Raspberry Tart Terror (Murder in the Mix Book 30) by Unknown (free ebook reader for ipad txt) 📕

her things and heads for the door. “I’ll see you later, Lottie. If your mother needs any help with those skeins you bought for her, just tell her to swing by and I’ll help her get a few projects started.”

“You bet,” I shout after her as she melts into the crowd.

“Bambi Bailey?” I shake my head at Teddy. “Of course. It’s as if the killer has been right under our nose this entire time.”

The crowd starts chanting Hot Judge, Hot Judge, and I suck in a quick breath as I dart right out of the room.

The crowd has parted, leaving a space right down the middle of the reception area where I see Everett striding my way and I meet him in the middle.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I pant. “For a second there, I thought for sure you were going to drop the stitches.”

The crowd continues to chant the words Hot Judge over and over, as Everett lands a steamy kiss to my cheek.

“Noah bet me ten bucks I didn’t have the cookies to do it,” Everett says as he backs up a notch.

And before I know what’s happening, his jacket hits the floor. Everett’s hips are gyrating to the music as he unbuttons his shirt slowly and the crowd goes wild with deafening screams. Shockingly, the most deafening scream of them all happens to be coming from Evie, but she’s not screaming with delight—more like sheer terror.

Everett dances up and down my body as his shirt flies open, and he flashes those abs my way, inciting a near riot among the peanut gallery on the sidelines. Flashes of light go off as if the paparazzi were here for the blessed event, and judging by all of those cell phones pointed in his direction, they are indeed.

The song comes to an end, and Everett turns and points to Noah.

“You owe me money,” he rumbles, and the crowd starts throwing wads of cold, hard cash our way.

“Don’t worry, Sexy!” Carlotta jumps into motion, snapping up the bills like a pigeon diving for crumbs. “I’ll do the dirty work for you—for a small fee, of course. Sixty-five percent commission. Heck, make it an even eighty.”

Noah steps into the center of the room and flashes something in his hand out at the crowd.

“Ashford County Sheriff’s Department,” he bellows, and the crowd quiets to a hush. The backbeat of a whole new song begins to belt out from the speakers.

A hard groan comes from me. “Everett, I thought they took away his badge,” I whisper.

“They did. He’s holding his driver’s license.”

Noah points my way. “You’re coming with me.”

Carlotta lets a couple of whoops rip. “Go on, Lot. You can’t leave Foxy high and dry.” She plucks me from Everett’s arms and lands me right back in the middle of ground zero once again. “Hashtag hot cop!” she shouts, and soon the entire room is chanting hot cop, hot cop!

Noah does his thing in time to the music, swiveling his hips, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling off his belt at an alarmingly slow pace, much to the crowd’s approval. He’s practically a seasoned professional with those wicked moves, and it begs the questions how and for whom has he done this before. Come to think of it, I seem to recall a few steamy nights with the hot cop that started off something like this.

His shirt falls off, and he’s dirty dancing up and around my body as the amped-up crowd howls as if their hair were on fire.

Before the song is through, he’s sniffed my hair, nuzzled my neck, and I’m not quite sure, but I think he stole second base.

But before long, the fire department steps in to regale the crowd with their own steamy moves, and Noah and I head over where Everett is standing. I’m about to suggest we hitch a ride home when Greer Giles descends from the ceiling in all her ghostly glory. Her dark hair shimmers like a sea of onyx stars and floats as if she were under water. So I do the only thing I can think to do—I take up both Noah and Everett’s hands so they can listen along.

“Lottie Lemon!” Greer snaps. “Winslow and I just witnessed the entire spectacle. How dare the three of you play along with the bawdy reindeer games those putrid new owners have dreamed up. You’re supposed to be working to get rid of them, not joining their twisted fantasies. And don’t for a minute think they’re not fantasizing about your hot judge and hot cop. I’m privy to all of their conversations, you know. They’re so steamy I’ve forbidden both Lea and Thirteen from going anywhere near those two deviants. Do whatever it is you need to do to get rid of them.”

“Me?” I ask as I blink back. “What happened to you and Winslow scaring the pants off of them? That sounded like a solid plan just a week ago.”

Greer frowns at someone across the way, and I follow her gaze to see those two blonde bombshells of destruction.

“It didn’t work,” Greer growls it out. “It only made things worse. They’ve doubled the tours. Winslow and I hate that they’re quickly raking it in while we’re quickly losing our sanity.”

Everett nods. “It’s because you’re too nice. You’re just knocking a few books off the shelves and rearranging some furniture.”

Noah glances to the general area where Greer is. “He’s right. No more Mr. Nice Poltergeist. It’s time the ghostly gloves come off, Greer.”

“I agree,” I say. “You have my blessing to take this haunting to the next level. Do whatever you have to do to get those nitwits out of here.”

Greer doesn’t waste a moment to respond. Instead, in record time, all four ghostly residents of this once sweet little B&B are shaking the walls, knocking furniture over, tearing chandeliers right out of the ceiling, and filling the reception area with a wild and violent wind.

But instead of chasing every last patron right on out those doors, it only seems