“Lottie Lemon, I never knew you!” Keelie Nell Turner moans as she digs a fork into a half-eaten cutie pie. “I swear on the Honey Pot’s dusty soul, I have never tasted anything so decadent in all my life. And are those walnuts I’m loving so much?”

“They are,” I say, putting my purse into a cubby in the back of the kitchen before heading to the baking nerve center of the Honey Pot, my own personal domain, as I like to call it. I do a once-over for the pies I set out, but they’ve up and disappeared. “Please tell me you didn’t eat that stack of goodness I had ready to deliver to Holland Grand at the Orchard.”

“I wish.” Keelie rolls her eyes, her lashes batting away a mile a minute as she moans through another bite. Keelie has been my best friend as long as I can remember. And her twin, Naomi, has been my nemesis since about the eleventh grade. Naomi had a thing for Bear at the time, and Bear had a thing for me. By and large, Naomi has never done well with not getting her way. One would think her hatred for me stemmed from far more close to home reasons, like the fact Keelie and I were inseparable since preschool. But Naomi has her own best friend, and she’s just as snooty as Naomi is. But both Naomi and Keelie are gorgeous lookers, born with long blonde curls right out of the womb—Naomi has since dyed hers black, blue eyes for days, and a smile that could illuminate the Western Hemisphere—just Keelie, that is. Naomi is made of piss and vinegar, and that’s precisely why I go out of my way to avoid crossing paths with her. She runs the Evergreen Manor, the one and only inn at the foot of town, and it’s a shocker she hasn’t scared away all the tourists by now.

“You’ve outdone yourself, girl.” Keelie dips her pinky into the caramel sauce and licks it clean. “Forget working for the Honey Pot. We need to open up a pie stand. This stuff is G-O-L-D.”

“Quit the Honey Pot?” the voice of an elderly woman sings from behind, and both Keelie and I turn with a laugh caught in our throats because we’d recognize that sweet voice just about anywhere.

“Nell!” I’m the first to throw my arms around the woman I couldn’t love more if she were family. Keelie piles on, and poor Nell is left gasping for air until we land back on our feet. Nell looks every bit the Queen of England with a dark maroon coat and matching pillbox hat. Her white little curls have been carefully coifed, and she has a smidge of pink lipstick on to boot. Nell is the one who gifted Pancake to me exactly a year ago. She went over to a breeder in Leeds to pick out a Himalayan for herself and couldn’t decide between two brothers and wound up taking them both. She said she’d let me keep one if I simply took one home. I suggested she keep the brothers together, but Nell insisted she just wanted the one. So we named the tiny fluffy kittens together. Pancake and Waffles. I can’t help but think the fact our cats are siblings somehow bonds us that much more.

Keelie gives her hat a quick tap. “Grammy, where are you headed all dolled up like this? You’re not headed to the senior center trolling for another boyfriend, are you?”

I can’t help but chuckle. Nell might be ninety-two, but she’s still pretty spry, and that boyfriend thing is no joke. About six months ago, she took up a suitor, and he took her out to dinner at the fancy Italian place across the street and everything. The entire town was in a tizzy.

“I may. May not.” She winks my way. “Actually, I came to check up on things.” She looks around the inner workings of the diner she’s owned for going on fifty years. A tiny cough bubbles from her, and she’s quick to cover her mouth. “Oh Lord, get me out of here before they shut the place down because I’ve croaked in the kitchen.”

Keelie gives me the side-eye. Nell has made a habit of trying to predict her demise. Much to our delight, she’s wrong every single time.

She tousles Keelie’s hair as best as she can, and even with that Keelie only looks better. Now it’s me giving her the side-eye. “Your mother is down the street at the bank, so I’ve only got a minute.” She looks my way. “Why don’t you ladies walk me out front before I trip over a dishrag or slip in a grease puddle? You know I’ll have no one to sue but myself.”

