Sneak Peek!
The Proof is in the Banana Pudding
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 peacock has me strutting straight into danger—and looking fabulous while doing it. When the Daughters of Honey Hollow declare a week-long 1950s reenactment culminating in a Mother’s Day garden party, I’m ready to showcase my signature banana pudding and maybe win the Golden Whisk. With twin babies strapped to my chest and a somewhat bossy two-year-old in tow, what could go wrong at a vintage-themed celebration?
Of course, when the chairwoman of the Daughters ends up dead with a commemorative cast iron skillet knocked over her perfectly coiffed head, I realize someone just turned Honey Hollow’s Mother’s Day celebration into a murder investigation. Between embezzlement scandals, secret affairs, and enough blackmail to fill a vintage hat box—half the organization had motive to kill the queen bee.
But when the investigation reveals this murder has more layers than my banana pudding, I know I’m dealing with a killer who’s been perfecting their domestic goddess image for decades. With my spatula in one hand and my sleuthing skills in the other—plus a supernatural sidekick who has some serious tail feathers, and enough suspects in poodle skirts to populate a sock hop—I’ll need to crack this case before the killer decides I know too much.
Living in Honey Hollow can be deadly.
Includes RECIPE!
The Killer
The pearls sit tight around my neck, a little too tight.
I adjust them and my fingers don’t tremble, not anymore, and watch as the garden fills with women who have no idea what’s coming. They flutter across the lawn like pastel butterflies, nothing but poodle skirts and pin curls and contrived smiles. Playing pretend. Pretending they’re perfect.
As if any of us are perfect.
The punch bowl gleams in the afternoon sun, and someone has arranged petit fours on a three-tiered stand like we’re civilized people at a civilized gathering. Like we haven’t all been sharpening our claws behind closed doors for decades.
I take a sip of lemonade that’s far too sweet and watch as she holds court near the rosebushes.
There she is. Our glorious leader. Smiling that smile, the one that says I own you without uttering a word. She’s been aiming it in my direction for months now, watching me squirm, savoring my fear like dessert.
She thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks her name and her money and her ridiculous peacocks make her invincible.
She’s wrong.
Through the French doors, the vintage kitchen display catches my eye. Cast-iron cookware from 1952. It’s heavy, solid, and most certainly commemorative.
It’s fitting, really.
She glances my way and her smile sharpens, just enough for me to see the blade beneath her veneer. She knows I’m afraid.
But push someone far enough, take away everything, and fear transforms into something else entirely.
Something patient. Something that smiles back.
I smooth my poodle skirt and wait.
In a few short hours, she’ll give her speech and think she’s won.
She hasn’t.
They say the fifties were a simpler time. I suppose they’re right.
Back then, women knew how to smile, keep secrets, and bury the bodies where no one would think to look.
She’s been hunting me for months.
And I bet it’s never occurred to her that she wasn’t the predator in this story.
Lottie
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so rarely do I 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. But right now, the only thing I see is the Pemberton-Clarke estate rising before me like a glossy magazine spread that came to life and decided to strangle me with a girdle.
Which is fitting, because the Daughters of Honey Hollow are currently pretending it’s the 1950s for an entire week, and nothing about the 1950s looked remotely comfortable.
This is day one of the Daughters’ 1950s Reenactment Extravaganza—seven full days of poodle skirts, pin curls, and absolutely no acknowledgment that cell phones exist while attending official events.
Seven days of retro perfection.
Seven days of forced nostalgia.
Seven days that, if Honey Hollow’s track record holds, will probably end with someone dead.
The whole spectacle ends with a Mother’s Day brunch at my mother’s bed and breakfast, where the founding members will be honored in a tribute ceremony Mom has described as a tribute ceremony for the ages.
My mother is way too into this for it to be healthy. The woman has spreadsheets. Color-coded spreadsheets. I’m genuinely terrified.
And speaking of terror, this girdle is currently bisecting my internal organs while I balance a glass dish of banana pudding I assembled at three in the morning—because my two-month-old twins decided sleep was for quitters, and I decided stress-baking was the only rational response to being awake at that ungodly hour.
Somewhere in the pastel sea of poodle skirts and pearl necklaces ahead, my mother has already corralled my sweet baby girl, Lyla Nell, and my sweet twins.
Which means I have approximately forty-five minutes of semi-freedom before someone needs to be fed, changed, or physically restrained from committing a felony against a dessert table.
In fact, I can hear Lyla Nell shrieking from here. It’s either joy or destruction, and honestly, the odds are fifty-fifty in this family.
“Lot Lot, would you look at this place?” Carlotta belts out a catcall while hugging a giant punch bowl of homemade Chex Mix she brought—the spicy kind with extra garlic powder and cayenne that could double as a weapon. “This screams old money and rich old men who don’t know how lucky they’re about to get once I hunt them down.”
