Chapter 3
The Crown Jewel Lounge has descended into a Christmas-themed civil war, complete with battle lines drawn between the champagne fountain and the gingerbread village.
The scent of pine garlands mingles with gardenia perfume and rising tension, while “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” plays with the aggressive cheer of someone determined to maintain holiday spirit despite the brewing catastrophe.
Crystal chandeliers cast dramatic shadows across faces flushed with anger, embarrassment, and what I’m pretty sure is scandalous excitement.
“You cannot seriously expect me to delete these photos,” Seraphina announces, holding her phone like a weapon as she faces off against Peyton near the chocolate fountain.
Her platinum hair gleams under the lights as she types with one hand while speaking.
“This is newsworthy content. My followers deserve to know what passes for high society in backwater Maine.”
“Backwater?” Peyton’s voice rises an octave, her chestnut hair practically pulsating with indignation. “This is the most exclusive country club north of Boston, you social media parasite!”
Oh, this is getting good, Cricket mewls from her perch on a velvet ottoman, her green eyes tracking the drama like it’s the best entertainment she’s seen all week. And it might be. I bet all the catnip I own that the hoomans are about to start throwing things.
Should I hide the breakable ornaments? Rookie asks, his golden head tilting as Mr. Jolly Beary bounces on his back with each nervous step.
Jolly Beary would be the stuffed teddy bear both he and Cricket share, and mostly fight over.
Because that angry lady looks like she might start chucking Christmas decorations—and worse yet, food!
“Ladies, ladies!” Diva Divine Temptation enters into the fray, her platinum hair piled high and her voice carrying enough authority to bring a prison riot into submission.
She’s wearing a red dress that looks painted on—and it’s as if the artist ran out of paint, too.
“Surely, we can resolve this like civilized adults. After all, we’re all here to celebrate the season of giving—and I do mean giving.
” She winks at the crowd, who collectively gasp and giggle.
Why do I get the feeling the innuendos are just getting started?
“This isn’t about giving,” Peyton snaps. “This is about protecting the reputation of an institution that’s been serving Maine’s finest families for over a century!”
“And now it’s serving something entirely different,” Seraphina smirks, holding up her phone to show what looks to be a photo of Mrs. Pemberton examining a candy cane-striped negligee with intense focus. “I think my followers will find this absolutely delicious.”
“We’re being framed,” someone shouts from the back.
She may not be wrong, and for that reason alone I’m sort of hoping the ground will open up and swallow me whole.
This is the exact type of thing that requires a head or two to roll.
Peyton and I come to mind. They were good heads while they lasted.
And at least I won’t be alone in the unemployment line.
Vivienne Velour steps forward, her brunette waves catching the firelight as she wraps her arms around herself in what would look protective if she weren’t wearing a dress designed to stop traffic.
“Now hold on just a minute. This event was supposed to showcase our artistry, not turn us into some social media circus.” She’s worried about her reputation, Vivienne muses to herself internally.
If this goes viral for the wrong reasons, it could destroy everything I’ve built.
That so-called social media maven needs to disappear before she ruins us all.
“Artistry?” Seraphina’s laugh is sharp as a razor. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I’m standing, this looks more like a garage sale at a gentlemen’s club.”
Honestly? She’s not entirely wrong.
Millie Ashford, baker extraordinaire, appears with her graying brown hair escaping from its practical bun and flour still dusting her apron despite the formal setting.
Her kind brown eyes look distressed as she wrings her hands.
“Please, everyone, let’s not fight during the Christmas season.
Surely, we can work this out peacefully? ”
“Peacefully?” Seraphina turns her laser focus on Millie. “Aren’t you the baker who tried to pass off store-bought frosting as homemade at the Fall Festival? I believe I wrote something about that little deception.”
Millie’s face goes white, then red, then a shade of purple that would make an eggplant jealous.
