernatural warnings come in all shapes and sizes—and this one has fangs, a mane, and a body count on the way.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****