“Sure thing,” I say as Keelie and I each thread an arm through hers and lead her proudly through the kitchen into the Honey Pot proper, which is already decorated for fall with red and gold silk leaves lining the windows, a miniature pumpkin on each table, and a life-sized scarecrow with the cutest little smile that the tourists can’t stop taking selfies with at the entry. The Honey Pot isn’t your typical greasy spoon. We serve only the best comfort food you can find. Both Margo and her husband, Mannford, are chefs who used to work in a fancy revolving restaurant in Manhattan, but left city life about six years ago. Ever since they’ve been working their magic at the Honey Pot, we’ve received write-ups from just about every national newspaper and have even been featured on the Good Eats network as a noteworthy stop to visit.

Keelie leads the way outside, and the cool September air kisses us unrepentantly. I traded my flip-flops for boots about two weeks ago. Fall has a habit of arriving just a touch early in these parts, and not one person is the slightest bit angry about it. Our summers can be as hot as our winters are frozen. As my mother likes to say, you can always put on another sweater, but you can’t take off your skin. As grisly as that sounds, Miranda Lemon is a lot of things, and right is always one of them.

The sound of hacksaws and jackhammers steals the tranquility that Main Street typically holds, and we look next door to find the old vacant deli being gutted by none other than my grizzly ex, Otis Bear Fisher. Once he spots the three of us, he stops that bandsaw he’s close to shaving off his fingers with and heads on over.

“Hey, Bear.” I give a half-hearted wave. Bear and I are on pretty good terms. He’s still convinced there’s something between us, and I’m still convinced there’s not enough air space in the world to create a proper buffer. But he’s just as happy-go-lucky as he was when he was a kid. Nothing or no one, and that includes me, can sour his mood.

He offers me a great big hug before pulling back with that toothy grin he’s known for. Bear is tall and handsome, blond, and tan most of the year, even though our little corner of Vermont rarely sees that ball of gas otherwise known as the sun. His good looks keep the girls coming in strong, and lucky for Bear, he’s learned the fine art of keeping them all on a rotation. There was a little scuffle for his attention last year, and there might have been fists flying—between the girls. Yes, Bear is very much in demand, just not by me.

“What do you think, ladies?” Nell tips her nose at the plume of drywall dust blooming out the door. “What kind of a shop would you like to see go in next door?”

Keelie’s eyes grow wide. “A tattoo parlor and we can come over with pies and take a look at the beefcakes walking around this place. God knows I haven’t had me a good slice of beef—”

Bear grunts as he cuts her off, “How about a bar? You can’t get a decent drink on Main Street. As it stands, the boys and I have to drive down to Leeds to wet our whistles.”

“Not a bar.” I avert my eyes at the thought. I know firsthand what kind of bars Bear and the boys visit when they head down to Leeds. His cousin, Hunter, yes, Hunter Fisher—his mother has quite the sense of humor—anyway, Hunter took my side in our messy breakup and informed me there were a few places in Leeds where a hormone hungry man like Bear could get his appetite filled in more ways than one. “How about a bakery?” My heart thumps wild in my chest at the prospect. “I could run it for you, and I’d happily bake my heart out to make all the tasty treats that place could ever need or want.”

A squeak comes from Keelie as she looks forlorn. “You can’t leave me. We’re a team, remember? Once you came back from New York, you said we’d never be apart again.”

“I’ll be next door.”

“With a wall between us.” She gives a slight wink because she loves to get me going. Keelie is only slightly kidding. We’ve appreciated every minute we’ve gotten to spend together at the Honey Pot.

Otis plucks a hammer from his tool belt and points it at the window next to me. “I can bust a hole through the wall and connect the two together. Sort of a walkway.”

I gasp at the thought. “Who said you weren’t full of bright ideas?”

“You.” His lids close just enough to let me know he’s smoldering for me, and I can’t help but laugh.

The sound of a car horn goes off, and soon Otis is helping Nell into the passenger’s seat of Keelie’s mother’s Town Car.

“I’m all for the bakery!” Nell calls as Otis is kind enough to buckle her in. “You’ll have to get the equipment. I don’t know anything about that, but my guess is it’s more than a pretty penny. You’ll need a loan if you can get one. We can work out the details some other time!”