After what she wrote about my bakery, calling my confections ‘pedestrian’ and ‘better suited for a gas station,’ she deserves whatever’s coming to her, Millie’s thoughts seethe. Maybe if someone taught her a lesson about ruining people’s livelihoods...
My phone buzzes against my hip, and I glance down to see a text from far too hot, and far too armed plus-one, my boyfriend Killion.
Still on for Christmas tree hunting tonight? Found the perfect place with trees so good they’d make Charlie Brown jealous. Can’t wait to see you covered in pine needles.
Any other time, that text would make my heart do little cartwheels. Tonight, it just adds to my stress level because I’m currently watching what appears to be a full-scale holiday disaster in real time.
The crowd grows frenzied, and judging by the looks on these women’s faces, they’re about to cancel their memberships to the club en masse. Tonight might go down as what will forever be known as Lingerie Gate.
“I really think we should all take a step back,” I say, trying to inject some sanity into the situation. “Maybe we could—”
“Stay out of this, Holiday,” Peyton cuts me off. “This is your fault for letting that blonde tornado turn our polished get-together into a traveling burlesque show!”
My name is Hattie Holiday. I have long dark hair, denim blue eyes, and the unsettling ability to read people’s minds during what’s supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year.
I can read the minds of animals, too, and you bet dollars to Christmas cookies that they have far better things to say than the humans currently engaged in a holiday throwdown.
Right now, though, my gift feels more like a curse because everyone’s thoughts are swirling with enough venom to poison an entire team of reindeer.
I could strangle her with those Christmas lights, Peyton thinks, her dark eyes fixed on Seraphina with the intensity of a woman planning very specific violence. I’d love to wind them around her scrawny neck until she stops breathing and definitely stops blogging.
She’s going to ruin everything I’ve worked for, Vivienne’s thoughts practically scream. Years of building my reputation, and this social media witch is going to destroy it all with one viral post. Someone needs to shut her up permanently.
After that review almost killed my business, Millie’s mental voice is surprisingly vicious for a woman who looks like everyone’s favorite grandmother, people stopped coming after she called my chocolate “uninspired” and my customer service “as cold as yesterday’s coffee.
” Maybe it’s time someone returned the favor.
“Well, well, well.” A familiar voice cuts through the tension. “Looks like someone forgot to put ‘peace on earth’ on the catering menu.”
My brother Henry strolls over, his dark hair slightly mussed and his blue eyes twinkling with amusement as if he’s about to say something that will either defuse the situation or make it infinitely worse.
He’s wearing his Holiday Lobster House chef’s coat, which somehow makes the whole scene even more surreal.
This is better than a front-row seat at the circus, he thinks with barely contained laughter. Although I probably should check on the food before someone uses the lobster crackers as weapons.
“Henry,” I warn, “maybe now isn’t the best time for commentary.”
“Are you kidding? This is the most excitement this place has seen since Clarabelle Harper got into the chocolate fountain last spring.” He grins at me, and I shoot a look to the wily octogenarian because he’s not wrong.
“Speaking of which, are you still planning on that Christmas tree hunting expedition tonight? Because after this chaos, you’re definitely going to need some therapeutic pine needle therapy. ”
I may have mentioned my hot date with Killion in the family group chat when my mother asked if any of us wanted to participate in the wrapping challenge our church is hosting tonight.
Something is about to go sideways, Cricket mewls as her tail starts twitching with nervous energy. And that social media lady smells like trouble with a capital T.
She’s right on both counts. Although something has already gone spectacularly sideways.
I think we should hide, Rookie whimpers, pressing closer to Henry’s legs as the voices around us rise. When hoomans start making those screechy sounds, bad things usually happen—and bodies start to drop.
A breath hitches in my throat at the thought. The last thing we need is a dead body to deal with, and so close to Santa’s favorite day of the year, too. Although that’s never stopped us before. We’re sort of accustomed to dealing with the dead, and a homicide or two at the most inopportune times.
