“How did you ruin it with Emmie?” she demanded. “You’re going to end up old and alone. Moose is going to go find himself a little cat girlfriend and have a bunch of kittens, and you’re going to be the creepy man with too many cats.”
“I can’t be with a murderer, Aunt Frances.”
“Murderer? Emmie?” She snorted. “So what? Who cares?”
“My CEO cares.” I looked up at her, incredulous.
“You need to tell him to mind his own business. Brooks deserved it after what he did to you. Did you tell your CEO that?”
“He doesn’t care.”
The elderly woman glared down at me. “I may or may not have sabotaged my cheating husband’s riding lawnmower. Who knows? But you still come to visit your old aunt. You can’t cut off Emmie for a little thing like murder. She’s rich now! And she’s hot. There are lots of widows around here much worse off.”
“Aunt Frances, what the fuck?”
She pinched my cheek. “Stop poking around the murder, and stop all this foolishness. You’re not going to find a better woman than Emmie—not with that cat anyway.”
“I don’t know…”
She shook her head. “You overthink things. You’re just like your father. I should never have sent you to law school. You need a drink. Turn your brain off for a bit.” She hustled away.
For a second, I wondered if the seniors had been the ones to off Brooks after all. They did have access to Emmie’s cupcakes.
“Surely not…” I didn’t want to pull that thread. I couldn’t send my own family to jail, right?
Was she trying to tell me something?
Aunt Frances came back with a bottle of whiskey and a platter of cupcakes from the overflowing side table full of ever-multiplying holiday treats.
“Have a cupcake; you need a pick-me-up,” she said, setting a platter of wilting cupcakes on the table after shooing Moose off it, and poured me a whiskey.
The cat meowed. I gazed absently at Emmie’s cupcakes, listening to Aunt Frances whistle as she walked away.
I wondered if she was the murderer and maybe was poisoning me.
“You need to sleep, man.” I downed the whiskey. “Aunt Frances wants me to have babies, not die. You’re going crazy.”
I poured myself another shot of whiskey and watched as Emmie’s cupcakes wilted by the fire.
Funny—I’d never actually eaten one.
I picked up the closest one, red frosting with little silver candy sprinkles, like something you’d take to a holiday party. The frosting dripped onto my hands as I peeled the wrapper.
I stared at my fingers coated in red…
At the fire…
At the dripping frosting…
I stood up abruptly and went to the holiday table.
Under the croquembouche was a familiar red-white-and-green-striped box.
Emmie’s cupcakes.
I carried them to my chair, opened the box, and set them next to the fire. I sipped another glass of whiskey as I watched the flames.
The frosting stayed firm.