“Please don’t hunt anyone.”
“You know I can’t make promises I won’t keep.”
And I know for a fact she can’t keep that one.
The grounds of the Pemberton-Clarke estate stretch before us in terraced perfection with manicured lawns cascading toward a reflecting pool that screams generational wealth.And seeing that Carlotta is ready and willing to hunt down the first billionaire she sees, I silently apologize to the unsuspecting silver foxes within range.
Peacock topiaries line down the stone paths,each one trimmed within an inch of its evergreen life—which, honestly, is more grooming than I’ve managed for myself in the past three years.
The pergola off in the back, where the heart of the garden party is taking place, drips with teal-and-emerald buntings that scream old money, new money, and possibly offshore accounts.
To top it off, someone has strung pearl garlands between the branches of the rows and rows of maple trees. And I’d bet my bakery that each of those pearls once lived in an oyster. Because nothing says casual afternoon gathering like dangling a semester of Ivy League tuition over a bed of hydrangeas.
“Geez, do you think those are real?” I nod toward the ritzy garlands.
“Of course, they’re real, Lot Lot. At this tax bracket, even the toilet paper is imported.”
I can’t help but marvel at the sight. My grandmother was a founding Daughter of Honey Hollow, but my family definitely did not inherit this kind of wealth. We inherited stubbornness, questionable taste in men, and the supernatural ability to see the dead.
Okay fine. Carlotta might have questionable taste in men, but I happen to have excellent taste in men. Perhaps a little too excellent.
But I digress. The Lemons may not have this kind of funny money, but the Pemberton-Clarkes, apparently, inherited enough money to buy a small solar system and a landscaper who takes his peacocks very, very seriously.
Speaking of taking things seriously…Carlotta and I just so happen to be dressed in matching poodle skirts at the moment. Hers is hot pink. Mine is powder blue. Both come with fitted blouses, saddle shoes, and enough petticoats underneath to insulate Noah’s cabin for the winter. Mom provided the vintage ensembles for my sisters and me for the week, in fear we might use our lack of wardrobe as an excuse to skip out entirely, no doubt. Smart woman.
“I feel like a cupcake,” I mutter, adjusting the layers of fabric around my knees.
“A delicious cupcake,” Carlotta corrects. “One that rich men want to take a bite out of. And I’m hoping they’ll take a bite out of me, too.”
“Try to refrain from turning pastries, and just about everything else, into an innuendo.”
“I’ll stop when it stops being fun. Besides, innuendos happen to be my specialty.” She pauses. “Actually, they’re the second thing I’m good at.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The fact is, we look like we stepped out of a sock hop, if the sock hop had been organized by someone with a vendetta against comfortable clothing.
Carlotta’s caramel-colored hair is pinned up in victory rolls that took her forty-five minutes and approximately six hundred bobby pins, with a few silver streaks catching the sunlight. We share the same hair color, the same hazel eyes, the same heart-shaped face—we’re all but twins, really, except Carlotta has about twenty more years of questionable life experience etched into her features. More gray in her hair, more laugh lines around her eyes, and more evidence of a life lived loud, proud, and without apology.
Carlotta is basically a preview of what I’ll look like in two decades if I stop waxing my mustache and start making significantly worse romantic decisions.
“You know what the best part of outfits like this used to be?” Carlotta does a little twirl with her skirt flaring and sends a few rogue bits of her Chex Mix flying.
“The fact that they were a fad that quickly ended?”
“The fact that men back in the fifties had no idea what was under all these layers.” She gives a wicked grin. “I bet the mystery drove them wild.”
“I’m pretty sure the mystery is driving my circulation to a halt.”
The chatter from the women grows in volume as we make our way to the party.
“Remember, Carlotta, we’re supposed to pretend our cell phones don’t exist this week.” Or at least while we’re at these shindigs. There’s no way anyone is going to pry Candy Blitz from my hands. I’m a mother now and I’ll take my me time where I can get it. Besides, I have both a score and a level to maintain. Not to mention my sanity.
Carlotta chuffs at the thought. “Do you know how many dating app matches I’m missing right now?”
“You’re exclusive with Mayor Nash,” I’m quick to remind her. Not that she seems capable of remembering. Much to my surprise, a few years back, I learned that Mayor Nash was my biological father. Honestly, it still surprises me to this day.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she grouses. “Scary Harry is my main man. Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Very funny.” I avert my eyes at the thought. “You turned your phone off, right? Mom said no breaking character.”
“Define off.”
“Carlotta.”
“Fine, fine. It’s on silent in my bra. Which technically counts as off since no one can hear it but me and the girls.”
“Well, have the girls take your calls while we’re here. I’d like to not get kicked out of an event for once, simply because I brought you along.”
