Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(100)

The Southern Lakes Bakery was a freestanding one-story building with bright-green awnings and a bright-white door. Holly parked in front of its left window, beside a patch of grass and a fence lit by a superbright light so strong it lit up most of the parking lot.

For a bakery that was closing at eight, it was a bit crowded. Holly told the girl behind the counter she was there to pick up thirteen pies, and the girl returned with fourteen, packed in plain white bakery boxes. When the girl winked, telling Holly she’d left the gold Southern Lakes Bakery sticker off the top of the boxes so no one would know the pies were store bought, Holly felt bad telling her she’d only ordered thirteen. At the cost of $22 per nine-inch pie, Holly was about to fork over $286—never mind the cost of ingredients for the fourteen pies she screwed up in her kitchen. She couldn’t afford to buy the fourteenth pie for her family to enjoy. There was no more room on the credit card.

“There must be some mistake,” Holly told the girl behind the counter. “I’m pretty sure my mom said she ordered thirteen.”

“Actually,” Holly heard a voice behind her say, “that’s my cherry pie. The extra pie is mine. I ordered it.”

Holly turned, and—

No. Flipping. Way. It was Mary-Margaret St. James, still wearing an apron, fingers stained cherry red, hair an absolute mess with small chunks of pastry clumped throughout. She looked utterly defeated—like she’d just walked through a tornado.

“It’s like you said.” Mary-Margaret shrugged, her voice so small Holly could barely hear it. “I suck at baking.”

“You suck at a lot of things, Mary-Margaret,” Holly said gently, touching Mary-Margaret’s arm. “But it’s okay. We all do.” Holly tipped her chin toward the pies. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Me too.” Mary-Margaret twisted her fingers in front of her mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

They paid for their pies, and because Holly had so much to carry, Mary-Margaret offered to help her load her pies into her car.

Holly had wanted to transport them in Jack’s car, but Jack hadn’t arrived yet.

“I’ll take it from here,” Holly told Mary-Margaret once they’d reached Holly’s Buick and had set the pie boxes on the pavement near the back tire. They were both late getting their pies to Emily. “But thank you.”

Afraid the cat hair from the back seat would cling to the pie boxes, Holly decided the trunk of the Buick was the best option for transport. She’d call Jack in a few minutes. He probably got held up.

Holly stabbed the trunk key into the keyhole, popped the trunk, and up from the trunk—flew thousands and thousands of tiny yellow insects. CHILLI THRIPS.

“Aaaaaahhh!” they screamed, frantically swatting the insects from their arms. They were everywhere. Tiny and yellow—almost transparent. Awful flying insects, crawling the walls of the trunk, weaving their way up and around the interiors until at last, they took flight and filled the airspace around the Buick—a buzzing, terrifying cloud of wings, legs, and exoskeletons. Like something out of a Hitchcock movie. Like the fog in Dickens’s Bleak House. Chilli thrips everywhere. Chilli thrips up the trunk wall, where they flowed among red metal and black carbon parts; chilli thrips down the trunk wall, where they rolled on top of each other, unencumbered except for an open cardboard shipping box inside a great and dirty trunk. Chilli thrips on the rear taillights, chilli thrips on the Buick logo. Chilli thrips creeping into their clothing; chilli thrips flying out across their arms and hovering about their ears; chilli thrips dropping off the fender and onto the pie boxes. Chilli thrips everywhere, as if forming a balloon, hanging as a cloud all around them. And at the very heart of the chilli thrips? Evidence of Michael St. James, Lord of Insurance Fraud, Killer of Plume—his name and signature on a delivery slip from China. The ferroequinologist who’d rented this car to Holly had mentioned a man of Panamanian descent with business dealings in China. Maybe that Panamanian man worked for My Love.

After most of the chilli thrips had taken flight to smother the skies above Southern Lakes, Holly reached into the trunk to retrieve the invoice and handed it to Mary-Margaret. Both of their hands were stained with cherry juice. Their boxes of cherry pies, ordered in secret, lay about their feet.

“What?” Mary-Margaret blinked, as she steadied herself to read the invoice. “Michael? Michael, my love?” She seemed small, lowercased. Weakened, diminished. Something.

“Your husband must have ordered the killing of Plume,” Holly told Mary-Margaret, searching her eyes for any semblance of understanding. “Your husband, Mary-Margaret, your love. He did this.” Didn’t she know? Yesterday—at the pie meeting on The Lawn when she was trying to grab Darth out of my hands—she knew something. Or at least suspected something. Didn’t she? Holly shook her head. Maybe she’s in shock.

“But why would he want to kill Plume? Plume is the town mascot. Plume is loved by all.” Mary-Margaret kept blinking. Why was she blinking? Was she trying to unsee what had been seen? Was she trying to stop the tears from falling? Because it wasn’t working. Tears wet Mary-Margaret’s soft pink cheeks. “But. Plume is beautiful. Plume is perfect. Plume makes the Topiary Park the Topiary Park. Without Plume, it’s just a garden. Why would he do this? Doesn’t he love her?”

“I don’t know.” Holly reached out to brush a chilli thrip from Mary-Margaret’s lip.