Page 36 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“Because I make your life look good by comparison,” Carlotta says, taking yet another daring bite out of her donut. “It’s called public service. You can thank me anytime.”

“We’re out the door in ten seconds,” I tell Carlotta while grabbing my purse. “And try not to flirt with random strangers or stray unicorns this time.”

“I can’t make any promises, Lot. Redheads are my weakness. All that pent-up anger from years of sunburns? Makes for explosive chemistry.”

“I’ve seen pictures of Mayor Nash when he was young,” I tell her. “He was certainly a redhead.”

“That’s why I’m saving all my best moves for him.”

Carlotta and I say a quick goodbye to the staff as we dart for the door—Carlotta speeds, I waddle.

Something tells me that Eliza Baxter knows something about Sebastian Gallagher’s last night on Earth.

And I’m going to do everything I can to get her to talk—even if it takes some Irish whiskey to do it.

LOTTIE

Shockingly, it only took Carlotta and me less than fifteen minutes to get to Fallbrook.

With normal afternoon traffic, the trip should have been double that.

“It’s as if we were in a time machine,” I say, stymied by how fast we arrived at our destination. “I swear, I wasn’t going any faster than usual.”

“I hate to break it to you, Lot, but your foot weighs ten times as much as it usually does. You’ve been breaking speed limits and the sound barrier for the last six weeks.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why haven’t you said anything?” I give an exasperated sigh as I slide into the first parking spot I see and kill the engine. “You do realize I drive with precious cargo on board.”

“Yup, as in me,” she says, snapping off her seatbelt. “Besides, I don’t mind speeding. It just means we get to where we need to be that much quicker. I’m not a fan of wasting time. Speaking of which, let’s dive into this redheaded playground and see what’s cooking. I’ve always said a redhead in the streets means a firecracker in the sheets—purely scientific observation, of course.” She smirks my way. “And before you get all hoity-toityon me, relax. I called Harry and told him to put on a red wig and meet me here.”

“There’s a small mercy. I think.”

We get out and waddle our way into the St. Patrick’s Day festivities—and I do mean we’re both waddling. Me for obvious reasons, and Carlotta, well, I highly suspect the dozen whiskey-glazed donuts that Suze slid her way as we left the bakery has something to do with it. She didn’t share a single one with me. Not that my sweet babes need to appreciate the taste of whiskey so soon in their young lives.

“Would you look at this?” I shake my head at the happy-go-lucky sights and sounds all around us. Think Ireland meets St. Patrick’s Day on steroids and lots and lots of redheads. And have I mentioned the redheads have shown up in fiery numbers today? Again, it’s worth noting that the Red Sea is alive and well and surging all around me in human form.

“Sweet mother of Jameson,” Carlotta clucks as she surveys the festival grounds with wide eyes. “The Leprechaun Jubilee looks as if St. Patrick’s Day had a wild night with a room full of redheads. It’s like every redheaded cousin from fifty miles around decided today was the day to proudly display theirKiss Me, I’m 1/64th Irishheritage. I haven’t seen this much Irish pride since your daddy got drunk and thought the great love of his life was a bottle of whiskey.”

I nod. “Things would have been less complicated that way.”

The Leprechaun Jubilee is exactly what would happen if a St. Patrick’s Day pinata exploded all over the county fairgrounds. Everywhere I look, there’s something aggressively Irish—from emerald green banners flapping in the spring breeze to inflatable leprechauns tall enough to require FAA clearance.

The air smells like a delicious culinary brawl is taking place between competing food vendors with sizzling corned beef, freshly baked bread, and the unmistakable malty siren song ofbeer that by the looks of it, has been dyed an unnatural shade of green.

“Now this”—Carlotta points hard to a group of men staggering around each with a pint of green beer in their hands—“is what I call a proper celebration. None of that namby-pamby Easter egg hunt nonsense. These people know how to party.”

She’s not wrong. The festival grounds pulse with Irish folk music blasting from multiple stages, creating a cacophony of competing fiddles and tin whistles. Children dash past with faces painted green, chasing each other with plastic walking sticks that I’m certain will result in at least one emergency room visit before the day is over.

But what really catches my eye is the hair.

“So. Much. Red. Hair,” I say with a heavy sense of awe. “It looks as ethereal as it does vivid.”

“Yuppers. It’s like walking through a forest where all the trees have been replaced by flame-topped humans with a surprising capacity for beer consumption.”

“More like we’ve stumbled into a secret convention where all the world’s redheads finally get the appreciation they deserve,” I correct as Carlotta and I wade deeper into the crowd. “I’ve never seen so much gorgeous auburn in one place—it’s like walking through a sunset.”

“Nah. It’s more like someone dumped a crate of Halloween wigs onto the fairgrounds,” she shoots back. “It’s a buffet of fiery hotness. And I may need to sample everything on the menu.”

“We’re here to find Eliza, not to hunt for your next questionable moral judgment,” I remind her, although I know it’s futile. Once Carlotta is in hot pursuit mode, she’s pretty much unstoppable.

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