“Carlotta.” Lottie helps to pull her up off the floor. “Are you okay? You didn’t break anything, did you?”

  “I’m fine.” She bats Lottie away. “Even if I broke all twelve of my bones, I wouldn’t say a thing out of spite.” She flicks her thumb over her nose at me.

  I’m pretty sure she just told me off in some awful yet creative way.

  “Sorry if I ruined your investigation.” She shakes her head at the papers running scattershot over the floor.

  “You didn’t ruin anything,” Everett says with his nose in what looks to be a leatherbound notebook, and another tucked under his arm. “You aided the investigation more than you’ll ever know.” He bounces the journal in his hands. “I found them right behind that filing cabinet. This right here is the smoking gun.”

  He sets it on the counter, and his finger glides down a series of numbers.

  “This is the second book,” he says. “And this”—he lands an identical journal onto the counter—“is the one he’s showing the feds.”

  We give them both a once-over. “You’re right,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Dale is cooking the books.”

  “Look at the register that’s so-called legit.” Lottie shakes her head. “He’s got hundreds of classic cars listed here for repairs, and I bet half of them never hit the shop.”

  Everett nods. “He has the cost of restorations listed at numbers that rival most home prices. And ninety percent of that is marked under labor. That’s a great way to funnel a lot of cash.”

  “The phantom book has nothing but a bunch of numbers in it,” I muse.

  “And this.” Lottie points to the left-hand side. “Next to each sum—staggering sum—it says the words camp funds next to some and weap next to the other. And across the column are the words made out to BCF.”

  “Bank of the Coral Reef,” I say. “But how are we going to prove it?”

  “With this,” Everett says, pulling something out of the interior pocket of the folder in front of us—a slim check with a picture of a pristine beach. Across the top, it reads Bank of the Coral Reef, Nevis. And the true smoking gun? It’s already signed Manchester Featherby.

  “He’s guilty,” I say as I take the check from Everett and snap a picture of it, along with everything else. “I’m going to call in a break-in.” I blow out a breath at the implications of it all. “It’s time to make this legal.” I look down at the mess from the filing cabinet. “Looks as if whoever broke in knocked a few things over. Good work, Carlotta.”

  “You’re welcome, Foxy. I’ll only charge you half my fee.”

  A dull laugh bounces in my chest. “Now that my marriage to Cormack can officially come to a conclusion, I’ll pay whatever you like.”

  Everett

  We’re still standing with our feet planted in Leeds Automotive, waiting on a patrol car from the sheriff’s department to swing by. Noah said he’d handle everything.

  Where have I heard those words before?

  Meanwhile, Lemon, Carlotta, and I have stepped out from behind the counter and are actively perusing the framed pictures hanging crooked along the walls.

  “Nothing but a bunch of fancy rides.” Carlotta scowls at each of them as she passes them by.

  “Not that last one,” Lemon points out. “It looks like a family picture or something.”

  We get in close and both of us seize.

  “Ha,” Carlotta honks. “That’s Macky’s daddy and that hotshot congressman.”

  “Noah,” I call for him and he heads this way.

  “Look”—Lemon points to the picture—“there’s Manchester and Congressman Arnold flanking Dale.” She hikes up on her tiptoes and squints. “There’s a banner behind them that reads reelect Congressman Arnold for a brighter tomorrow.”

  The three of us pause to exchange a glance.

  “Camp funds?” I say to Noah. “Campaign funds.”

  “But what about weap?” Lemon shakes her head. “Does that have any political connotation? It sounds more like weapon to me.”

  Noah’s head tilts back as if another piece to the puzzle snapped into place.

  “He’s funneling dirty money from weaponry,” he says. “We just did a bust right here in Leeds a few weeks back.”

  Lemon leans in. “Noah, you don’t think Congressman Arnold and Manchester are moving weapons, do you?”

  “I don’t have proof, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get them to admit it.”

  I nod. “With a prison sentence looming, I wouldn’t be surprised if they sold one another out by midnight—each begging to be the informant.”

  “How do you like that, Lot?” Carlotta says, pointing to the far right-hand corner of the picture at hand. “There’s that pesky poltergeist that stole your man in the Big Apple.”

