Holly and Homicide

1. Emmie

1

EMMIE

“ I f I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times—you need to keep your goddamn cats out of my establishment!”

“It’s Christmas, Charles,” I said, doing my best to keep up the cheery Christmas-loving facade in the face of my antagonistic next-door shop neighbor. “Let’s all be a little more charitable.” I took the tortoiseshell cat. “Maybe she just wants you to adopt her.”

“I’d never allow one of those filthy animals in my bakery,” the older man sputtered. “I come in at two a.m. to start my pastries. I don’t need cat hair everywhere. The next time I see one of these vermin, I’m calling the cops!”

There were yells of surprise as a crowd of people wearing sweaters decorated with cats and carrying signs pushed through the waiting line for my popular Christmas-themed cupcakes.

“Feral cats don’t belong in a café! No way!” they chanted.

“All these cats are up for adoption…” My voice rose as I prepared to have the same exact argument with my fellow feral-cat-committee members that we’d had during the last few months since I’d opened the Santa Claws Café.

Alice turned up her sharp nose. “You are using these cats for your own financial gain.”

“Interacting with the customers helps them be socialized,” I argued.

“This is not how the feral-cat committee does things,” Gertrude, an older woman and the official chair of the cat committee, ranted. “Not to mention you have pink in your Christmas decorations.”

“It’s cute.”

“It’s not traditional. Just like this scam you’re running.”

“Every day, one of my customers adopts a cat,” I reminded Gertrude. “The Santa Claws Café moves more cats than the Humane Society. We serve cupcakes with a side of cat!” I chirped. That was our slogan.

“Like you have people eat the poor cats,” a man in a suit sneered in an unreasonably deep voice.

I glared into the crowd.

The feral-cat-committee protestors ignored me and continued to march around in a circle in the middle of my shop. I’d agonized over the decorations, the furniture, and the holiday-themed art on the walls. The café was adorned with twinkling Christmas lights, wreaths, and garlands of evergreen. The scent of freshly baked cupcakes and spiced hot cocoa filled the air. The soft Christmas music playing in the background was drowned out by angry chants. My cozy seasonal cat café was now a demonstration site.

“Do you still have Santa’s Surprise cupcakes left?” one young woman called out impatiently from the back of the line. “I’m not standing here unless you do. Oh, hey, Grandma!” She waved to a velour-tracksuit-wearing woman in the pack of senior citizens crowded around the utensil station.

“Ava!” An older woman wearing knitted reindeer antlers waved.

“I’m actually here to meet her…” The young woman stepped out of line.

There were angry shouts and grumbling from the line as Ava cut around the waiting customers.

“Gran!” I yelped at my grandmother, who was coming out from around the counter with trays of coffee. “What are you doing?”

“You can’t keep people waiting in line like this. You’ll lose customers,” she said, passing out small sips of coffee and little bites of the new cupcake recipe I’d been working on, the Sugar Plum Fairy. “You’ll never have enough money to move out at this rate.”

Panic set in. My heart was pounding from anxiety, or it could have just been from the sheer amount of coffee I’d consumed since five thirty that morning.

“Move out? You want me to leave?” My chin trembled. “On Christmas?”

“Can we please just order?” that same deep male voice snapped.

I ignored him. I was about to be homeless, for Kris Kringle’s sake.

Gran patted me on the arm. “I love having you, but you’re cutting into my sex life. And it’s cutting into yours. You’ll never meet a man if you’re sleeping on your grandmother’s couch.”

“I don’t need to meet a man,” I said. “I’m technically still married. My vows mean something to me, even if they don’t to Brooks.”

“Just kill him so you can move on!” Granny’s friend Donna cackled.

I felt the anger and humiliation of the betrayal settle into a scowl on my forehead.

Gran reached up. “You don’t want wrinkles. Women who are on a rocket ship to thirty-five with no kids don’t need wrinkles.”

That was what stung the most. Brooks and I had had trouble conceiving. We—meaning I—had spent thousands on fertility specialists, and the minute Brooks ran off to cheat on me? Bam. The homewrecker was pregnant.

