Page 37 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“Why can’t I do both, Lot? You know I’m an excellent multitasker.”

Before I can come back with a rebuttal, a spray of pink and blue stars suddenly materializes to our right, followed by the appearance of that cute little fox, Sebby, who looks positively delighted by the festival atmosphere.

“Lolita!” he happily greets me, and it only makes me frown at Carlotta for the moniker-related slight. His ghostly tail swishes with excitement. “This place is crawling with redheads! Sebastian always said redheads were the exact trouble he was looking for, but he never mentioned they traveled in packs.”

“That’s how I prefer my men to travel,” Carlotta adds. “All the way to my bedroom.”

“I prefer them traveling that way all the way to my den,” Sebby says. “Of course, with the females of the bunch.”

I’m about to say something when Carlotta raises a finger my way. “Before you go getting all self-righteous on us, just remember you got two baby daddies and you slept with both of those men just this week alone.”

I roll my eyes. Even though it’s technically true, I’ll never admit it.

She nods my way. “Not to mention the fact the universe sent you a fox to help solve a case that happens to land on the same month the next batch of yippers is set to deliver—and those yippers happen to belong to Sexy. I think the universe knows things we don’t, like maybe the fact Foxy is the daddy of one or more of those rugrats crawling around in that giant belly of yours.”

“Oh, he isnot.” I go to swat her, but she ducks out of range. I steer Carlotta away from a group of men throwing axes at shamrock-painted targets. Carlotta and axes can be a lethal combination. Carlotta and men aren’t such a great combo either. “Suze said that Eliza was volunteering at some booth.”

We meander through rows of vendors selling everything fromKiss Me, I’m IrishT-shirts to authentic Celtic jewelry thatlooks suspiciously like it was made in a factory in China. After nearly being trampled by an impromptu Irish dancing flash mob, we finally spot a white tent with the wordsFallbrook Sourdough Societyemblazoned across the top.

And to my delight there, behind a table laden with crusty loaves, a wooden cutting board, and an array of gorgeous knives—some with etched silver, some with intricate carvings, some looking as if they’ve seen sharper days—stands a tall woman with razor-sharp cheekbones, auburn hair pulled back into a bun, and a ruby red smile for everyone to see.

Glinda Van Jance doesn’t look as if she belongs in a tent full of bread. She looks like she should be negotiating hostile corporate takeovers or modeling scarves in Milan.

“Lottie Lemon,” she calls out when she spots us. “What brings you to the land of leprechauns and green booze?” She chortles out a jovial laugh as if she, too, has imbibed the emerald spirit.

“Just soaking up the Irish culture,” I say as I waddle my way closer to the bustling booth. “Glinda, this is Carlotta, my?—”

“Her favorite mama.” Carlotta snatches up the woman’s hand and gives it an aggressive shake.

“Of course, I remember Carlotta.” She gives a nervous laugh. “It would be a crime not to.” She cringes because I sense she realizes Carlotta is a crime in and of herself. “Can I interest you ladies in some sourdough loaves? They’re fresh baked right here on the premises.”

“Yes,” I say, far too fast and eager. I can’t help it. The twins were practically rooting me on with their tandem kicking. “And I was also looking for my mother-in-law. I heard Eliza Baxter might be around. Have you seen her?”

Glinda’s mouth falls open. “I sure have. She just stepped away to deliver a special loaf to one of the judges’ tents,” Glinda explains, gesturing vaguely toward the other side ofthe fairgrounds. “She’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, can I interest you in the ancient art of sourdough first? Ireland has a long history of sourdough bread. In fact, we even have sourdough Irish soda bread.”

Before I can say yea or nay, Glinda is already lifting a glass jar containing what looks suspiciously like beige goop. But I’m more than familiar with the contents.

“There are some very old secrets in this jar,” she says with a laugh.

That jar might be bubbling with secrets, but here’s hoping Glinda Van Jance bubbles out a few of her own.

LOTTIE

“This”—Glinda Van Jance announces while holding up the sourdough starter in a glass Mason jar with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts—“is Agatha Crustie. She’s my personal starter, going on seven years now.”

“Seven years?” I muse. “I’m impressed.”

Sebby moans from deeper in the tent as he shoves his face into a round loaf that is suspiciously disappearing before our very eyes. “Tastes like home,” he sighs.

And I’m left to wonder which home. I’m betting it’s the heavenly one.

Carlotta sniffs at the jar in Glinda’s hand. “Let me get this straight, Toots. You named your bread batter?” she asks, peering dubiously at the bubbling mixture.

“Of course!” Glinda looks scandalized that there might be an option not to. “Every proper sourdough starter deserves a name. It’s a living thing, after all. Every yeast colony has its own personality.”

“I named my first yeast infection, too,” Carlotta muses. “I called it Richard, after the man who gave it to me.”

“Oh my word,” I hiss as I swat her arm relentlessly. “Please ignore her,” I’m quick to tell Glinda. “She might have had a stroke that got rid of any filter she may have once owned.”

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