Page 49 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“I’ll see you tomorrow for the big parade,” she says with a wave. “Erin go bragh!” With that, she’s out the door in a whirl of perfume and let’s be honest—deflection.

I pick up another custard donut while considering Venus’ convenient subject change. But before I can think too deeply about it, the door bangs open again and Carlotta marches in, heads straight for my table, drops into the chair across from me, and grabs a donut without so much as a hello.

“Don’t eat that donut,” I tell her just as Sebby snatches it from her lips.

“Hear that?” he says her way. “Lolita only shares her donuts withme.”

“You shouldn’t fill up on them either,” I tell him, picking up my mile-long to-do list. “We’re going to dinner.”

Venus might think that Della Crane is hiding a few secrets, but it’s painfully obvious that Venus is hiding a few secrets of her own—or more to the point, secrets that belong to her mother.

Nevertheless, someone somewhere knows something about Sebastian Gallagher’s death, and I’m hoping that someone is Della Crane.

LOTTIE

O’Reilly’s Pub and Diner looks like St. Patrick himself bought out a party supply store and went completely feral.

Green streamers drip from the ceiling like vines in a jungle, shamrock cutouts are plastered over every inch of the walls, and every single person in here—without exception—is drowning in emerald and looks as if they lost a fight with a leprechaun. Think tall green hats, lots of fake orange bears, and a sea of emerald in every single hue.

The dark oak furniture gleams under the dim lighting, giving the whole place a warm, ancient feel despite the aggressive holiday decor. The music is loud, decidedly Irish, and the thicket of people are chattering and laughing so loud it mimics the sound of brewing thunder.

The scent of corned beef brisket hangs thick in the air like a carnivorous fog, mingling with the yeasty tang of beer and the unmistakable aroma of deep-fried everything. And judging by the enthusiastic Irish jig the twins are performing over my bladder, they most certainly approve. Boy, they’re going to miss my bladder one day.

“I think I just gained five pounds walking through the door,” I mutter to Carlotta as we step inside.

“That’s why I never bother looking at the scale,” she shoots back with her eyes already scanning the bar patrons like a predator assessing the herd. “I find it’s best to live in blissful, caloric ignorance, Lot. And that’s one of the reasons I don’t feel bad about hanging out at the bakery and eating all the dessert I want.”

“So, I’ve noticed.”

A spray of pink and blue stars appears and soon that cute little furball with the big funny ears and fluffy little tail materializes.

“Is this the bar?” He startles as he takes a good gander at the place. “And look at all of the beautiful human women with bright orange beards! I haven’t seen a good beard on a woman since Sebastian’s mother.”

My mouth falls open at the inadvertent slight, although I suppose he’s just telling the truth.

Carlotta shrugs. “Once a year I ditch the electric shaver and let what the Good Lord gave me run wild,” she says, scratching at her imaginary beard.

However, once a year during No-Shave November that beard isn’t so imaginary. Carlotta really does let loose and let her facial locks fall where they may. That’s one of the worst parts about the two of us looking so much alike. Come November everyone knows exactly what I’d look like with a beard. Spoiler alert: It’s not a good look.

“Remember,” I say to Carlotta. “We’re going to slowly dig into this with her.”

It takes approximately three seconds to spot our target.

Della Crane sits perched on a barstool toward the middle of the counter, her vibrant red hair standing out even in this sea of fake orange beards and leprechaun hats. She’s wearinga tight green T-shirt that readsKiss Me, I Might Be Irish, and despite the fact that Irish heritage might be wishful thinking, she certainly has a taker.

“There she is.” I nod in Della’s direction. “And she’s not alone.”

A man in a shamrock-patterned tie leans toward her, and by the looks of it he’s far too close for casual conversation. From Della’s rigid posture and forced smile, I’d say his pseudo-Irish charm is failing spectacularly.

“Watch and learn, Lot Lot,” Carlotta whispers it like the threat it is. “This is going to be Irish poetry in motion.”

Before I properly threaten her right back within an inch of her bearded life, Carlotta saunters over to the bar and deliberately bumps into Shamrock Tie Guy, causing him to spill his green beer down the front of his white dress shirt.

“Oh, for shamrock’s sake,” Carlotta shouts with an Oscar-worthy performance. “Are you always this clumsy? Let me help you with that.” She proceeds to dab at his shirt with a napkin, managing to make the stain both larger and somehow swing around to both of his armpits. Now that’s not a good look either.

“I’ve got it,” the man says, backing away as if Carlotta might be contagious. He wouldn’t be entirely wrong in that respect either. He takes a better look at his newly minted green armpits and wheezes. “Geez.” He looks from Carlotta to Della. “It’s fine. I just remembered I have somewhere to be.”

And with that, the seat on Della’s left frees up and Carlotta plops down in it.

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