Page 17 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

That, and the fact someone could be legally prosecuted because of them.

The sound of shuffling footsteps grows in volume as Carlotta saunters into the kitchen in a pink robe that’s seen better decades, her hair wrapped in aluminum foil.

“Morning, offspring of a felon,” she chirps with glee. “Sleep well, Sexy?”

“Carlotta.” Lemon gasps.

“What? We’re all thinking it.” Carlotta heads straight for the coffee pot. “Besides, it’s not the first time Lady Kills-a-Lot has gotten blood on her hands. Remember that charity auctionwhere she demolished Francine Dundee’s bid for that fancy-schmancy timeshare in Aspen?”

“That was metaphorical bloodshed,” Lemon corrects.

“Tell that to Francine’s therapy bills. And you and I both know that Francine has one too many baby chicks to afford chicken feed, let alone a fancy plumber to unclog her brain.” Carlotta pauses long enough to slurp her coffee. “So, what’s the defense strategy to keep your mama out of the pen? Temporary coo-coo brain? Did he insult her red-bottom heels? Was he allergic to being alive?”

I frown her way. “There won’t be a defense strategy because my mother didn’t kill anyone.”

If I say it long enough, I might fully believe it.

Carlotta waves me off. “Whatever stops the tears, Sexy.” She moves on to the donuts sitting under a glass dome, and Lemon and I may as well be invisible from this point on. Nothing gets between Carlotta and her donuts.

Lemon checks her watch and frowns. “The housekeeper is late. I guess my scones will have to wait. I may not be able to do much at the bakery these days, but nobody makes those scones but me.” She winks as she says it.

“I’ll wait for the housekeeper,” I tell her. “You go ahead.”

“Everett, are you sure?” Lemon asks as Lyla Nell runs into the room dragging her diaper bag.

“Me want Glam Glam,” she cries as she holds her arms up our way.

Glam Glam would be Miranda’s nickname in lieu of Grandma.

“I’d better go.” Lemon lands a kiss to my lips just as one of the twins gives me a wallop, and I reward them with a belly pat.

“Don’t stay long,” I urge her. “Bed rest isn’t all that bad. Believe me, if my doctor recommended bed rest, I’d be whistling all the way to the bedroom. Think of all the relaxation you couldget in. All the TV, books, and phone time you could stand. And the naps alone speak for themselves.”

“You’re tempting me.” She laughs as she picks up Lyla Nell’s hand. “But only a little. Are you sure you want to stick around?”

“I’ve got time before my first case.”

We exchange another lingering kiss as I help them to the van and wave them off.

“Try not to let the Silver Spoon Stabber skip town,” Carlotta calls over her shoulder as she jumps into her own minivan and takes off in haste right after them as if she had a bank to rob.

And after the legal pickle my mother has found herself in, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything.

No sooner do I step back through the door than my phone buzzes with a text from the housekeeper. She can’t make it today. Family emergency.

I text back a quick response wishing her well, then survey the kitchen. Coffee grounds spilled across the counter. Cat hair clumped like tumbleweeds roll across the floor.

Lemon has been working so hard at the bakery while managing Lyla Nell and her pregnancy. She deserves to come home to a sparkling clean house. That’s exactly why I insisted on hiring a housekeeper to begin with. She only makes a weekly pitstop here, but it always brings a smile to Lemon’s face. And I’d do anything to see her smile.

Heck, I bet I have plenty of time to whip this place into shape before my first case. How hard could a little cleaning be? I’ll start with the floors.

Limestone floors—are we supposed to mop those with water? I head to the cleaning closet and scan the array of bottles. My eyes land on a spray can of Woodland Whisper furniture polish. This should do. The label mentionsnatural shineandprotective coating, both of which sound appropriate for stone.

I start at the entry and make my way to the kitchen, spraying the stuff liberally across every inch of the floor, watching with satisfaction as the limestone takes on a glossy sheen.

Time to wipe it down.

I grab a mop and make one broad stroke. Before I know it, my feet fly out from under me.

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