Page 53 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“Keegan Meryl?” I ask as my pulse quickens.

“I don’t know her name. But Sebastian looked shocked when he saw her. Like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Or an ex-wife, perhaps?” Sebby suggests and I all but dismiss the thought. Surely Venus would have known if that man was her father.

“Anyone else?” Carlotta prompts.

“There was a dark-haired woman in a cream-colored coat who followed him outside at one point. I noticed because she seemed so out of place—everyone else was in far more casual clothes for the event. You could tell she was dripping with money.”

“That’s our Eliza in a diamond-encrusted nutshell,” Carlotta chirps.

My heart skips a beat. A woman in a cream-colored coat. Eliza Baxter wears cream-colored coats like other women wear jeans—frequently and without a second thought as to the blood she might get on them.

Sebby gives a dramatic gasp. “We have our killer, Lolita! It’s your mother-in-law! Hey? What if Sebastian was married to your husband’s mother? The fact that she killed him could make family dinners going forward a little awkward. Though I have to say, the drama would be delicious.”

“I should really go,” Della says, standing up. “But thanks for the conversation. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who’s been taken for a ride by a charming con artist.”

“Want my number?” Carlotta offers. “I’m starting a support group. We meet weekly at the liquor store.”

Della laughs as she adjusts her beard. “It was nice chatting with you ladies. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

As she walks away, Carlotta leans toward me. “So, what are you thinking? Is Red still our prime suspect?”

I watch Della step outside, phone already pressed to her ear, looking more like a woman on a mission than a killer on the run.

“I’m thinking, we have a financial scam, a woman with a serious motive for revenge, at least two others with mysterious connections to Sebastian, and a very tangled web, indeed.”

“Sounds like we need another round,” Carlotta declares as she signals for the bartender.

“And possibly a flow chart,” I add, absently rubbing my belly as the twins execute what feels like a coordinated tumbling routine.

Between stolen money, broken hearts, and a mysterious woman in a cream-colored coat, this case has more ingredients than one of my blue ribbon cakes.

Someone places their hand on my shoulder from behind and I turn around as a scream gets lodged in my throat.

LOTTIE

Igasp so loud that it threatens to dislodge this fake orange beard on my face.

O’Reilly’s Pub and Diner is buzzing with loud Irish rock music and a sea of emerald and orange locks, both real and fake alike. The lights are dim, the scent of corned beef hash is thick, and the laughter and manic chatter can be heard all the way to Ireland, I’m sure of it.

“Noah?” I blink in surprise.

Not just Noah, but Everett, too, both decked out in matching green top hats and orange beards that rival both mine and Carlotta’s in their synthetic garishness.

In this light, with the neon shamrock signs bathing everyone in an eerie emerald glow, we could pass for an oddball barbershop quartet—if barbershop quartets specialized in facial hair and questionable green top hats.

“Why do I feel as if I have two proficient stalkers?” I ask with a laugh while the twins execute what feels like a backflip in response to the fact my heart nearly stopped.

“We sent you about fifteen texts combined,” Everett says, leaning in and pressing a kiss on my lips. “We were worried,” hegrunts. His back is clearly still giving him trouble, though he’d rather eat his ridiculous beard than admit it.

“Fifteen texts?” I quickly fish out my phone and groan. “It’s dead,” I say, wagging the offending device their way to reveal a black screen. “Apparently, pregnancy brain extends to forgetting to charge essential communication devices. My apologies.”

“No problem,” Noah says, signaling a waitress. “Table for four?”

“Sounds like we’re staying, Lot.” Carlotta rubs her belly. “All that Leprechaun’s Curse has my appetite dancing an Irish jig.”

“My appetite is always dancing an Irish jig,” I’m quick to say.

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