Chapter 5
The Crown Jewel Lounge at four-thirty on this snowy December afternoon looks like the aftermath of a very exclusive apocalypse.
Yellow police tape flutters like macabre Christmas ribbon around the evergreen crime scene, while the scent of pine mingles with lingering perfume and the metallic tang of recent death.
The jazz Christmas music has been silenced, leaving only the soft hum of heating vents and the occasional creak of settling marble as the last stragglers file out through doors that no longer seem quite so welcoming.
Crystal chandeliers shine down on abandoned champagne flutes and plates of untouched bacon-wrapped scallops, while red silk ribbons droop sadly from garlands that witnessed more scandal than any holiday decoration should legally be required to endure.
Well, that’s one way to silence a crowd, Cricket mewls from the velvet chair, her green eyes tracking the exodus with feline satisfaction. Although personally I could have told them something was off two hours ago. In fact, I did tell them. Nobody listens to the cat.
I’m just glad nobody stepped on Mr. Jolly Beary during all the screaming, Rookie adds, his golden head resting on his paws as his beloved teddy bear sits safely between them. Hoomans get very careless with their feet when they’re panicking. Especially this crowd with their spiked high heels.
I stand near the entrance, watching Eagle County’s finest finish photographing angles of Seraphina Sparks that she definitely wouldn’t have approved of for her social media.
My ruby-colored sweater feels too cheerful for the circumstances, but then again, I didn’t exactly plan my outfit around discovering a corpse behind the Christmas trees.
The last few guests trickle past me with the guilty shuffle of people who’ve witnessed something they’ll be gossiping about for months.
Mrs. Pemberton clutches her pearls so tightly I’m concerned about circulation, while her husband mutters something about “standards declining” and “what would the founding members think.”
Probably that strangling someone with Christmas lights shows remarkable seasonal creativity, but I keep that observation to myself.
The main doors burst open with enough force to rattle the mistletoe, and my entire family storms in like they’re late for their own intervention.
Mom leads the charge along with my sisters, clearly dressed up for what she expected to be a respectable holiday luncheon, not a crime scene. Behind her, Winnie floats in looking sophisticated as always, while Neelie brings up the rear already scanning the room for photo opportunities.
“Are we late?” Mom calls out, her voice echoing in the now-quiet lounge. “Please tell me we didn’t miss the lingerie fashion show! Winnie’s been talking about it all week!”
“Mother,” Winnie hisses, her cheeks flushing. “We discussed volume control.”
“Oh honey,” Neelie adds, pulling out her phone, “this place is absolutely gorgeous! The Christmas trees, the lighting—this is going to make my Instagram followers so jealous!”
I open my mouth to break the news gently, but Henry appears like a genie summoned by the promise of family mayhem.
He’s still wearing his Holiday Lobster House chef’s coat, which is now decorated with twice the amount of chocolate sauce and possibly some evidence tape he picked up from standing too close to the crime scene.
“Oh, you missed the big show.” His eyes gleam with the kind of morbid delight that makes me question our shared DNA. “Some gossip columnist got strangled with Christmas lights right behind that Douglas fir over there. It was a festive murder, really. Seasonal and artistic.”
“Henry,” I reprimand him but his smile never leaves his face. He’s obviously a sociopath.
The collective Holiday family reaction happens in slow motion.
Mom’s face cycles through surprise, shock, and maternal concern before settling on that particular expression she gets when one of us has done something that requires immediate damage control.
Winnie’s hand flies to her throat in a gesture so dramatic it could win awards, while her brain clearly starts calculating how this will affect her carefully planned June wedding. Neelie’s phone freezes halfway to selfie position as the implications hit her.
Oh my goodness, a murder at a country club event?
Neelie’s thoughts screech through my mind.
This could totally ruin the reputation of venues I want to book for my Valentine’s Day nuptials.
What if people start thinking Holiday family events are cursed?
Then no one will want to come to my wedding and it will all be Hattie’s dumb fault.
She shoots me a look of pure venom and I can’t help but frown. I’m pretty sure if anything goes sideways on her big day, she’ll still insist it’s my dumb fault. That’s sort of the way that Neelie operates.
