Page 25 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price
sparkling water and fresh-squeezed orange juice served in a crystal flute.”
“We’ll take three Paloozas,” Peggy announces before any of us can speak. “And two real mimosas for me and my partner in crime here.” She jerks a thumb at Clarabelle. “The youngster is driving.”
“Make that three real mimosas,” Clarabelle corrects. “The youngster can handle one drink.”
“I’m driving,” I remind her.
“Fine”—Clarabelle grunts—“two mimosas and one almost-a. But make it in the same glass as the real ones so she doesn’t feel left out.”
I give a little chuckle as Sunny scribbles our order and bounces away. “I’m not five years old. I don’t need a fancy cup to feel included.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Clarabelle mutters. “You still sleep with a teddy bear.”
“That’s Rookie’s bear. And Cricket’s. I’m just the bed they use.”
Correction,Cricket interjects from my lap.It’s MY bear that I generously allow Rookie to borrow because he’s emotionally fragile.
I am NOT emotionally fragile!Rookie protests.I just appreciate stuffed animals on a deeper level than most.
Twenty minutes and one intense debate about the optimal syrup-to-waffle ratio later, our food arrives. The Pumpkin Palooza Brunch Platter lives up to its name. Each plate requires its own silver dome, piled high with food in various shades of orange, brown, and beige. The pumpkin spice waffles form the foundation, a golden throne upon which the rest of the breakfast kingdom is built.
Peggy takes one bite of waffle and lets out a moan that makes a couple at the next table glance over with concern.
“Sweet heavens to Betsy,” she declares after swallowing. “These waffles are so good they make me want to slap my mama, Heaven rest her soul.”
Clarabelle, not to be outdone, takes an enormous bite and nods solemnly. “If these waffles ran for president, I’d vote for them twice. And I haven’t done that since Kennedy.”
I sample a bite myself and have to admit they’re extraordinary—light and fluffy inside, crisp on the outside, with just the right balance of pumpkin and spice. Not too sweet, not too savory. It’s the kind of waffle that makes you question all other waffles you’ve ever eaten.
After we’ve made suitable dents in our mountain ranges of food, Peggy dabs her mouth with her napkin and raises her hand like she’s hailing a taxi in New York.
“Excuse me!” she calls to Sunny. “We demand to speak to the owner about this meal!”
Sunny’s smile falters slightly. “Is there a problem with your food?”
“You bet your autumn-themed apron there is,” Peggy says with such conviction that for a moment, even I believe something is wrong.
Sunny scurries away, returning moments later with a tall, slim woman with sleek honey-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that somehow looks both casual and perfectly calculated. Her amber eyes survey us with the sharp assessment of someone used to spotting trouble before it erupts. She’s wearing chef whites withAutumnembroidered in a burnt orange thread over the pocket.
“I’m Autumn Harrington, the owner,” she says, her voice carrying the crisp professionalism of someone prepared to comp a meal or call security, depending on how this conversation goes. “I understand there’s an issue with your brunch?”
Peggy pushes back her chair and stands, raising her mimosa as if she’s about to deliver the Gettysburg Address.
“The issue, my dear woman, is that I have spent eighty-seven years on this earth eating breakfast foods, and these waffles”—she pauses dramatically—“are the finest culinary creation these taste buds have encountered since my grandmother’s biscuits, and she had hands blessed by the butter gods themselves!”
For a moment, Autumn stares at Peggy as if she’s speaking in tongues. Then Clarabelle starts clapping, and I join in, followed by Rookie barking enthusiastically and Cricket letting out an approving meow. Within seconds, the entire patio has erupted in applause, though most of the other diners probably have no idea what they’re applauding for.
Autumn’s professional mask cracks, a genuine smile warming her features. “Well, that’s certainly not the complaint I was expecting.”
“It’s not a complaint, it’s a celebration,” Peggy declares. “You’ve made some of the best food this side of the Mason-Dixon Line—and probably the other side, too.” She gestures to our table’s empty chair. “Won’t you sit a spell and join us?”
Autumn trills a laugh, her amber eyes lighting up at the unexpected praise. She glances around the restaurant, which seems to be running like a well-oiled breakfast machine, then back at our table where three women, a dog, and a cat are staring at her expectantly.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she says, sliding into the empty chair with the grace of someone accustomed to being the center of attention. Her perfume—something expensive with notes of vanilla and amber—wafts across the table. “It’s not every day I get a standing ovation for my waffles.”
As she settles in, I can’t help but wonder if those perfectly manicured hands recently measured out a fatal dose of yew for Vivian Maple’s final meal. Behind that charming smile andchef’s uniform sits either an innocent business owner or a killer with a penchant for poisonous plants.
Either way, she’s about to get a three-course serving of subtle interrogation, with a side of Clarabelle and Peggy’s unique brand of elderly nosiness.
