Page 30 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price
“Ladies, take your seats. The court of amateur investigation is now in session,” Chevy announces, uncapping a red marker with the enthusiasm of a conductor raising a baton.
We arrange ourselves around the board like disciples around a prophet.
Peggy and Clarabelle claim the loveseat, squeezing together so tightly they look like conjoined twins.
Tipper perches on the edge of the trundle, Cricket immediately claiming her lap with the entitlement of royalty—which she so is.
Bunny drapes herself artfully across my reading chair like she’s posing for a nude painting—and I have no doubt her boobs will be out in a minute. This is Bunny we’re talking about. Peyton reluctantly lowers herself onto one of the dining chairs we’ve dragged over and her posture suggests that she’s afraid my furniture might be contagious.
“The wine needs to breathe,” Bunny declares, uncorking a bottle like a seasoned pro. “And so do I, in this crowd. My seasonal allergies are acting up.”
“The only thing you’re allergic to is monogamy,” Peggy quips, reaching for a glass. “And oh, honey, so am I.”
“It does give me hives,” Bunny agrees with a woot while pouring with a heavy hand.
Rookie, having decided that Clarabelle is his human of choice for the evening, sprawls across her feet and his stuffed cute companion Mr. Jolly Beary is clutched protectively between his paws.
“The gala is going to be a disaster,” Peyton announces to no one in particular, accepting a glass of wine with the eagerness of someone who’s been thinking about alcohol since nine a.m. “The florist sent ivory roses instead of cream.Ivory. Like we’re savages.”
“Tragedy,” Tipper says dryly. “Almost as tragic as murder.”
“Speaking of which…” Chevy taps the photo of Vivian with her marker. “Welcome to the official meeting of the murder club. Tonight’s case revolves around Vivian Maple, purveyor of pumpkin spice and collector of enemies.”
“Now just a darn tooting minute,” Peggy interjects while holding up a finger in protest. “We’re not starting the murder party until we’ve done our roses and thorns. It’s a long-standing murder club tradition!”
“Heaven save me from small-town rituals,” Peyton mutters, but she’s outvoted as everyone else murmurs agreement.
“Just to reiterate”—I start, glancing at Peyton—“roses are something good that’s happened recently, and thorns are, well, thorns in our sides.”
“I’ll start,” Peggy volunteers. “My rose is that my arthritis medication finally kicked in, and I can open pickle jars again without asking the bag boy at Hannaford’s. My thorn is that Ican now open pickle jars, so I’ve lost my excuse to flirt with the bag boy at Hannaford’s.”
“My rose”—Clarabelle jumps in—“is that I finally taught my parrot to say, ‘who’s a pretty bird’ instead of ‘holy hell, that hurts,’ which he picked up when I stubbed my toe. My thorn is that now he says, ‘holy hell, who’s a pretty bird,’ which has made visits from the church ladies a wee bit awkward.”
Tipper strokes Cricket absently as she thinks. “My rose is that Henry finally let me reorganize the spice drawer at the restaurant. My thorn is discovering that his idea of organization involved alphabetizing everything... by color.”
“That’s not so odd—” I begin.
“Purple paprika, red rosemary, yellow... yeast,” Tipper confirms with a shudder.
Okay, so Henry can be a bit anal about things. But in the grand scheme of things, I consider the fact he organizes at all a true-blue perk.
Chevy sets down her marker. “My rose is that my editor extended my deadline for the next book. My thorn is that she extended it because, and I quote, ‘Your last draft reads like it was written by a drunk orangutan with a thesaurus.’”
“Harsh.” Bunny chuckles, already working on her second glass of wine. “My rose is that I met a dashing investment banker with his own yacht. My thorn is that he named the yacht after his mother and has her portrait hanging in the master cabin. Nothing kills the mood quite like Barbara from Bangor watching your every move.”
All eyes turn to me. “My rose is that I’m making progress on the Maple case,” I say, ignoring Peyton’s eye roll. “My thorn is that my boyfriend is acting stranger than a cat on caffeine, and I can’t figure out why.”
No one so much as bats a lash at that one—as if they somehow expected it on some level. Everyone but me.
Finally, everyone looks expectantly at Peyton who sighs as if we’ve asked her to recite the Constitution backward while juggling. That might be easier for her.
“Fine. My rose is that the Gilded Gratitude Gala will feature ice sculptures of turkeys that dispense champagne through their... anatomically incorrect beaks.” She takes a large gulp of wine. “My thorn is that I work with a team of incompetents who thought anatomically incorrect meant let’s make the champagne come out of the other end. So now I have to explain to the ice sculptor why we can’t have champagne-defecating turkeys at the most prestigious event of the season.”
A moment of stunned silence is broken by Bunny’s delighted cackle. “Well, that would certainly make the society pages! Three cheers for champagne-defecating turkeys!”
We all give a few wild whoops, and those holding liquor in their hands don’t miss out on the opportunity to imbibe.
Chevy clears her throat, reclaiming her position at the murder board. “Now that we’ve bonded appropriately, there’s just one thing left to do tonight.” She wiggles the marker between her fingers. “Let’s get down to murder.”