“Henry Holiday,” Mom snaps, using his full name in that tone that once made us all consider running away to join the circus. “Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”
“Not even a little bit.” Henry grins, warming to his role as family correspondent for homicide news.
“Hattie found the body, naturally. The victim was wrapped up in Christmas lights like the world’s most twisted holiday present.
The coroner’s photographer got some really artistic shots—very moody lighting from the tree displays. ”
“Oh my word,” Winnie breathes. Winnie is my older sister and my very best friend. She has caramel-colored waves, a heart-shaped face, and a shiny new fiancé who is richer than the Rockefellers. “Hattie, are you all right? That must have been traumatic!”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, though fine is relative when you’ve spent the afternoon discovering corpses behind evergreens. “Just another day in paradise.”
“Another day in paradise?” Neelie’s voice rises an octave.
Neelie would be my younger, far more dicey sister.
She’s blonde, petite, textbook gorgeous, and happens to be engaged to a plastic surgeon twice her age named Stanton Troublefield.
He also happens to be a renowned two-timer.
He’s not the catch she’d like to think he is, but Neelie is more concerned with spending his money than spending the rest of her life with him.
“Hattie, you can’t keep finding dead bodies,” she howls.
“It’s becoming a pattern, and patterns make people nervous about family events! ”
“Trust me, it’s not exactly a hobby I’m cultivating.” At least not on purpose.
Before I can elaborate on my unwilling corpse-detection abilities, the main doors open again and Killion strides in once again, looking more serious than usual, his detective mode already engaged.
He gives me a quick kiss that tastes like coffee and winter air, but I can practically feel his mind shifting into investigative gear.
Why does he always look like he wants to arrest Hattie? Cricket mews with the thought. Someone should remind him that Christmas is supposed to be jolly.
He’s arrested her before. I’ve seen it. In fact, he did it just the other night before they went into his bedroom and shut the door, Rookie says with a soft woof, and my cheeks grow red. Suddenly I’m thrilled to be the only mind reader in the room.
“Hattie,” Killion’s voice carries that official tone that means he’s in cop mode, though his eyes soften when they meet mine. “I’ll need to get your statement about the discovery of the body.”
“Of course,” I say, though the word statement makes the whole situation feel unnaturally formal. “Although I’m pretty sure my story hasn’t changed in the last hour.”
I can’t believe you found another one, his thoughts come through, less an accusation than a statement of accepted fact.
Of course, you did. I’d like you to know I had exactly four minutes of peaceful holiday left in me and you’ve just spent them.
He cringes a little with that last thought and mouths the word sorry.
This one’s mine, Hattie, his thoughts soften a notch.
Go enjoy what’s left of your Christmas. And please—I’m asking nicely—try not to land anyone else in the morgue before New Year’s.
Yet, I think to myself. The day is still young. Only a handful of people know about my quirky gift and Peggy, Clarabelle, and Killion are on that list. And, of course, Cricket and Rookie. I prefer their thoughts to most humans.
“Killion!” Mom’s voice brightens as she shifts into hostess mode despite the circumstances. “How lovely to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Will you be joining us for Christmas dinner next week?”
“Absolutely, Ruthie,” Killion replies, and some of the professional stiffness leaves his shoulders. “Looking forward to it. Although we might need to postpone our Christmas tree hunting tonight, Hattie. I have a feeling this investigation is going to run late.”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to feel disappointed about missing our romantic evening of trudging through snow and arguing over the perfect evergreen. “Murder takes precedence over holiday traditions.”
Drats.
“Speaking of holiday traditions,” Henry interjects, clearly not ready to abandon his role as family entertainment director, “you should have seen the chaos when the body was discovered. Peyton almost fainted, and those lingerie designers scattered like Christmas ornaments in an earthquake.”
“Lingerie designers?” Mom’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “What kind of Christmas luncheon was this supposed to be?”
“The kind that ends in homicide, apparently,” I mutter.
Before anyone can respond to that cheerful observation, I hear the distinctive sound of octogenarian resolve approaching. Peggy and Clarabelle have been lurking near the dessert table like geriatric vultures, clearly plotting their next move.