They take off, and Otis blows me a kiss before heading back to the disaster zone next to the Honey Pot.

“I’m going to need a loan? There’s not a person in their right mind who’ll give me two nickels to rub together.”

“How about your mom?” Keelie wrinkles her nose because the answer is clear before either of us verbalizes it.

“She’s already struggling to keep the B&B alive and kicking. I keep telling her to raise her rates, but she’s afraid she won’t be able to compete with the Evergreen and all those sales they keep having—buy two nights get one free.” It’s true. My mother’s bed and breakfast has been struggling since Naomi took the helm down at her only real competition, the Evergreen Manor. Lucky for Mom, there’s a surplus of tourists this time of year, so it doesn’t seem to matter.

“Sorry.” She winces.

“It’s not your fault. And probably not your sister’s either.” Like heck it isn’t. There’s no doubt in my mind Naomi has taken the vendetta she has against me and extended it to my mother.

Keelie’s eyes light up like torches. “I have an idea.” She spins me around until I’m facing the south end of the street and gives me a firm shove. “Get that loan right now, Lottie Kenzie Lemon! There’s no time like the present.” She scuttles me down a few yards further until my feet start in on a forward motion of their own. “Go on. Right now head into that savings and loan, and don’t you leave until they’re throwing dollar bills at you!”

Shockingly, my legs keep up with the farce. “But I didn’t get to tell you about Mr. Sexy! And have I mentioned I’m getting evicted?”

“You can live in the bakery!” she shouts back. “Or with Mr. Sexy! Better yet, give him to me for safekeeping!”

I’d laugh if I thought at all it was funny. Everett Baxter is far too ornery for either my best friend or me.

No sooner do I get into the bank than I get tossed right back out. It turns out, the loan department is having a few renovations of their own, so in the interim, the loan department is taking up residence in a small office next door. I take a quick breath before staring at the dismal looking box of an entry. I can’t believe that I, Lottie Lemon, am going to have the moxie to walk up to some poor financially bound soul and ask for a piece of the monetary pie. It’s not like me. It’s dangerous. It’s daring. It’s downright exhilarating is what it is.

“Unique New York. Unique New York. Unique You Nork.” Drats. I always botch that up. It’s an old vocal exercise I used to employ whenever I went on an interview when I actually lived in the city—and I did go on my fair share of those. Suffice it to say, I didn’t get a sweet, tasty bite of that big red apple. Instead, it was rotten and mushy, and I ended up with the worm of the bunch. But enough about my exes for one day.

I head on in and find a comely man who looks to be a little older than me in a baby blue dress shirt sitting behind the desk looking up at me wild-eyed before springing to his feet. His eyes are the color of fresh spring grass, and there are two comma-like dimples that dig in on either side of his cheeks despite the fact he doesn’t look happy to see me in the least. I’m guessing he hates the hole they’ve stuck him in. I’m pretty sure there aren’t too many people vying for loans in Honey Hollow. Come to think of it, that might actually work in my favor.

“Lottie Kenzie Lemon.” I extend a hand, and he offers up a warm, firm shake. Something about the way he looks at me while doing so sends a dizzying wave of delight right to the pit of my stomach, but I’m betting that’s less an instant attraction I’m feeling and more bats in the digestive belfry ready to vomit out of me. I’ve never asked for anything in my life, let alone a bouquet of dollar bills.

“Noah Corbin Fox.” He motions to the plastic lawn chair in front of me, and we both take a seat. “How can I be of service to you today?”