“I wish he’d get run over by a herd of reindeer.” I wiped at my eyes with my apron.

“You didn’t need a baby with that balding Ronald McDonald anyway.” Gran made a rude noise.

“Speak of the devil…” I glared at the front door.

“Don’t do the devil like that,” Gran said loudly. “At least Lucifer is hot and doesn’t have a beer gut!”

Oakley, homewrecker extraordinaire, paraded into my own freaking café, arm in arm with my own freaking husband. Even though she had a huge eight-month-pregnant belly, she was still graceful in high heels.

Meanwhile, my face was puffier than hers, and I wasn’t pregnant.

Life was so unfair.

“I don’t know what you’re doing in here unless it’s to join with me and Emmie in plotting his murder.” Gran jabbed in Brooks’s direction with a spoon.

“Murder him when I’m not late for my shift!” one of the EMTs in line called in annoyance.

“We’ll be right with you. Thank you for your patience. Pet a cat!” I called, shooing a big white Persian to go mingle with the customers.

“Cats aren’t pets—they’re human beings!” came the chants from the feral-cat-committee demonstrators.

“I don’t know how you still have customers,” Brooks sneered. “All these animals running around. And your cupcakes are infected by cats.”

“Nothing is wrong with my cupcakes,” I snapped. “I brush all the cats daily, and they don’t come into the kitchen when I’m baking.”

“Then why are these cupcakes spoiled?” Oakley thrust an open one of my café’s signature red- white-and-green-striped boxes at me.

“No skipping the line!” one of my customers yelled.

“I’m not skipping the line,” Oakley snarled. “I am here to lodge a formal complaint. Emmie’s cupcakes are revolting. You!” Oakley pointed at a cop while Brooks convulsed in anger in front of me. “You need to shut this place down. It’s a public health hazard.”

Officer Winston Girthman sighed loudly and held up his hands. One cat sitting on a shelf nuzzled his hand. He petted it. “Ma’am, there is a new law on the books. Cat cafés are legal with a provisional license.”

“I don’t care.”

“You didn’t call this cop,” Alice snapped at Oakley, waving the sign at her. “This is my cop. I called him, and cats are completely sanitary. No, this place needs to be shut down for animal rights violations!”

The cat purred.

“Seems like a happy cat to me.” Winston, the cop, shrugged.

“She’s up for adoption!” I trilled, pointing at a sign.

“I do like cats…”

“Focus!” Alice screeched.

From the crowd, there were more sighs.

A male voice complained loudly that he wished he’d stayed in New York City.

“Welcome to the quirky small town of Harrogate,” I called to him. “This is all part of our charm!”

“Yeah, if you want to get poisoned,” Oakley spat at the tall man in a suit. She whipped the lid off the box. “You need to be shut down for serving these to people.”

Inside, two of the Santa’s Surprise cupcakes were missing from the dozen, and a third had a big bite taken out of it.

I reached for one and sniffed it. It did smell a little off. Not that I was going to tell Oakley that.

“Do you have a receipt?” Gran demanded.

“Also, why are you eating cupcakes from my shop, anyway?” I demanded. “I’d never sell anything to the woman who helped my husband cheat. Did you have someone sneak in here to buy them?”

“As if I’d eat a cupcake, especially yours .” She turned her nose up. “Brooksey says there’s something wrong with the cream filling.” Oakley turned to the rest of the customers, who were looking a little concerned as she held one of the red-and-white cupcakes aloft. “Be warned that Emmie’s cupcakes will make you sick. Look at my poor baby.” She gestured to Brooks, who did, in fact, look sick. Or maybe it was rage.

I couldn’t believe that I’d loved him once. Now the man I’d sacrificed seven years of my life for looked at me with hatred in his eyes. As the star on top of this Christmas tree of betrayal, he and his homewrecking-affair partner were trying to ruin my business—the very last thing I had left, a business I’d managed to scrape together from the scraps of my ruined marriage with the last of my savings and against all odds.

