It’s true. He does. And don’t think for a minute that the mailman doesn’t appreciate it.
Peyton takes a delicate sip and immediately gets whipped cream on her nose, which she doesn’t seem to notice.
“So,” she says, leaning forward with that white, fluffy dot decorating her face, “where are we going next?”
Before I can answer, the unmistakable sound of determined footsteps echoes across the café’s exposed brick floor. I look up to see Peggy and Clarabelle bearing down on our table like two women on a mission, each carrying a plate with cinnamon rolls the size of small planets. And wow, do they ever look delicious.
“Good afternoon, you two sugar pot pies!” Peggy announces, setting down her plate precariously close to me, as if she’s never heard the wordsfinders keepers. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and she’s wearing a coat so thoroughly covered in tiny Christmas ornaments that I genuinely can’t identify the original color underneath.
“Wow,” I muse at the sweet treats in front of me that could probably be classified as weapons of mass confection. “Did you order those or adopt them?”
Peyton grunts as if they’ve personally offended her. “Each one could probably feed a small village.”
It really takes a special person to be offended by a cinnamon roll. And I am not that person.
“I mean, look at them,” I marvel as I pull a plate in close. “They’re swirled with enough cinnamon and sugar to put a person in a coma, and dripping with icing that looks like it was dumped on by the gallon. I’m pretty sure this pastry is my new love language.”
“I’ll let the hot detective know,” Peggy says, pulling the plate back in her direction.
Those pastries are larger than my entire body,Cricket notes with what might be respect.But then, Peggy and Clarabelle have no concept of appropriate portion sizes, so it makes sense she doesn’t want to share.
Can we have some?Rookie asks hopefully, his nose twitching as the scent of cinnamon and butter wafts our way.I promise I’ll only eat half.
And I volunteer to eat the other half.
Peggy chortles. “Honey, when you get to be our age, you don’t mess around with small pastries,” she says, settling into a chair that creaks ominously under the weight of her winter coat. “Life’s too short for bite-sized anything.”
Peyton lifts a brow.Was that an innuendo?she muses internally.Oh, with these old bats, everything is an innuendo.
“Never mind these ooey-gooey balls of frosted delight,” Clarabelle says, bundled in enough layers to survive an arctic expedition. “We need to put our investigative pedal to the metal! Who’s next on our suspect list?”
Peyton and I exchange a look across the table. A look that happens when two people who used to hate each other realize they’re thinking the exact same thing.
“Vivienne Velour,” we say simultaneously.
The timing is so perfect it’s like we rehearsed it. Even Cricket looks impressed, and she’s notoriously hard to please.
Peggy’s eyes light up like someone just announced free cinnamon rolls for everyone. “Well, butter my biscuit! Great minds think alike.” She’s already pulling out her phone with the fervor of someone half her age. “Let me see what the internet has to say about Miss Mysterious Lingerie Designer.”
Her fingers fly across the screen with surprising dexterity while Clarabelle devotes herself to her cinnamon roll with a level of commitment most people never find in a relationship.
“I bet she’s somewhere close by,” Peggy mutters, scrolling through what I assume are social media sites. “These fancy designer types always want to be where the money is, and honey, Brambleberry Bay has more money than a Swiss bank account, and most of it is mine.”
Clarabelle pauses in her systematic destruction of breakfast pastry. “That woman disappeared faster than common sense at a casino yesterday. But nobody just vanishes into thin air. She’s got to be somewhere.”
Peyton sips her latte with one manicured finger tapping against her cup, clearly plotting our next move. “The question is where. She could be anywhere between here and Montreal by now.”If I was the killer, I wouldn’t stick around this one-horse town,she thinks to herself.Not with Hattie Holiday sniffing out homicidal maniacs like it was her job.She takes a moment to frown at me.Not that I’d ever say that to her face.
I press my lips tight to keep the smile from taking over, because she sort of did exactly that.
“Found her!” Peggy announces triumphantly, holding up her phone like she just discovered buried treasure. “MidnightVelour Intimates. Says here they’ve got a shop in Edison, about twenty minutes away.”
I lean over to look at the screen, which displays a website that’s equal parts sultry and professional. The logo features silhouettes that leave very little to the imagination, and the tagline readsWhere Mystery Meets Luxury.
“Edison,” I repeat, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. Edison is where dreams go to die and hope gets mugged in broad daylight. It’s not exactly the sort of place you’d expect to find high-end lingerie boutiques. “Are we sure this is the same Vivienne Velour? Because Edison isn’t exactly known for its upscale shopping experience.”
Peggy squints at the screen. “Says right here,Proprietress: Vivienne Velour, formerly of Paris, now bringing European sophistication to the American Northeast.That’s got to be our girl.”
I don’t understand why women make their undergarments so complicated,Cricket muses.Fur is much more practical. It’s warm, it’s stylish, and you never have to worry about matching sets.