  “What?” Lemon scoots in close, and sure enough, there’s Jordan Montclair staring right back at us. “Powerful, dangerous people killed her.” She pulls out her phone, and her fingers work quickly over the screen. A sickly moan moves up her throat. “Jordan is listed on the roster of volunteers for the Arnold campaign. She loved politics—she got that from her father.” A tear runs down her cheek.

  “Jordan was right,” I say. “These men are dangerous—the most dangerous of all because they believe they’re untouchable.”

  Noah shakes his head. “Now why in the world would someone as wealthy as Manchester Featherby get mixed up knee-deep in something like this?”

  Lemon shrugs. “Maybe he’s not so wealthy after all.”

  “Let’s go ask him,” I say just as a squad car pulls up.

  Noah sets the deputy on a wild goose chase while the four of us head back up to Honey Hollow.

  Manchester Featherby has some explaining to do—and maybe a murder to fess up to as well.

  The fundraiser at the Evergreen Manor is still going full steam when we step into the building. Lemon stops cold and pulls both Noah and me back a notch.

  “Wait a minute,” she moans as she closes her eyes. “Cormack is pregnant. If her father is arrested, she could go into shock.”

  “Nah,” Carlotta says. “When you’re that rich, the threat of prison doesn’t scare you much. Their kind has a knack for getting away with murder. The kicker is that the feds might lock up all his money. There is a fate worse than death to people like the Featherbys, and that’s going flat broke.”

  “She’s right,” Lemon says. “Noah, we should probably—” She stops cold as Cormack steps out of the ballroom, giggling with her arms wrapped around Alex Fox as he pecks a kiss to her cheek.

  Cormack does a double take this way and her mouth falls open.

  “Why, you louse,” she shouts as she slaps Alex over the cheek so loud it echoes throughout this cavernous place. “Big Boss.” She darts over and throws her arms around Noah. “Oh, how I’ve been missing you.” She peppers his face with kisses.

  But Noah doesn’t flinch. He’s hard as steel. Lemon is right. Cormack likely won’t take this well. And regardless of our sordid history, she’s still a friend.

  Alex walks this way. “What’s going on? Ivy stepped up to me a few minutes ago thinking I was you.” He looks at Noah. “She said you called and said it was urgent.”

  “It is.” He frowns as Ivy Fairbanks herself strides out of the ballroom with a tan trench coat cinched around her waist.

  “Noah,” she says, no smile, as she nods to the rest of us. “What’s going on? I heard they took in Deputy North and Tannen Drummond. Good work.” She frowns over at Lemon. “And I heard you played a role in it. You always do, don’t you?”

  Noah sighs as he pulls Ivy to the side, and her eyes grow in size as he fills her in. She nods our way.

  “Let’s go inside.” Ivy glances to the ballroom. “I know exactly where to find them.”

  The music shrills through the air as people have a good time on the dance floor. I spot Lyla Nell floating in Miranda’s arms, Evie dancing with her boyfriend Conner, and I shake my head at all of the people we love in one room.

  “We can’t confront them here,” I pull Noah back as I say it. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I agree,” he says. “We’ll escort them outside.”

  Ivy threads her way through the crowd as we head for the back. Carlotta drops out of sight for a second before popping back up with a platter full of Lemon’s Christmas cookies, and I’m tempted to snatch one up for myself. But it’s not exactly the tough guy persona I want to convey to a bunch of thugs.

  “I grabbed some sustenance for us,” Carlotta says, trying to pawn off a cookie on us, but at the moment there aren’t any takers.

  “Carlotta,” Lemon whispers. “Why don’t you go dance with Mayor Nash? You’ve helped enough for one night.”

  “I know I have,” she hisses. “But I’m not done yet. I’ve got a big finish coming, I can feel it.”

  Lemon moans hard. “Please try to refrain from any big finish. I’ll even let you keep that hot dog and cookie stand of yours up until Christmas Eve, if you comply.”

  “Did you say two-ply?” Carlotta opens the tote bag in her hand and reveals an industrial size roll of toilet paper.

  “She’s a thief, Everett.” Lemon hugs my arm. “Don’t be afraid to throw the book at her when the time comes.”

