Cookie exchange executio.., p.1
Cookie Exchange Execution, page 1
Cookie Exchange Execution
MURDER IN THE MIX 40
Addison Moore
Contents
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Book Description
1. Lottie
2. Lottie
3. Lottie
4. Noah
5. Everett
6. Lottie
7. Lottie
8. Noah
9. Everett
10. Lottie
11. Lottie
12. Noah
13. Everett
14. Lottie
15. Lottie
16. Lottie
17. Lottie
18. Noah
19. Everett
20. Lottie
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Books by Addison Moore
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore
Edited by Paige Maroney Smith
Cover by Lou Harper, Cover Affairs
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
All Rights Reserved.
This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © 2021 by Addison Moore
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Book Description
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so I rarely see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety, aka dead pets, who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom.
Noah has invited all of Honey Hollow down to the sheriff’s station for a cookie exchange fundraiser, so of course I volunteered my baked goods for the effort. But when someone at the party ends up dead as a doornail, chaos ensues. Who would kill a person in a room full of deputies? A madman, that’s who. Not only that, but Everett is up to something and I can’t seem to pinpoint what. Throw in a couple of nefarious ghosts determined ruin the most wonderful time of the year, along with a homicidal maniac, and you have the perfect recipe for a holiday disaster.
It’s Christmas in Honey Hollow. Santa might be on his way but so is a killer.
Lottie Lemon has a brand new bakery to tend to, a budding romance with perhaps one too many suitors, and she has the supernatural ability to see the dead—which are always harbingers for ominous things to come. Throw in the occasional ghost of the human variety, a string of murders, and her insatiable thirst for justice, and you’ll have more chaos than you know what to do with.
Living in the small town of Honey Hollow can be murder.
Lottie
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom. But right now, the only thing I’m seeing is Noah and Lyla Nell standing next to an exact gingerbread replica of the Ashford County Sheriff’s Department.
“Merry Christmas,” Noah shouts to the crowd gathered in the expansive dining hall of the aforementioned sheriff’s station as he holds our almost nine-month-old daughter, Lyla Nell. “Welcome to the cookie exchange fundraiser. First and foremost, I want to personally thank you all for wearing the ugliest sweaters known to mankind.” The room breaks out with warm laughter as he proudly displays the red and black plaid sweater he’s donned with a picture of Santa smoking a pipe over the front.
Lyla Nell is wearing a tan knit reindeer jumper with a red pom blooming from her belly, aka Rudolph’s nose, that she’s been trying to pluck off for the better half of an hour. And there’s not one thing ugly about it in the least.
In fact, I’ve yet to come across ugly little girl clothes, and Lord knows I’ve tried. But everything I feast my eyes on is so darn cute, I end up snapping everything right up—and I’m racking up the credit card receipts to prove it.
I can’t help it. I wish half those outfits came in my size—and lucky for me, some of them do.
Noah chuckles while looking out at the crowd. “These sweaters not only show that you have the holiday spirit, but they clearly demonstrate that you have bad taste.” Another bout of laughter circles the room. “In all seriousness, I want to thank the wonderful women—and men, who contributed to the cookie platters we have here this evening, including my wife’s shop, the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery.”
I wince a little when he references me as his wife. Technically, it’s true, and yet technically, it’s not.
Carlotta nudges me as we stand in the thick of cookie exchange central, working like mad along with Suze, Noah’s mother, and Lily Swanson, both of whom are my trusty employees down at the bakery, as we put together as many platters as we can.
It’s true, I donated the lion’s share of the sweet treats here this evening, but there were a fair amount of home bakers that put in the elbow grease to contribute tonight as well. Together, we’ve amassed enough flour, eggs, and sugar to build a staircase to the moon.
“Hear that, Lot?” Carlotta chitters. “Foxy is claiming you for all to see.” She looks over at Everett—my other husband—and shrugs. “Sorry, Sexy. This is Foxy’s home turf. He can’t back down now. He probably figures if he’s going to make a play for your wife, he may as well do it in a room with a hundred of his closest friends, i.e., witnesses—all of whom happen to be armed with weaponry.”
Everett’s lips twitch as he looks my way. “A thousand guns couldn’t keep me away from you, Lemon.”
A tiny giggle works its way up my throat. He prefers to call me by my surname, and I don’t mind one bit.
Everett decided to play against the rules tonight and eschew the ugly sweater for an ugly knit tie. It’s red and has a snowman pictured over the front with a strip of mistletoe hanging over its frozen head. Everett has already waved that tie over my own head this evening a handful of times and scored a kiss each and every time because of it.