“And ruin my track record?”
She’s not wrong. It sort of would.
“You know,” I say, navigating around a decorative peacock-shaped paving stone, “Mom’s been planning this week for months. If anything goes wrong—”
“Nothing’s going wrong. Look at this crowd. Your mom is a genius.” Carlotta stops short and gasps. “Check it out, Lot. That hot Adonis over there is giving me the eye.” She nods in earnest at a statue of some Greek god positioned near the reflecting pool.
“Carlotta, that’s a statue.”
“And, what’s your point?” She squints at him approvingly. “He’s got excellent bone structure. I’ve dated worse.”
I don’t doubt it.
We start up the path toward the party, and I’m so busy marveling at the sheer audacity of wealth on display that I don’t notice the peacock-shaped paving stone where one tail feather is sticking up higher than the rest—right up until my saddle shoe snags on it.
I lurch forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates, and my banana pudding tilts dangerously toward catastrophe.
Carlotta grabs my elbow, which somehow makes everything worse, and for one heart-stopping moment, I envision my entire contribution to this event splattered across Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke’s immaculate stonework.
But thankfully, my maternal reflexes are bordering on a superpower. I overcorrect with a twist that my chiropractor will hear about later, and the pudding survives.
Barely.
“Nice save, Lot.” Carlotta grins. “You’ve got impressive grip strength. I’d make a joke, but your husbands are probably within earshot.”
I shoot her a look for implying I have two. “They’re not here yet.”
Okay, fine. I sort of do.
Carlotta shrugs. “Then I’ll save that joke for when they are within earshot. It’s more fun that way.”
We continue up the path, and that’s when I see it—the buffet table.
It stretches across the garden like a monument to 1950s culinary ambition, laden with towering Jell-O molds in colors that don’t exist in nature, casseroles labeled in perfect cursive, cheese balls in various sizes and shades of orange, and an ambrosia salad so aggressively pastel I feel personally challenged as a baker.
And there, dead center, surrounded by fresh flowers like a religious artifact awaiting worship, is Midge Thornbury’s legendary banana pudding.
It’s glowing. I swear it’s actually glowing.
Eighteen-time consecutive winner of the Daughters of Honey Hollow Dessert Competition, and it looks like someone staged an entire photo shoot specifically designed to make my pudding feel inadequate.
On the surface it looks ordinary—with layers of vanilla wafers, pudding, and whipped cream stacked neatly in a glass trifle dish.
But Midge’s pudding has a deep golden color that borders on orange.And it’s not from food dye. I’ve eaten enough of it. After all, I’m a baker; I should know all about ingredients. But that’s the funny thing. I don’t know what special ingredients Midge has been using all these championship-garnering years, and it vexes me to no end. And worse yet, my own banana pudding looks pale and sickly in comparison.
“Is that Midge’s pudding, or did someone build a shrine to dairy products?” Carlotta squints at the display.
“Both,” I mutter, clutching my own humble offering a little tighter. “Definitely both.”
The crowd in front of us is a sea of women in full 1950s regalia—poodle skirts swishing, tea-length floral prints brushing against calves, and the occasional daring pencil skirt paired with a prim Peter Pan collar blouse. White gloves flutter like the wings of doves, wide-brimmed sun hats shade perfectly powdered faces, pin curls bounce, pearls gleam, and there’s enough hairspray here to personally expand the hole in the ozone layer.
A smattering of men dot the landscape, mostly husbands who’ve been dragged along and now stand in uncomfortable clumps, tugging at their period-appropriate collars like they’re slowly being strangled by nostalgia.
“The Daughters really went all in this year,” Carlotta observes.
The Daughters of Honey Hollow started back in the 1950s when the old farm plots were carved up into tract houses and the founding mothers banded together to make sure the new families didn’t lose their sense of community. Potlucks, porch gossip, emergency childcare, morally questionable casseroles—the whole Honey Hollow spirit.
This weeklong reenactment is their tribute to that era, and everyone who’s anyone in Honey Hollow is here in full costume, ready to pretend it’s the 1950s and gossip is a competitive sport.
“It’s the seventy-fifth anniversary of the founding,” I say. “Mom said it was either go big or go home.”
“And Miranda Lemon does not go home.” Carlotta grins. “But thankfully, she takes home any strays I happen to offer.”
I shoot a look her way.
When I was a newborn, Carlotta dropped me off at the Honey Hollow Fire Department, and Miranda Lemon was the saint who adopted me. Carlotta tried to pull the same maneuver a year later with my sister, Charlie. But she saw that my mother was in the family way herself, which meant poor Charlie ended up being raised by Carlotta.
Some might say worse things could happen, but at this moment, I can’t quite think of any.
Something catches my attention in the swirl of bodies moving through the opulent backyard.