“You sure can be of service to me!” That wave of nausea gets a bit stronger, but it’s not my breakfast I’m about to hurl up between us. It’s an entire ocean of words I can feel bubbling to the surface. It’s a bad habit I have. When I get nervous, I get chatty. I’ll talk about how bright the sun is or how dark the dirt is. It doesn’t even matter if the words string together in cohesive sentences so much as it does that my vocal cords are doing their job. “I went to court this morning and won. My landlords, the Simonson sisters, have had it in for me for quite some time. They hate me something awful, but don’t you feel sorry for me. The feeling is mutual. Mora Anne used to be in charge of the cheerleading squad at Honey Hollow High, and I was her minion. Boy, did she ever try to drill sergeant me to death. But I won us the trophy in the tri-city competition, and I swear on all things delicious that she’s been even angrier with me ever since. And Merilee? I could strangle her with my bare hands for accusing me of hurting their business and turning the last few weeks of my life into a constant stream of worry. She’s the one that pointed the accusatory finger at me first.”

“So, did you kill her?” He leans back in his chair, looking every bit amused.

“No sir, not yet.” I give a cheeky wink. “But the day is young, as my deceased father liked to say.” Dear God, am I really leveraging the death of my poor father in hopes to garner an ounce of pity from this city deployed loan officer? “My guess is you’re from the city since I’ve never seen you around these parts before. I know just about everyone in Honey Hollow, having grown up here all my life—with the exception of that one time I flew the coop and found myself knee-deep in Manhattan. I went to school there—business school at Colombia. After my mother died, my father made sure.” My hand clips my lips. “Dear Lord, did I just curse my mother? I meant to say after my father died my mother made sure each of her girls received a proper education. She never wants for us to depend upon a man. She says they tend to walk out or die, and that only the very lucky find a keeper with a good ticker.” He winces. “Anyway, getting back to all things delicious—I was sort of hoping you’d like to go into business with me. I’m a pretty decent baker, and there happens to be a nice storefront available right next door to the Honey Pot.” My entire body breaks out into a sweat at once. “What do you say?”

He gives a long, tired blink, and I can’t help but note he looks decidedly handsome while doing so. That’s two for two today on the sexy front. First, Mr. Sexy himself, then this tall, dark, and handsome glass of cold—

“No.”

“Excuse me?” I blink back to life.

“I said no.” His dimples dig in as if mocking me. “I’m not interested. I have no vested interest in baked goods other than eating them, so I’m going to have to pass.” He pulls a stack of files forward and straightens them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a business of my own to tend to.”

“What?” I screech so loud I don’t even recognize my own voice. “But that’s what you do. You lend money. Look, I know my employment history is a bit shaky, but in all fairness, we haven’t even gotten that far. And secondly, you have absolutely zero compassion to be in this line of work.” I stand to leave and accidentally knock the plastic lawn chair out from underneath me.

He comes around quick, and we both bend over at the same time to right it, giving our heads a hearty knock in the process. A guttural oof emits from him.

“My God!” I back up, stunned. “I think I’m seeing stars.”

“Here, take a seat.” He pulls the chair up behind me, but I’m quick to evade it.

“And listen to your kind refusal of my more than enticing offer? No thank you. Do you know what a bakery could do for a town like this? You may not have been here for five hot honey minutes, but we happen to thrive off tourism. And believe me when I say that tourists like and require their fair share of sweet treats. An entire store devoted to tasty confections is exactly the missing piece to Honey Hollow’s economical puzzle.” I go to take a step to my right, and he does so along with me. A slight smile tugs at his lips, and it infuriates me to witness it. “Get out of my way, Mr. Fox. I’m heading straight back into that bank and informing them of your rude demeanor.”

I take off as he gives a dark chuckle. “You do that!” he calls after me.

I hightail it right back into the savings and loans and hightail it right back out once they assure me the ornery Fox next door is not in fact employed by their fine establishment. It turns out, the loan department was on my other left.

My phone goes off, and I pluck it out of my purse. It’s a text from Holland at the orchard. They’d like to discuss my pies.

I glance back at the window to my left and glare at the obnoxious, albeit handsome, man still rocking away in his seat.

It’s been a full day of smug men. Let’s hope Holland isn’t one of them.

Cider Grove Orchards is to die for this time of year. There is no season like autumn in Vermont, and autumn in Honey Hollow is the jewel in nature’s crown.

