Poison Apple Crisp - Addison Moore Page 0,52

High Funeral Fundraiser!

“I’m pretty sure the exclamation points were an oversight on whoever had the banner made up. But it is to the point,” I say to Everett as he helps Lily and me line the back wall of the conservatory with platters and platters of my sweet treats.

I purposefully left apple crisps off the menu tonight because of the way poor Brenda met her demise. But that didn’t stop me from baking apple cider muffins, apple tarts, caramel apple hand pies, and pumpkin spice brownies. Of course, I have trays upon trays of sugar cookies iced to look like bright orange maple leaves, and I have a few apple fritter donuts as well.

I, for one, can’t get enough of holiday baking, and for me it all begins in September. It truly is the most delicious time of the year.

Okay, confession: there is one platter in particular that doesn’t quite fit in at this time of the year—or perhaps any time of year—but I couldn’t help including my new favorite, fried pickles. They’re so tangy and delicious, I can’t imagine the guests here tonight won’t enjoy them as much as I do.

Everett wraps his arms around me. “The fundraiser is a nice gesture. I’m sure her family appreciates it.”

I nod. “At least her son and ex-husband. Speaking of her plus ones, I really look forward to speaking with Martin Smulder, her fiancé at the time of her murder. He was acting so odd the night of her death—almost as if he was glad she was gone,” I whisper it so low, Everett turns his ear toward my lips in an effort to hear.

“Who was glad she was gone?” a female voice trills, and I turn to find Greer Giles floating beside us in all her ghostly glory. Her dark chestnut hair radiates amber light as a sprinkling of stars buzzes around her head as if they were refusing to form a halo. Greer is just as stunning in death as she was in life, and she still wears the white ruched dress she had on that fateful day when she was gunned down.

“It’s Greer,” I whisper to Everett as I take up his hand so he can experience her snark and sass in real time. “Hey, ghoul, how’s it going? We were just talking about the newly deceased, a woman by the name of Brenda Phillips. This event is in her honor.”

“I could have told you that.” She winks as her two-hundred-year-old boyfriend, Winslow Decker, materializes by her side with his dirty blond hair and comely features. Winslow once owned a pig farm right here on the land my mother’s B&B was built on, and I guess he never wanted to leave.

“Lottie.” He nods my way. “Judge Baxter. Any news on who the killer might be?”

Everett examines the empty space to his right. “Winslow, Greer. It’s always a pleasure. No leads so far, but Lemon is on the case.” He glances my way. “Have you heard the happy news? We’re about to become parents for the second time.”

Greer makes a squealing noise that sounds as if a major appliance just malfunctioned.

“Lottie Lemon!” she roars my name. “Are you growing a baby lemon in that tummy of yours?”

“I sure am,” I say the words as if I were freshly surprised myself.

Both Greer and Winslow let out a whoop.

“Oh, Lottie.” Greer gives my arm a squeeze, and I feel it just as if she were doing it with a physical body. “You’re going to make a great mother. And if you don’t, at least your kid will have great desserts lying around to make up for it.”

“I’d laugh or bother to be insulted, but I’m guessing you’re right,” I say. “This could go either way.”

Winslow shakes his head. “Don’t listen, Lottie. You’ll be fantastic. Look at us? We never thought we’d be parents, let alone how we would handle a child, but after adopting Azalea, we’re smitten with her and parenthood as well. Much like us, I suspect you’ll learn as you go.”

Azalea, Lea, is a six-year-old ghost whose entire family was once slaughtered over this very site. She has long dark hair that covers her face, wears a pinafore and beat-up Mary Jane’s, and stalks the halls of this B&B with a hatchet dangling from her hand. She’s been itching for revenge ever since the bloody attack on her family, and who could blame her?

“Speaking of Lea,” Greer frowns as she looks around the room, “she and Thirteen came across the