Page 28 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

She gives first by way of lifting her chin as if I struck her.

“Yes, I did,” she says with a sigh. Her fingers trace the edge of a rose petal. “I’m sorry, Lottie. I realize that my true relationship with the man will come out in the end, but I can’t say a wordto you without speaking to my children first. They would never forgive me.”

Her true relationship?

I blink, stunned.

This isn’t at all what I expected. I thought she might have known Sebastian as an acquaintance or a friend, but her tone suggests something far more serious.

“She’s going to confess!” Sebby cries. “Stop her, Lolita! Muzzle her, fill her piehole with flower petals, push her into the champagne fountain and maybe hold her head down a little while too long. I still have a few wild oats to sow.”

I shoot the homicidal fox a look for even suggesting it. While my present condition might be conducive to a temporary insanity plea, I wouldn’t risk even the most curtailed prison stay in lieu of missing time with my precious babies—and I include Lyla Nell and Evie in that number, too.

I clear my throat as I look at the woman. “I completely understand,” I say, even though I don’t. “Family comes first.”

“Indeed,” she says, tossing a wreath she just fashioned out of chamomile flowers. “Although sometimes family is precisely the problem.”

Sebby flops dramatically across the table. “What does she mean byfamily? She wasn’t Sebby’s family. His sister had a much more pronounced snout.”

“Believe me”—I say to the woman—“I know all about family trouble.”

Were her words a dig at my relationship with Eliza and what happened last night?

I shake my head at the thought. Regardless, I’m not here to point a finger at the innocent even if she feels the need to. And if she feels the need to, then it makes me feel as if she’s twice as guilty for trying to get the limelight off of her and onto someoneelse. A much easier target, might I add, considering Eliza’s inadvertent red gloves she was sporting last night.

“Keegan, could you at least tell me if you know who might have wanted Sebastian Gallagher dead?” I press not so gently this time.

Keegan looks my way and her eyes are as sharp as the shears in her hand. “Who didn’t?” she says with a laugh. “Sebastian had a gift for making enemies.” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “I know your relation to Eliza. I’m sorry, Lottie, but not only was the woman at the scene of the crime, but I think she may have had a very good motive.”

My heart sinks for a moment. “What would that be?” I gird myself for whatever lie is about to sail from Keegan Meryl’s mouth. It’s clear she’s dead set on pushing my focus onto poor Eliza and off ofher.

She shakes her head and her blonde hair catches the light. “If my suspicions are right, then that’s her story to tell, not mine.”

“Oh, come on!” Sebby protests, his tail puffing up in indignation. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and clam up. That’s like serving a cupcake with no frosting!”

I wholeheartedly agree.

A sudden commotion erupts from the direction of the house. The unmistakable opening strains of “Pomp and Circumstance” blare from what must be professional-grade speakers, causing at least a thousand birds to take flight from nearby trees.

Keegan rises while dusting off her immaculate garden dress. “It seems the guest of honor is making her entrance.”

I somehow manage to make my way to my poor feet, too. These days the twins make the otherwise simple maneuver something between a yoga pose and an Olympic event.

The music picks up in volume and the crowd begins to scream and clap.

“This should be interesting,” Sebby says.“A three-year-old with her own processional. What a time to be alive. Ordeadin my case.”

We turn toward the house just as a hot pink spotlight hits the back patio. A small figure appears at the top of the grand outdoor staircase, draped in what looks like enough pink tulle to upholster a small country. Little Fondu—and I will never say that name without craving bowls full of melted cheese—stands frozen, clearly overwhelmed by the sea of expectant faces below.

Poor thing.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” booms an unseen voice that sounds suspiciously like it belongs to a game show host—or at least the ghost of one. “I present to you the birthday princess, Miss Fondu Rose Sparrow-Meryl!”

“Sparrow-Meryl.” Keegan nods my way before I can even make an internal quip about the rhyming sensation. “That’s why my daughter-in-law chose to marry my son. She said she always wanted her surname to have a good beat to it. She’s all about aesthetics.” She ticks her head when she says it and suddenly, I feel sorry for both the Sparrows and the Meryls.

Polite applause breaks out, punctuated by the click of expensive camera lenses as the tiny princess begins her procession.

That’s when I spot Carlotta near the bottom of the stairs with two martini glasses in hand, engaged in what appears to be an intense debate with the unicorn handler.

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