The birch trees shudder in the cool breeze, and the maples and liquid ambers shed batch after batch of leaves in a colorful patchwork over the ground. Pumpkins of every size and color dot the entry to the orchard as I get out of my car and take in the scent of evergreens mixed with the apple orchard in the distance. My mother would bring my sisters and me here each and every September since we were little girls. The Grands have owned this place going as far back as time, and every school in all of Vermont has trekked up here at least once to experience the fieldtrip of a lifetime.

I head over to the old rustic barn they’ve converted into an office, and just as I’m about to head into the structure, the sound of women squabbling garners my attention. To the side of the building I spot Mora Anne and Merilee with their hands on their hips while they have it out with a few women I recognize from my mother’s walking group. Chrissy Nash, the mayor’s ex-wife—they recently divorced because he cheated. It was quite the scandal. Next to her stands a red-faced Eve Hollister—she’s in charge of the book club my mother is a part of. It’s more spice than it is anything nice, but not a single one of those women has ever complained about the content of those romance novels that keep them up at night. And there’s yet a third woman I can’t quite make out. She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure I’ve seen her around town before.

Huh. I head inside and find the secretary who lets me know that Holland is out back, so I make my way in that direction. Holland is a year younger than me—the youngest of three boys and two girls. For a while he dated my sister, Meg, but that petered out pretty quickly. Lainey swears that’s the reason she ran off to Vegas, but I’ve never given the theory much credence. Meg has always been a spitfire in every capacity. Some people will simply combust if they stick around in a small town like Honey Hollow. And Meg was about to explode into matchstick pieces. It was safer all around for anyone that she took off to sow her wild oats.

From the back of the property I’m treated to sweeping views of the orchard where all you see for miles are bright green trees dotted with beautiful apples in every shape and color, hanging like Christmas tree ornaments, proud and ripe for the picking. I snuggle into my flannel a moment, thankful I went home to change into something far more appropriate to run wild at the orchards. As soon as I wrap up my meeting with Holland, I plan to pick an entire bushel of apples myself so I can whip up another batch of cutie pies to sell at the Honey Pot.

“Holland?” I call out as I head toward the orchard to my left. There’s a tiny white sign that reads Jonagold, and I’m instantly in love with the peachy-yellow blushed little bulbs. I pluck the first one I see right off the branch and rub it against my flannel before sinking my teeth into its delicious goodness. I just know Holland won’t mind. I can’t help it. They’re so lush and amazing to look at and, dear God up in heaven, is this ever so sweet and juicy.

I take a quick stroll through the grounds, enjoying every delicious bite of the quasi-forbidden fruit as thoughts of this psychotic day filter through my mind. There are some days in Honey Hollow that seem to go by in the blink of an eye and some that last forever. I’m pretty glad this blue-skied beauty of an afternoon falls in the latter category. Before long I head back toward the barn and spot a smattering of people on the other end of the orchard. The flatbed they use to haul the tourists around in is chock-full of people, and I bet that’s Holland there in the driver’s seat.

The sound of footsteps rushing by steals my attention, and it’s only then I note an entire display of my cutie pies on the left side of the building. Almost every last one is gone save for a few in the back, and I can’t help but feel a smidge of satisfaction knowing they couldn’t keep their hands off my pies.

I head over, anxious to have a quick bite myself. Those Jonagolds are delicious, but they’d be a heck of a lot more decadent slathered in caramel sauce. Just as I’m about halfway to the display table, a long, dark tendril lying over the ground stops me cold.

We don’t get snakes this time of year—do we? But it’s not a snake. It almost looks like… hair? I make my way over cautiously, fully expecting to find a scarecrow turned on its ear, or a scarf that Mora Anne or Merilee whipped up with their witchcraftery, a term Keelie and I came up with a long time ago. I take a few more cautious steps forward and gasp. That’s no snake, and there’s not a scarf in sight.

It’s one of the Simonson sisters, facedown in one of my cutie pies. And judging by that pool of blood she’s lying in, she won’t be needing a scarf ever again.

She’s dead.