“This conversation is over,” Peyton announces, in a voice that has ended careers. “Security will escort you out immediately, Ms. Sparks. Your presence here is no longer welcome.”
“You can’t kick me out.” Seraphina laughs, but there’s an edge to it now.
“I’m the press. I was invited to this event.
And besides, I haven’t finished documenting all the...
educational displays.” She holds up her phone to snap another photo, this one of Diva Divine demonstrating something that involves mistletoe and what looks like a physics-defying undergarment.
I might need to get my hands on one of those.
“Fine,” Peyton growls. “Security!”
Before any security can materialize, Seraphina pivots and stalks toward the back of the lounge, her heels clicking against the marble with the staccato rhythm of a woman on a mission.
“I’ll document from a different angle. Maybe get some shots of those charming Christmas trees you’ve scattered around.
I’m sure the lighting back there is much more atmospheric. ”
She disappears into the forest of evergreens that has been artfully arranged in the far corner of the lounge—towering Norwegian spruces and Douglas firs that create a winter wonderland complete with twinkle lights and enough pine scent to make a lumberjack proud.
The crowd slowly returns to their champagne and scandal, though the tension in the air remains thick enough to slice and serve with cranberry sauce.
About twenty minutes of pure unadulterated melee goes on as the women actually look as if they’re starting to enjoy themselves.
I see more than a few credit cards being waved at the vendors.
They’re either buying these pieces as gag gifts or someone is about to have a very merry Christmas.
“I should probably find Seraphina,” I tell Henry, already moving toward the makeshift forest. “Before she does something that gets us all sued, fired, or worse.”
“Want backup?” Henry asks, but he’s already eyeing the dessert table where someone seems to be using Millie’s gingerbread houses as weapons in what looks like an impromptu food fight.
“Handle the gingerbread crisis,” I call back. “I’ve got mine.”
I weave through the crowd, past conversations that have resumed but with an undercurrent of nervous energy that makes everyone sound like they’re discussing the weather while planning armed rebellion.
The Christmas tree display looms ahead, a forest of evergreens strung with enough lights to illuminate half the Eastern Seaboard and decorated with ornaments that probably have their own insurance policies.
“Seraphina?” I call out as I enter the pine-scented maze. “Let’s talk about this like reasonable adults who aren’t trying to destroy each other’s lives during the Christmas season!” If I can sweet-talk her into deleting a few damaging photos, I might actually be able to sleep at night.
The only response is the soft hum of electrical circuits and the distant sound of “Silver Bells” playing with aggressive cheer.
I push deeper into the evergreen labyrinth, following the sound of...
nothing, actually. Which is weird. A bit ago, I could have sworn I heard voices coming from this direction, but now there’s just silence and the smell of pine mixing with something else—something that makes my stomach turn and my mind-reading abilities start screaming warnings I can’t quite interpret.
“Seraphina?” I call again, rounding a particularly large Douglas fir that’s so decorated with gold and silver ornaments it looks like it overshot festive by a mile.
I freeze.
Peyton stands in the center of a small alcove between two towering spruces, her chestnut hair still perfect despite everything that’s happened, her designer heels planted firmly on the marble floor.
Her dark eyes are wide with what looks like shock, and in her manicured hands, she holds the end of a string of Christmas lights.
The other end of those lights is wrapped around Seraphina Sparks’ neck.
Seraphina lies motionless on the floor, her platinum hair fanned out against the dark marble, her designer glasses askew, her cold gray eyes now seeing nothing at all.
The Christmas lights around her throat continue to blink in festive red and green, creating a macabre light show that would be beautiful if it weren’t so horrifying.
The string of lights in Peyton’s hands pulses with the same cheerful rhythm, turning murder into the world’s most twisted Christmas display.
I drop to my knees beside the woman, pressing two fingers against her neck where a pulse should be.
Nothing.
Seraphina Sparks is dead.
And Peyton Blakey is holding the murder weapon.
It looks like ho-ho-ho has just been replaced with ho-ho-homicide.