“What?” I squawk as I lean as close to the steering wheel as my bloated belly will allow, and sure as heck, gone is the warm wooden signage that once read Honey Hollow Bed and Breakfast, and in its place is a large black plaque with a hot pink fancy font that reads Rendezvous Luxury Resort and Razzle Dazzle Day Spa. “Ugh, I can’t believe this. I’m going to head in there and demand they give the keys back to my mother. I have money. I have plenty of money. I’ll have them name their price. Everyone has a price.”
Evie shrugs. “Good luck with that. Cormack and Cressi-duh both have enough purchasing power to buy all of Vermont. Who knows? Maybe they’re going to. And they’ve decided to start with Glam Glam’s B&B.”
I glance over at Evie. She’s not wrong.
Everly Evie Baxter shares her father’s midnight-colored locks, which flow right down her back in thick, luscious coils, and she shares his cobalt blue eyes and cunning wit, too.
Evie has only been a part of our lives since last spring, but so far she’s enjoying her first year at Honey Hollow High. She’s made some friends, a few boyfriends whom she’s recently winnowed down to one, and she’s even made the cheer squad.
The poor thing has been through so much already in her young life, no thanks to Cressida, her biological mother. And I’ve got a feeling Cressi-duh and her blonde bestie are about to expose her to even more horrors once we step inside their new real estate acquisition.
“Hey, Mom? Do you think the ghosts will leave now that the ditzy duo has taken over?”
“I hope not.”
Evie doesn’t know anything about my transmundane abilities. Not many people do. Noah and Everett know all about them, and so does Carlotta, primarily because she happens to share my strange gift. Carlotta and I are technically supersensual, a set of powers that fall beneath the transmundane umbrella. In other words, we can see the dead.
Spotting the disembodied among us has been an odd quirk of mine for as long as I can remember. In the past, when I used to see those ghostly visitors, I’d find them clinging nearby someone who was once near and dear to them. In the beginning, it didn’t mean much more than a skinned knee was on the horizon for the person the ghost was clinging to. But as of late, it almost always means murder.
I park my minivan right outside the door of the glass conservatory my mother had tacked onto the B&B a while back. This very B&B is where my mother, the one who raised me, Miranda Lemon, and my saint of a father, Joseph Lemon, God rest his soul, had their honeymoon. And when he passed away all those years ago, she used the money from his insurance payout to buy the place. She sold the family home, moved in, and converted this place from a ho-hum B&B to a bona fide hot spot for all things supernatural.
Okay, so the ghosts that haunt this place had a little something to do with that, too. But my mother played off of their spooky shenanigans like the successful businesswoman she is and sold tickets to eager tourists looking to have their socks scared right off of their toes. She charged eighty bucks a pop for what she dubbed The Haunted Honey Hollow Tour. And once she was through with them, she sent them to my bakery for what she calls The Last Thing They Ate Tour.
And now that the B&B is out of her hands, a part of me wonders if that good time is over.
The parking lot is teeming with cars as Evie and I gather the platters of my raspberry tarts and tread through the snow in through the back door of the conservatory.
It’s wall-to-wall bodies in here. A tall blonde woman is having a spat with a man in an ill-fitting suit by the refreshment table, and I choose to tune them out for now.
The music is lively, and if I’m not mistaken, French. There are food stations along the back end of the room featuring all sorts of culinary masterpieces, and oddly, the food looks so fancy, so geometrical, so microscopic, I can’t seem to identify it.
My eyes dart around the room I’ve been in more than a hundred times and something isn’t right.
“Oh my goodness.” My stomach turns as I get a good look at the floor. “Why is the floor hot pink?”
Carlotta comes barreling at us and takes the platters from my hands and sets them on the dessert table next to us.
“You’re late, Lot Lot.” Carlotta is essentially a preview of what I’ll look like with a sprinkling of gray hair and wrinkles. For the most part, we both have caramel-colored waves that end just below our shoulders, hazel eyes, and bowtie lips. “Just wait until you see how many women have lined up to buy my new book!”
Evie gasps. “You’re hocking your new book here?”
“Yup.” She smacks her belly as if she happened to eat one of those literary tomes. “Cormack and Cressie are hosting a shindig to end all shindigs on l-o-v-e.”
“Really?” I take a look around at the polished crowd and wrinkle my nose. “I didn’t get the memo. But then, they probably didn’t want me showing up with Noah and Everett.” Not that Everett will be showing up anywhere soon, and it breaks my heart to think about it.
Carlotta waves me off. “This isn’t about couples,” she grunts as if the thought of a monogamous relationship sickened her, and it most likely does. Carlotta has had a somewhat open relationship with my biological father, Mayor Harry Nash, for the last few years. It’s twisted. “This is about taking our power back as women and loving ourselves. It’s the girl power, woman’s hour, and you’re right on time, Evie Stevie. You might even learn a thing or two.”
I give a quick look around. Come to think of it, there are very few men here.
“Cray Cray”—Evie pulls out her phone and starts snapping pictures—“what’s the name of your book? I’ll let all of my followers on Insta Pictures know about it. And if it’s really good, I’ll post a video of me dancing to it on my Tickety Tock account.”
“The book’s called A Whole Lotta Lovin’: How to Snag a Man in Six Easy Steps. And I’ve got boxes and boxes of copies sitting right over there. But you’ll have to hurry if you wanna buy one or twelve for your friends. They make great stocking stuffers, and they’re selling like hotcakes.”
I shake my head at Evie. “You are not buying them for your friends. And Carlotta, Christmas is an entire year away.” I glance in the direction she pointed, and sure enough, there’s a stack of books sitting on an abandoned table. “I can’t believe you have the book in print already.” I knew Carlotta was working on a book, I just had no idea we were already in production.
“This world moves fast, Lot. I’ve already signed so many copies, my hand feels as if it’s about to fall off. Once I saw the two of you step into the room, I told the ladies in line to hold their nosy horses. I needed to catch a breather, and one of these tasty treats you’ve got, too.”
“You have a line?” I do a double take to the table once again, and there’s a line at least sixteen deep of women eager to get their hands on Carlotta’s wayward thinking on a subject that’s baffled some of the greatest minds since the beginning of time.
“Come on, Cray Cray.” Evie grabs her by the hand. “Let’s go sign some books. I’ll be your table wench.”
“Do I want to know what a table wench is?” I ask as the music and the din of voices in the room seem to escalate. In truth, I don’t think I can take much more of this chaotic event, especially if Evie is about to be converted into the church of Carlotta’s twisted mind. I’m about ten seconds away from grabbing Evie and a platter of my raspberry tarts and making a run for it.