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying to keep the tremble of fury out of my voice. “If they were so bad, why did you eat two of them?”

My husband went red-faced. “You’re a fucking delusional cunt, Emmie. You always criticize me; you always undermine me. You’re a narcissist! It’s no wonder no man wants you.”

“I’m a narcissist?” I choked out. “Why? Because I tried to get you to eat broccoli? God forbid there’s something green on your dinner plate.”

“You put bean sprouts in my sandwich,” my husband said petulantly.

“They’re good for you. As we get older, we need to be better about our diets.” I seethed.

“See? You’re nagging. This is why he left you for me!” Oakley screeched. “No man wants some woman telling him how to live his life. Just shut up and cook.”

The people in line, who were only moments ago complaining about how long it was taking, were now watching the drama unfold with rapt attention.

“You’re the one who’s dumpy and eats too much cake anyway!” Brooks’s face was almost purple as he screamed at me. “You’re not supposed to get hooked on your own supply.”

“That’s right, sweetie,” Oakley said soothingly.

“I should never have married you,” Brooks spat. He was practically frothing at the mouth. “You spent all my money, you cooked food I hated, you were always the worst-looking woman at company events. You criticize everything.”

“Because you’re an adult toddler and can’t clean up after yourself. You left your dirty clothes everywhere and tracked mud all over the floor I just cleaned. You belittled me constantly!” I cried. “Every day, you made my life miserable, and now you won’t”—I pulled out a stack of papers and slammed the drawer in the counter closed—“even sign the freaking divorce papers!”

“I’m not paying you a goddamn cent!” he bellowed, slapping the papers out of my hand. “I knew the minute you didn’t put out on our wedding night that you were defective. That’s why you couldn’t even get pregnant.”

“I put out,” I hissed at him. “I just refused to do—”

“Anal!” Oakley screeched at the top of her lungs while the onlookers watched in horrified fascination, phones out.

This was so going on the Harrogate Facebook group.

“Guess what! That’s how I stole him from you. Actually, correction—he came willingly.” Oakley was smug. “I believe if a man buys you dinner, he’s entitled to sex.”

“You see?” Brooks sputtered, the veins in his eyes almost popping. “A real woman is supportive.”

“I wasted years of my life with you. I should never have married you!” I yelled. “I wish you’d just died on our wedding day.”

“You’re about to kill him with these cupcakes,” Oakley snapped, waving the box at me. “They were revolting. Inedible. Poisonous. ”

In the café, people had stopped eating and were looking around in concern.

“There isn’t anything wrong with the cupcakes,” I said, trying to keep my voice from sounding shrill.

Several people in line sidled to the door.

“Please don’t leave,” I begged my customers. “We have a brand-new cupcake flavor, just out last Sunday—the Santa’s Surprise cupcakes.”

“You mean the kind in that box?” A guy in the front of the line pointed.

There were gasps of shock from the crowd and then from Brooks.

“Poison! They’re poison!” Brooks grasped the box of cupcakes, then his knees collapsed. One hand clutched his throat. The other held the box of cupcakes emblazoned with my café name.

He fell to the ground, the cupcakes tumbling out of the box onto him as he convulsed and frothed on the black-and-white-checkered-tile floor.

Blood poured out of his mouth while Oakley wailed and patrons screamed.

“Poison!”

“The food is poisoned!”

“Save the cats!” Alice cried.

“Save my baby!” Oakley wailed as the EMTs rushed in to help.

But it was too late.

I watched them work on Brooks as, around me, my livelihood went down in flames. People were throwing away their cupcakes and dumping out their coffee.

Winston called for backup on his cop radio. Outside, sirens wailed.

The senior EMT, grim faced, finally sat back on his heels, glanced up at the cop, and shook his head.

Oakley’s hand fluttered to her mouth. The other flew to her huge pregnant belly. “Dead? He can’t be dead.”

“I think,” the EMT said, looking up at me, down at the cupcakes, then back up, “he may have been poisoned.”

Before I could stop myself, I shouted, “I didn’t do it!”