There, holding court near the raised platform like a queen surveying her kingdom, stands Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke herself.
She’s tall and imperious, with silver-white hair styled in immaculate vintage finger waves that probably require their own staff. Her ice-blue eyes scan the crowd with the perpetual disappointment of someone who expected more from humanity and has been let down at every turn.
A triple-strand pearl necklace rests against her pale pink suit, and everything about her screams I could ruin your social standing with a single raised eyebrow.
“Well, get a load of that one.” Carlotta nods in the woman’s direction. “She looks like the kind of woman who could kill you with a glance and then bill you for the inconvenience.”
“And she’d probably itemize it.”
“With late fees.”
“And charge interest.”
I spot Mom near the dessert table, wrangling the twins’ stroller while Lyla Nell appears to be chasing something through the crowd. Hopefully, a living creature. Although hopefully not someone’s small dog. The last time she got her hands on something furry at a public event, we had to issue a formal apology and a muffin basket. They also suggested I put Lyla Nell on a leash.
Believe me, I’ve given it serious consideration a time or two.
I watch as my mother executes a complicated maneuver involving the stroller, a cloth napkin, and what appears to be a preventative cookie deployment aimed at my toddler.
“Glam Glam looks as if she’s got everything under control,” I say.
Glam Glam would be my mother’s official grandmother nickname. Carlotta’s nickname would be Cray Cray. Both are more than fitting.
No sooner do I get the words out than the crowd shifts.
A ripple of murmurs runs through the sea of poodle skirts as heads turn in one direction, fans fluttering faster and pearls are clutched with renewed vigor. Even Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke pauses mid-sentence to stare.
I turn that way as well, and I’m not surprised in the least to find two of the most handsome men in all of Vermont heading our way.
Noah and Everett.
Noah and Everett would be my aforementioned two husbands, as Carlotta would have the world to believe. Technically, I’m only married to Everett.
And Everett just so happens to be radiating judicial displeasure in a way that suggests he’d rather be presiding over a murder trial than attending a 1950s garden party.
Noah is scanning the crowd like he’s already cataloging potential crime scenes.
And with my track record, he probably should.
Every woman in a fifty-foot radius suddenly finds a reason to adjust her hair, smooth her skirt, and casually angle herself toward my approaching husbands—current and accidental ex variety.
I should probably be used to this by now. After all, I’m not blind.
“Neither of them looks thrilled to be here.” I wince a little at the thought. “But they came because I asked—and because, let’s face it, they’d do anything for me.”
“Anything, you say?” Carlotta’s eyes light up with dangerous glee as they reach us. “Foxy, Sexy—I have a list of all the things you can do for Lot Lot. It’s laminated. I keep it in my bra for emergencies.”
Foxy and Sexy would be Noah’s and Everett’s nicknames. Carlotta likes to gift a nickname to just about everyone she meets. It’s sort of her superpower. That, and making every conversation somewhat inappropriate.
Noah and Everett exchange a look that silently asks why is Carlotta like this, and honestly, after all these years, I’m still waiting on the official report myself.
“Carlotta,” Noah says flatly.
“Hello, ladies.” Everett’s voice carries that low warning growl as he looks toward the feral squirrel who gave birth to me.
I’m about to intervene when movement near the topiary garden catches my eye.
A peacock emerges from the manicured bushes—and not just any peacock. This one is absolutely magnificent.
His plumage catches the May sunlight in an explosion of iridescent teals and emeralds and sapphire blues, and as I watch, he fans his tail feathers at least six feet in expanse, in a display so stunning it belongs in a nature documentary.
“Oh my goodness.” I grab Carlotta’s arm. “Look at him! He’s absolutely gorgeous!”
The creature struts across the lawn in full peacock glory, tail feathers shimmering as if he’s well aware he’s the most fabulous thing on the property.
“Lyla Nell is going to lose her mind when she sees this sweet thing,” I breathe.
Carlotta snorts. “Great. Just what Little Yippie needs—more plumage. The cats already look like Vegas showgirls. One more feather and they’re going to file a restraining order.”
I’m about to respond when I notice Noah and Everett exchanging a different kind of look. Not the Carlotta is insane look, but the one that suggests that Lottie is insane, too.
“Lemon,” Everett says slowly, his blue eyes fixed on the empty lawn where the colorful bird is currently preening. “What peacock?”
My blood runs cold.
Noah offers a mournful smile my way. “Lottie. We don’t see a peacock.”
“But—” I point at the beautiful bird. He’s right there with his tail fanned, his feathers gleaming, and giving me what I can only describe as a knowing look.
I suck in a quick breath, and my stomach drops somewhere around my saddle shoes.
“You know what this means?” I whisper as the peacock ruffles his spectral feathers and a spray of tiny blue stars emits from them.
Everett nods. “This means murder.”
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****