Chapter 5 #2
Peggy approaches looking festive despite witnessing a murder, while Clarabelle follows wearing a dress bedazzled with actual Christmas ornaments, her wild hair escaping from a Santa hat that blinks with enough LED lights to guide Santa’s sleigh.
“Well, sugar,” Peggy announces, her Georgia drawl thick enough to pour over pancakes, “I do hope this investigation leads us somewhere with a generous helping of broad-shouldered men in elf costumes. The last murder had terrible scenery.”
“I already made a list of suspects,” Clarabelle adds, producing a small notebook from her sequined purse. “That social media vixen had more enemies than my second husband, and he owed money to half of Queens.”
“Ladies.” Killion’s voice carries a warning that would make hardened criminals turn themselves in. “This is an active crime scene, not a mystery dinner theater.”
“Oh honey.” Peggy waves a dismissive hand that sparkles with enough jewelry to make the chandeliers jealous. “We’ve been solving murders since before you learned to tie your shoes. We’re professionals.”
I need everyone in this room to understand that I have a badge and a gun—and, let’s be honest, absolutely no control over what happens next, Killion thinks, with the quiet despair that suggests he’s been here before.
“We could start interviewing witnesses tonight,” Clarabelle suggests, her rhinestone glasses fogging with excitement. “I brought my good interrogation notepad and everything.”
“Your good interrogation notepad?” I repeat weakly.
“The one with the Christmas kittens on the cover.” She shoves the kitten-laden notepad in my face. “Nothing says trustworthy like festive felines.”
I agree, Cricket mewls.
She would.
“Over my dead body!” The declaration cuts through our conversation like a perfectly sharpened candy cane, and we all turn to see Peyton striding toward us with the tenacity of someone fighting for their professional life.
Her usually perfect appearance shows signs of stress, with a few strands escaping her normally flawless style.
“I will be the one helping Hattie investigate this travesty,” Peyton announces, her dark eyes flashing with a smidge of desperation.
“I need to clear my name and protect this club’s reputation before that social media witch and her minions destroy everything I’ve worked for.
Heaven knows she did enough damage before she bit the big one. ”
“Now hold on just a minute,” Peggy bristles, her Southern accent thickening with indignation. “We’ve got seniority here, both in age and murder-solving experience.”
“Experience?” Peyton gives a cold laugh. “You mean amateur hour enthusiasts versus someone with actual resources, connections, and most importantly, the common sense not to get us all arrested for obstruction of justice?”
“We’ve never been arrested,” Clarabelle protests. “Questioned extensively, yes. Banned from several establishments, absolutely. But arrested is such a strong word.”
“Several establishments?” Killion’s brows hike a notch. “How many is several?”
“Seven,” Peggy admits cheerfully. “Eight if you count that incident at the seafood festival, but those charges were dropped.”
Eight, his thoughts land flat and tired. She said eight. I’m dating a woman whose inner circle has a combined rap sheet longer than my desk. He winces my way and mouths the word sorry once again.
Peyton’s phone buzzes against her hip with the aggressive urgency of bad news delivered electronically.
She pulls it out, glances at the screen, and her face goes through more color changes than the Christmas lights currently wrapped around a dead body.
White, red, purple, and a shade of green that would make the Grinch jealous.
“No,” she whispers, staring at the phone like it might spontaneously combust. “They can’t do this to me.”
“What?” I ask, though her expression suggests I probably don’t want to know.
“Effective immediately, I’m on leave without pay pending an investigation,” she reads in a voice that sounds like she’s announcing her own funeral. “Social media is already calling for my termination. Clean out your office,” she reads just below a whisper.
The silence that follows is murderous all on its own.
“How dare they do this to me,” Peyton growls, her voice rising with each word. “I’ve given them twelve years of my life! Twelve years of turning this place into the most exclusive venue in Maine!”
“Sugar,” Peggy says with unusual gentleness, “maybe you should sit down and have a stiff drink. I hear the eggnog is sufficiently spiked.” She winks my way. I should know, I spiked it myself.
“I don’t want to sit down!” Peyton snaps. “I want to find whoever killed that miserable witch and prove that I didn’t strangle her with Christmas lights, even though I wanted to!”
“Well,” Clarabelle says thoughtfully, “strangling someone does seem a bit beneath your usual management style. You’re more of a death-by-paperwork kind of person.”
And long hours that stretch seven days a week, I want to add but wisely don’t.
“Thank you for that character reference,” Peyton says dryly. “I’ll be sure to include it in my unemployment application.”
Peyton’s phone buzzes again, and this time she looks at it with the expression of someone expecting a dire diagnosis.
“Oh, wonderful. The Daily Dish is already running with it. ‘Murder at Maine’s Most Exclusive Country Club.’ This just keeps getting better.”
“The Daily Dish?” Neelie perks up like a gossip-hungry bloodhound catching a scent. “Do you think they’ll want interviews? I could totally be the family spokesperson!” She touches her hair before touching up her lipstick.
“Absolutely not,” Mom, Winnie, Killion, and I say in unison.
“Fine,” Neelie huffs. “But when this becomes a Netflix documentary, don’t blame me if they get the Holiday family story all wrong.”
Peyton stares at all of us with the wild eyes of a wannabe socialite whose carefully ordered world has just exploded into Christmas-themed chaos. “I don’t care if I have to work with Nancy Drew’s grandmothers here—we’re solving this before my reputation is completely destroyed.”
“Nancy Drew’s grandmothers?” Clarabelle’s voice rises with indignation. “I’ll have you know we’re more like Miss Marple’s younger, more attractive sisters.”
“Considerably younger,” Peggy adds. “And definitely more attractive.”
I look around at my impromptu investigation team—two octogenarian amateur detectives with questionable judgment, a desperate country club manager facing career destruction, a professional detective who’s dating me, and a family that treats murder like dinner table conversation.
This should be interesting, Cricket mewls from her chair. Although I give it twenty-four hours before someone else ends up strangled with Christmas decorations.
Can we at least solve it before Santa comes? Rookie adds hopefully. I don’t want to spend the holidays hiding from crime scene tape.
I look back at the evergreen forest where Seraphina Sparks met her festive demise, then at the faces surrounding me—each one representing a different kind of chaos I’m about to unleash on this investigation.
One thing’s for certain: this Christmas is going to be anything but silent, and definitely not particularly holy.