Lily sighs at the heart-melting proclamation. “Wow, Essex, you really are a romantic. Back when we were together, even if it was for just a few steamy nights, you were more of a wham, bam, thank you, ma—”
“All right, we get it. Would you keep it down?” I hold a finger to my lips as I look her way. “Noah is still talking.” I hope.
It’s true, Lily has slept with my husband—hence that whole Essex thing. Heck, half the females in Vermont have slept with my husband and use his formal moniker as some sort of coital calling card.
Everett, who prefers to be called by his middle name, used to be quite the playboy before we got together. Judge Essex Everett Baxter is dangerously comely—perhaps lethally handsome is a better way to describe him. He stands well over six feet, has cobalt blue eyes, jet-black hair that he wears slicked back, rarely smiles, and has a face that can stop a freight train of women in their tracks. It doesn’t hurt that his body has been put together in all the right ways—and that alone is the reason he attracts the attention of every ovary-bearing female within a ten-mile vicinity. But then, the same can be said for Noah.
Lily was one of Everett’s final conquests before he closed the door to his bedroom—our bedroom to be exact. Everett and I are about to celebrate our two-year wedding anniversary just before Christmas Eve and I couldn’t be happier.
When the two of us tied the knot, I was still technically dating Noah. But Everett needed a wife to fulfill a prerequisite with his trust fund, and I stepped in to help him out. It was nothing more than a business transaction at the time.
It’s actually even more complicated than that, but we’re together now and we never dissolved that matrimonial business arrangement. And then a few months back, Noah and I had a fake marriage to get the mob off his tail—apparently, they hold the family unit in high regard. As my luck would have it, that marriage ended up being processed and is now the real deal as well, and that’s how I came to have two husbands.
It’s twisted, I know. But I can assure you I am happily married to Noah—I mean, Everett.
Geez.
I squeeze my eyes shut a moment before the sound of Lyla Nell cooing into the microphone garners my attention and lightens my mood.
Standing to the right of Noah, near the corner of the room, I spot Saint Nicholas himself in his jolly red suit, knee-high black boots, and a gaggle of white curls streaming from his velvet pointed cap.
Up until this year, I’ve always packed up my cats, Pancake and Waffles, and taken them to the Jolly Holly Tree Lot to get their pictures taken with Santa. Pancake and Waffles are a couple of white fuzzy Himalayan brothers that I love just as much as I do my baby girl. But it’s always so cold standing in the snow to land them in Santa’s lap. My toes nearly freeze off each time I make the trek. But now that Santa is here at the sheriff’s station, I can’t wait to get a picture of Lyla Nell sitting on his lap—and we’ll both get to keep our toes intact. This is her first Christmas season, December is just kicking off, and I want every moment to be special for her.
Santa pulls a brunette deeper into the corner with him. She looks about my age, late twenties—and oh my, I think they’re getting frisky.
I shake my head at the two of them.
Can’t he keep his candy cane in his pants for a couple of hours? I get that his girlfriend is probably getting a kick out of seeing her plus-one in a red velvet suit, but still. They should know better. There are kids here today—namely mine.
Noah chuckles into the microphone as he gives Lyla Nell a bounce. “Cookie platters start at forty dollars apiece, but please feel free to donate as much as you like.”
Lyla Nell dives for the microphone in his hand and giggles like a fiend once she captures it. The crowd belts out a unified laugh of delight at the scene.
It’s no surprise, considering the fact Lyla Nell is a scene-stealer with her wavy chestnut pigtails, her evergreen eyes, and her deep dimples. She’s basically a replica of her daddy.
Years ago, Noah and I were hot and heavy and about to get engaged when things went south for us—and just as we were saying a rather spirited goodbye, Lyla Nell came into the picture.
Noah waves to calm the crowd down. “Remember, all donations go straight to food-insecure families in the neighborhood to help make their holidays a little brighter. And if you’d like to bid on this gorgeous gingerbread house, Mayor Nash, from my hometown of Honey Hollow, will be hosting the auction in just a few minutes. We’re hoping to raise twice as much as the fire department’s fundraiser—so if we want to beat ’em, we really need to open up our wallets. Please, enjoy your evening. And don’t forget to pick up a few platters of those delicious holiday cookies. They make great gifts!”
Light applause breaks out among the crowd as “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” begins to play over the speakers.
The dining hall here at the sheriff’s station has been transformed into a holiday wonderland with evergreen boughs strewn with twinkle lights trimming the ceilings, a pot of poinsettias on every table, and a Santa hat on every head.