  “I’ll consider it.” I wink her way and Carlotta scoffs.

  “I’ll remember that, Sexy, the next time one of those furballs tries to use your shoe as a litter box. I’ve saved many an Italian leather casualties from happening.”

  “Duly noted.” I frown at Lemon. “I’ll have to keep my closet door shut.”

  “Your closet door is shut.” She tips her head toward Carlotta. “What are you doing in Everett’s closet, Carlotta?”

  “His T-shirts fit me better than yours. And his clothes smell nice.” She kicks the ground and nearly trips. “It’s not my fault Weeble-Wobble-One and Weeble-Wobble-Two feel the need to follow me wherever I go. They think I’m their leader.”

  Lemon glances her way. “The cats are following you because I told them I’d give them an extra treat if they kept an eye on whatever it is you do all day long at the house—and apparently, now we know.”

  I spot Manchester, Dale, and Congressman Arnold all chatting away in front of that makeshift Christmas tree lot at the back of the room. They’re in the same configuration as they were in that picture. How do you like that? Something tells me they’ve submitted to this nefarious huddle one too many times—and now they’re going to pay.

  Noah pauses a moment, pulling Cormack to the side, and Lemon and I pause along with them.

  “Cormack.” Noah winces. “Why don’t you go and get some hot chocolate, maybe a few cookies.”

  “Look no further,” Carlotta says, shoving a platter of cookies her way.

  “Ooh, thanks.” Cormack snatches up a cookie decorated to look like mistletoe and holds it over Noah’s head. “Jinx!” she calls out before smacking him on the lips.

  “I’m serious, Cormack,” Noah warns. “I’ll be honest, I need to speak to your father, and this is one conversation he may not want you to be privy in.”

  Her demeanor darkens. “You need to speak to Daddy?” She glances his way. “Why, he doesn’t have anything to hide, and we certainly don’t hide secrets from each other. I’m not going anywhere.” She snaps up a chocolate fudge cookie that I’ve had my eye on. “Let’s go.” She leads the way. “Yoo-hoo, Daddy!” She gives a friendly wave as we descend upon the three of them and Carlotta quickly feeds each one of them a cookie.

  Lemon gives my hand a tug. “I see a spray of hot pink stars,” she whispers.

  “Please tell me it’s not Florenza Canelli.” If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that when you say someone’s name, you’re almost always, inevitably, going to see them.

  “Nope. Jordan Montclair.”

  “Good.” I give a hostile look in the direction Lemon is pointing. “Tell her to stick around.”

  “Manchester.” Noah and Ivy step up, and the rest of us hang back a notch. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few questions for you.” He nods to the other two. “And you as well, Dale—Congressman Arnold.”

  The three of them exchange quizzical looks as if they genuinely have no clue what’s about to transpire, and it makes me wonder if we’ve badly misread the situation.

  Ivy lifts her chin. “Perhaps we should step outside a moment? A little fresh air never hurt anyone.”

  I give Lemon’s hand a squeeze because I happen to agree.

  Manchester’s smile begins to fade as he starts to put the pieces together.

  “Right here is fine,” he insists. “What can I help you with, Detective Fox, Detective Fairbanks? Does this have anything to do with that woman who was murdered a few weeks back?”

  “No,” Ivy tells him. “That issue was resolved earlier this evening. Noah brought in the killer. Detective Fox is a top-notch homicide detective. He leaves no stone unturned.”

  Manchester’s forehead wrinkles, as does Congressman Arnold’s—oddly enough, Dale looks unfazed. He must think these men next to him are untouchable, and thereby so is he. I’m sure they’ve painted themselves that way.

  “Manchester”—Noah steps in—“Dale, Congressman Arnold, we have reason to believe, and substantial evidence that proves, the three of you are running funds through Leeds Automotive.”

  Dale’s perennially tan face turns as white as that flocked tree he’s standing next to.

  “Evidence?” Dale’s voice hikes a notch. “What kind of evidence?”

  “A paper trail,” Noah insists. “And it runs from the pot of your campaign funds, Congressman Arnold, to that bank account you’ve opened in Nevis, Manchester.”

