“If you think I’m going to allow you to poison my guests with this trash, you’ve lost it!” The woman’s voice drifted down the hall from the inn’s kitchen.
I stiffened, feather duster extended toward the skeleton tacked to the wall.
Halloween decoration, of course.
It had been nearly two months since we’d last had serious trouble at the Gossip Inn, but I was always anticipating the worst. Call it paranoia? I called it realism.
That was what happened when you had an ex-spy grandmother and were one yourself. Anyway, it wasn’t as if I relished the quiet. I could use a little problem or two to fix. Just as long as those problems didn’t involve murder…
“This is the menu you wanted. I mean, we talked about this for weeks. We debated. We laid out a plan, and I promise it’s going to be perfect.” Lauren, the chef’s inn, sounding hot under the collar. Uh oh. “And nobody’s trying to poison your guests either. You might not know it, but that’s quite a sensitive topic around these parts. It’s best not to make jokes like that.”
“I wasn’t kidding. Custard is disgusting. It’s murderous. It’s… it’s clear you’re trying to ruin my wedding.”
“Now, that is just ridiculous.” Lauren’s southern accent grew more pronounced with every reply.
I glanced down at Cocoa Puff who sat underneath the table of skulls, museum trinkets, and creepy paraphernalia I’d been dusting. “Trouble in paradise. What do you say, Cocoa. Shall we check it out?”
He meowed in what I assumed was the positive, and we set off down the hall together. Sunlight, my ginger kitty who loved sprinting around my bedroom in the middle of the night—chasing ghosts, the inn’s chef called it—stood in front of the kitchen’s archway, peering in. Not unusual behavior for him. But his fur stood on end. Now, that was different. Sunlight was a friendly cat.
“Miss Childless,” Lauren said, from within the placid green kitchen, “custard is a great finish to any meal. I’m making you a wedding cake and I’m—”
“Absolutely not.”
I propped my feather duster against the doorjamb then entered the kitchen.
Lauren, the usually cheerful chef, stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the woman across from her. Lauren’s chef’s whites were immaculate, her red hair done up in two pigtails today, but she had dark circles under her eyes.
I didn’t blame her. Lauren had two babies and a husband to contend with. I didn’t use the term “contend with” lightly either. Her husband was… not my favorite person in the world, and I couldn’t imagine looking after one baby, let alone a two-month-old and a soon-to-be toddler.
“Miss Childless,” Lauren said, with the air of someone who was on the brink of snapping. “Custard slices are delicious.”
“I can walk into any bakery and buy a custard slice! They’re common. I want the best for my wedding.” I recognized the bride-to-be. Miss Julia Childless. She was tall, willowy, blonde, and in her late twenties. She wore designer clothing and wasn’t staying at the inn. “I hired you because you have an amazing reputation in town.”
“And we won’t let you down,” I said, hoping to disperse the tension.
Julia turned toward me, eyes narrowing. “Who are you again?”
“I’m Charlotte. I’m an assistant at the inn. I’ll be helping with your wedding and the catering.”
“So, you’re not the chef,” she said.
“No.”
“Then I don’t have much to talk to you about.” Julia turned her back on me, focusing her bride-to-be ire on Lauren instead. “I don’t want custard at my wedding.”
“Miss Childless.” Lauren’s cheeks were nearly as red as her hair. “The custard slices will be dainty and gorgeous. You approved of this menu when you hired us, and it’s one day before your wedding. I can’t just go on and change it now. I don’t have the capacity to do that. I mean…”
“Then why did I hire you in the first place? You’ll be hearing from my husband about this!”
So far, the groom hadn’t been that involved in the wedding prep. I highly doubted he had any control over what happened. Julia’s soon-to-be mother-in-law, however, was overbearing and was the one, as I recalled it, who had pushed for the custard slices in the first place.
Cocoa Puff meowed from the doorway.
Julia and Lauren, who had been caught in a staredown, both flinched at the interruption.
“I can’t change the menu,” Lauren said, a final time.
Julia’s cheeks puffed out. Tears welled in her eyes. “This is the most important day of my life, and you’re going to ruin it.”
For a millisecond, a shred of pity wormed its way into my heart. I vanquished it swiftly. This woman and her mother-in-law had given Lauren nothing but trouble for weeks about the catering. And rumor had it—Gossip was practically overflowing with rumors—they’d been causing an equal amount of trouble for others in town.
“I can’t change the menu. I’m sorry.”
“You’re pathetic! A pathetic excuse for a chef.”
Lauren took a step back, releasing a growl.
I stepped in. “There’s no need for insults. I’m sure we can resolve this peacefully.” And if not, my spy grandmother and I would blow dart the bride in the neck.
Just kidding. Maybe. Probably.
Julia didn’t hang around to hear my solution. She stormed from the kitchen.
I patted the air at Lauren, in what I hoped was a placating fashion, then darted after Julia. We couldn’t afford to lose a customer, even a rude one. The Gossip Inn turned a profit, but we were hardly millionaires.
Every little bit of money helped out my grandmother, the inn, and everyone who worked here.
Julia had already reached the front porch. She descended into the Texas afternoon—fall wasn’t that cold this year, then again, was it ever that cold in Gossip?—and made for the car parked out front.
The groom stood next to it, tall and handsome, his arms folded. He had lacked so much involvement in the wedding that I knew only his last name. Knowles.
Julia reached him and the rage festival began. She let out a feral cry, pacing back and forth in front of him, gesticulating wildly, and the groom responded in kind.
A full scale argument ensued, and I lingered on the porch. I got that Miss Childless was stressed about her wedding, but I hadn’t expected her to flip out at her fiancé. What was that about?
Finally, the groom gestured for her to get into the car—a black BMW.
She lingered for a couple of seconds then circled the vehicle and got in, slamming the door behind her. The car sped off, tires spitting gravel.
“If that isn’t a divorce waiting to happen, I don’t know what is,” I muttered.
But that was none of my business. This had been one heck of a week. We’d had to deal with the guests for the wedding, the overbearing mother-in-law, and now, the bride’s anger at the menu that she’d confirmed months ago.
It was going to be an interesting wedding, that was for sure.
“Excuse me.” A woman croaked from the front steps of the inn. “Excuse me, but I need to lodge a complaint.”
Here we go again.