The Santa hats were given out at the door, and I think they’ve probably increased the holiday spirit tenfold as people congregate in small groups chatting and laughing, each with a drink in hand, either coffee, eggnog, or hot chocolate. But judging by the way they’re carrying on, you’d think someone spiked the beverages with something designed to make them merry—my guess is the culprit is Carlotta.
Everything looks festive—with the exception of what appears to be a skeleton that they keep moving around. It’s clear they decided to keep a little of the Halloween spirit alive for the night as well. I’m sure whoever is moving that thing around, thinks it’s a riot. First, it was dangling from the garland up near the ceiling. Next, it was hanging from the bejeweled tree—morbid, I know—then it was splayed out over the beverage table.
If Lyla Nell freaks out because of it, heads will roll—the first of which will be the skeleton’s. I’ll see to it myself. You can’t invite small children to an event and then terrorize them. Every person in this room should know better than that.
Noah sets down the microphone and begins to make the rounds with Lyla Nell until he finally arrives at the cookie station.
“How’d we do?” he says, giving Lyla Nell a quick bounce in his arms and setting off a giggle fit from her.
“You did great,” I tell him. “And so did you.” I sneak a kiss to Lyla Nell’s cheek and she laughs all that much harder.
Carlotta inches our way. “Don’t think we missed that wifey comment, Foxy.”
Foxy and Sexy are the nicknames Carlotta has gifted to Noah and Everett—both accurate for different reasons.
Aside from being a troublemaker extraordinaire, Carlotta is my biological mother. We share the same caramel-wavy locks and same hazel eyes, but Carlotta is up on both gray hair and wrinkles. She dropped me off at the local fire department when I was an infant—a move I still profusely thank her for—and trotted off into the sunset not to be seen again until a few years back—just in time for the reading of my Grandma Nell’s will. She’s been a thorn in my side ever since and a resident under my roof.
Noah nods her way. “That statement was made because it’s true. Lottie is my lawful wife.”
Carlotta narrows her eyes on Noah. “Are you trying to start a war with Sexy before the fat man comes to fill my stocking?”
I’m not sure why or how, but everything that comes from Carlotta’s mouth has a quasi-inappropriate slant to it.
Lily snickers. “I know what Noah Fox wants to find in his stocking Christmas morning. One naked Lemon.” She raises her brows at Everett when she says that last part.
“He won’t,” Everett says as he helps wrap a platter in cellophane and ties it off with a bow. “Noah, you’ve got trouble coming at you twelve ways to Sunday. You don’t want to add me to the list.”
Noah’s chest pulsates. “Buddy, you’ve been trouble for me since the day you stepped into Honey Hollow and met Lottie.”
“To be fair”—I say, not wanting to incite a war myself as I compile a cookie platter at a breakneck pace—“Everett and I didn’t meet in Honey Hollow. We met outside of the Ashford County Courthouse.”
“Ooh”—a cheeky brunette pops up with long chestnut tresses, daring green eyes, and dimples so deep you could land a quarter in them—“did I make it just in time to hear a recap of the romance of the century?”
“Sam!” I throw my arms around Noah’s twin sister. It was just revealed a few months ago that the woman Noah thought was his cousin—who coincidentally shared his birthday and face—was indeed his twin. It turns out, Suze gave Sam to her sister because she was content with just Noah at the time. A year later, Suze added Noah’s brother Alex to the mix but never bothered to claim Sam from the extended babysitting stint her sister was pulling for her. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you all as well,” she says, hugging Noah and Lyla Nell. “You, too, Essex.” She winks his way.
Yes. Samantha Thomas was one of Everett’s conquests back in the day. He said had he known she was Noah’s sister, he wouldn’t have touched her with a ten-foot pole—certainly not his ten-foot pole.
“All right now,” Carlotta bleats while that red light attached to that reindeer sweater of hers blinks in spasms. “Lot was just getting to the good part. What happened after ya met? Did mean ol’ Judge Baxter take you into the bushes and teach you a sexy legal lesson?”
“Actually, we did end up in the bushes,” I start just as Noah holds up a hand.
“I’ve heard enough,” he says. “I’m going to take Lyla Nell and work the crowd. I’m determined to raise twice as much as we did last year. And with her cute face, there’s no stopping us.” He takes Lyla Nell’s little hand and blows me a kiss with it. “You and I are going to have the best Christmas ever, Lottie Lemon—as husband and wife.”
Noah takes off and Suze grunts, “Hear that? He’s rife with delusions, and it’s all your fault, Lottie.”