  Dale raises his hands and takes a full step back.

  “I don’t want any trouble.” The guy looks ready to bolt as he scans the wall next to him for an exit. “I don’t know anything about anything.”

  Noah hardens his gaze over at the man. “We have two accounting ledgers that beg to differ. Manchester, Congressman Arnold, you were running campaign funds in addition to funds from weaponry through Mr. Hunt’s automotive shop, isn’t that right?”

  “What?” Cormack gives Noah’s arm a rattle. “That’s not true. Take it back.”

  Ivy pulls her shoulders taut. “Let’s not start our relationship out with deceit, gentlemen. I do believe the truth is on order.”

  Lemon nods. “First one to squeal gets their time behind bars cut to zero.”

  “Don’t you dare say anything.” Congressman Arnold is quick to scold his partner in crime—in the most literal sense.

  “You were moving money”—Noah starts—“from dubious means, funneling them to and from an offshore bank account, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Was it?”

  Congressman Arnold and Manchester exchange another far direr look.

  “Dale.” Noah swings his attention to the man shaking in his boots the hardest. The other two are putting up a good front, but I have a feeling they’re faring no better. “Let’s talk about Ronald Herman. He worked for you down at the shop before he was killed. You want to tell us what happened?”

  Congressman Arnold holds a hand out his way. “We’ll handle your attorney fees. You’ll get nothing but the best. Just keep your lips shut.”

  “I knew this was trouble.” Dale shakes his head, his eyes rounding out in fear. “You said you didn’t kill him.” He looks to the two deviants by his side. “You said it had to do with that jury he was on.”

  Lemon tenses up. “Dale, Ronald confronted you about your crooked accounting, didn’t he? And somehow this information got to these two.”

  Dale’s nostrils flare. “No. He confronted Manchester.”

  “I’m not a killer.” Congressman Arnold takes a full step away from Manchester as if he suddenly wants nothing to do with him.

  It’s every man for himself.

  “Daddy?” Cormack shakes her head. “You’re not a killer, are you?”

  “Of course not, Buttercup.” He presses his eyes shut as he shakes his head. He seems to believe it, but I’ve seen my fair share of defendants believe their own lies.

  “He’s a killer,” Jordan’s disembodied voice comes through clear as I hold Lemon’s hand. I turn her way instinctually. “Congressman Arnold threatened me. I found out about the fact he was siphoning money off the top. He was stealing millions. I got close to him. We were having an affair. When he found out that I knew about his scam, he told me to get lost or he’d have to kill me. We all know what he went with. He did it himself. He said he was keeping it neat.”

  Lemon’s mouth falls open. “You killed Jordan Montclair?” she balks right at him. “You did it yourself. You told her you wanted to keep it neat.” She shakes her head. “You shot Jordan as she ran to my bakery for refuge.”

  Congressman Arnold glances over his left shoulder at the partially opened door.

  “You can’t prove anything. You’ll find no evidence, not a single witness. I’ll be calling my attorney now.”

  “I have evidence,” Jordan says. “I recorded the conversation where he threatened my life. I have it on my phone and on a digital recorder. And the night he killed me—he’s wrong. There was a witness. He may have been careful to evade the security cameras, but I saw his reflection in the glass of your window, Lottie. He’s his own witness and you can prove it.”

  Lemon pants through a smile as she looks my way. “We got him. My security camera, the one pointed toward the bakery from the eaves.”

  “We got him, indeed,” I say.

  Lemon relays the things that Jordan just informed us, and Congressman Arnold tenses up—and then he bolts. He takes off through the back, and Noah, Ivy, and I bolt right after him.

  “Freeze or I’ll shoot,” Noah calls out.

  “You’ll feel my bullets, too,” Ivy growls.

  “I’ve got him!” Carlotta calls out as she pegs him in the back of the head with that monster roll of toilet paper she’s been hauling around. And when that doesn’t stop him, she flings that tray of cookies as if it were a Frisbee.

  But Congressman Arnold dashes for the woods as if an Olympic medal was in the balance, and then seemingly from nowhere, he gets knocked back a good three feet as if he just hit a brick wall. I’m betting he did—a supernatural wall named Jordan Montclair.

 

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