Page 51 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

She glances toward the exit as if calculating the nearest escape route, but Carlotta shifts subtly to block any potential flight.

“That’s right, Agent Orange,” Carlotta grouses. “We’ve got you pegged. We know what you did and when. And more importantly to who! Now spill the killer deets or we’re calling the cops.”

So much for slowly digging into it.

More like digging our own grave—one right next to Sebastian Gallagher.

LOTTIE

“Oh, good grief.” I place my hands over my belly and both twins offer up a swift kick as if to say,this is what you get for bringing her along.

The Irish rock music blares away here at the Irish pub where Carlotta and I traipsed off to in hopes of shaking down Della Crane. But thanks to Carlotta’s no-nonsense,all-nonsense style of interrogation, the only one shook is me.

Della inches back to get a better look at Carlotta with her orange beard. I’ll admit, she wears it well.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Della says and her voice is suddenly tight.

“Oh, I think you do,” Carlotta presses on, much to Sebby’s delight, who happens to be barking and doing somersaults with such unmitigated glee you’d think he was the one sucking down green beer. “You were having quite the heated discussion with the deceased,” Carlotta goes on. “The kind that makes people wonder if you might have stabbed him later.”

“Good going, Carlotta,” Sebby is quick to cheer her initiative. “There’s no point in mincing words.”

Especially not if you don’t mind spooking a suspect.

“Carlotta,” I warn, shooting her a look. So much for the subtle approach.

The bartender returns with the rest of our drinks—a violently green concoction in a skull-shaped glass for Carlotta and what appears to be a mint milkshake with a shamrock cookie on top for me. Della immediately grabs her own already half-empty glass and takes a long, fortifying swig.

“Look”—I say once O’Malley drifts away again—“we’re not here to accuse you of anything. I just want to understand what happened that night.”

“Why?” Della asks as her knuckles turn white around her glass. “Are you a cop or something?”

“No,” I admit. “But I am someone who was there, who saw Sebastian alive, and then very much not alive. And I’m someone who needs to know the truth.”

She makes a face at her beer. “The truth?” she repeats with a bitter edge to her voice. “The truth is that Sebastian Gallagher was a manipulative, conniving, two-faced snake who built his entire whiskey empire on lies and theft.”

Sebby gasps. “Is she name-calling my sweet Sebastian?”

Carlotta chuckles. “Well. This conversation just got a lot more interesting. But let’s cut to the chase. How did he perform under the sheets?”

“Carlotta,” I hiss so loud this time half the bar stops its conversation for a beat.

“What?” Carlotta hisses back. “Inquiring minds want to know and all that other nonsense. And stop giving me the stink eye. With that beard and hat, it feels as if you’re putting a leprechaun curse on me.”

Della looks between us, then at the exit again, clearly debating whether to bolt or unburden herself. After a moment, she gives a dull laugh. It’s clear Carlotta is the one who cast a leprechaun pox on us all this evening.

“You girls are a hoot.” Della tugs at her beard for a moment, and I must admit, the color really makes her crimson locks pop. “So, you really want to know? Fine. Sebastian Gallagher was a charming con artist who dated me just long enough to gain access to my finances. He cleaned out my bank accounts, maxed out my credit cards, and left me with nothing but debt and humiliation.” She sags at the thought and I feel terrible for even asking.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it,” I say, practically gagging on the grief I feel for the poor woman.

“So, the plot thickens,” Sebby says with a swish of his tail. “I love a good revenge motive. It’s like those soap operas Sebastian used to watch when he thought no one was looking.”

I struggle not to react to my ghostly companion as I press on. “Della, is that why you were arguing with him at the community center?”

“Yes.” Her lips form a tight ball and turn as pale as her flesh. “I’d finally gathered enough evidence to prove what he’d done. Account statements, forged signatures, even recordings of him bragging about his demented financial conquests to other men.” Her eyes flash with a mixture of triumph and pain. “I confronted him with it all. I told him I was going to expose him for the fraud he was.”

“Men like that deserve to be exposed,” Carlotta offers up a mock toast with that skull glass of hers. “Preferably in public, with a spotlight and a hot mic. Or in private with handcuffs and a riding crop.”

“How did he take that news?” I ask, sipping my creamy, dreamy concoction and the twins give an approving kick.

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