Raspberry Tart Terror (Murder in the Mix Book 30) Unknown (christmas read aloud .TXT) 📖

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.

Evie clucks her tongue. “It means I’m the official helper of the author. Like the stuff I used to do for Glam Glam when people actually cared about her books.”

Someone groans behind me, and I turn to see my mother, Miranda Lemon, in all her hot pink glory. Her creamy blonde hair is wavy just below her neck, and her bright blue eyes look a bit mournful as she offers Evie a pained smile. My mother is beautiful, sassy, and full of life. Her skin is smooth, and her body is in great shape even though she’s sheathed in a somewhat hideous floor-length fuchsia frock that looks as if it was made of stiff crepe paper for the sole purpose of tenting a Buick.

“I’m sorry, Glam Glam,” Evie is quick to apologize for her verbal blunder. “I never meant for you to hear that.”

Mom shrugs it off. “It’s the truth, Evie. However, not to worry. I’ve got great news on the horizon. But before I get to that, what do you think?” She waves her hand out across the room at the thicket of women, the shocking pink floor that’s