Chapter 6
Murder Club Group Chat
Chevy: Ladies! I’ve been researching our victim all morning. Seraphina Sparks had more enemies than my editor has red pens. This is going to be DELICIOUS.
Bunny: Count me in! I’m between sugar daddies right now anyway, so my schedule is wide open for detecting. Plus, I look fantastic in investigative wear.
Peggy: Sugar, I’ve already started my suspect list. That blogger was nastier than my ex-mother-in-law, and she once poisoned my prize-winning roses out of spite.
Clarabelle: I brought my interrogation kit! It has everything we need: a magnifying glass, evidence bags, and my lucky hat with the Christmas bells.
Kick: Can we solve this BEFORE Christmas? I have seventeen family events, four school plays, and a husband who has decided this is the year I should make all the gifts by hand. FROM SCRATCH.
Hillary: I’m in, but only if we can wrap this up quickly. I have boots to buy and a reputation to maintain. Also, does anyone know if orange is my color? Asking for when we get arrested.
Tipper: Henry is making special “investigation fuel” appetizers for our meetings. He’s calling them “Clue-stomers” and “Evidence éclairs.” I think the murder is affecting his brain.
Peggy: Speaking of suspects, shouldn’t we start with the obvious one? Peyton was literally holding the murder weapon when Hattie found the body.
Clarabelle: True! Plus, she threatened to kill Seraphina in front of witnesses. It’s a very sloppy murder technique, if you ask me.
Chevy: The country club manager with the motive, means, and opportunity? It’s almost TOO obvious. Like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.
Peyton: I’M RIGHT HERE IN THIS CHAT. And I did NOT murder anyone!
Bunny: Oh hi Peyton! Awkward... So anyway, about that whole “strangling with Christmas lights” situation...
Peyton: I was about to REMOVE the lights from her neck, not putting them there!
Hillary: That’s exactly what a killer would say.
Peyton: I HATE ALL OF YOU.
Hattie: You’re all insane. Also, I may need backup at another trunk show this afternoon at 2. Don’t ask.
Bunny: TRUNK SHOW?! I’m there. Is this the educational kind? Because I have OPINIONS about quality craftsmanship.
Peggy: An educational trunk show for a murder investigation? Honey, I’ve seen everything now. Save me something lacy!
Clarabelle: At my age, education is education. Count me in. Someone needs to sample the dessert. There will be dessert, right?
Peyton: Wait, are you investigating suspects WITHOUT me? I demand to be included! It’s MY reputation on the line!
Kick: I can’t. I just CAN’T. My children read my texts. How do I explain “Mommy’s going to an educational trunk show to catch a killer”??
Chevy: This is the best plot twist I’ve ever encountered. I’m definitely stealing this for my next book. Hattie, you should too.
Hattie: On second thought, you’re all banned from coming. This is serious detective work, not a social event.
Bunny: Too late! Already picking out my outfit. See you at 2!
Peggy: Wouldn’t miss it for all the sweet tea in Georgia!
Peyton: If you’re going, I’M going. Someone needs to supervise this disaster.
Hattie: I’m changing my phone number.
Clarabelle: No you’re not, sugar. You need us. Besides, who else is going to document this historical moment?
Chevy: “The Case of the Christmas Light Killer and the Educational Trunk Show.” It practically writes itself!
Peyton: I’m unfriending all of you after we solve this case.
The rotunda of the Brambleberry Bay Country Club at ten o’clock on this crisp December morning buzzes with the nervous energy that follows a spectacular murder.
The massive domed ceiling stretches overhead like an upside-down snow globe, complete with a crystal chandelier that looks like it eats smaller crystal chandeliers for breakfast, dangles precariously above conversations conducted in hushed, scandalized whispers.
This rotunda serves as the beating heart of the club’s main building—the Cottage House—a structure so grand it makes actual cottages feel inadequate.
To my left, the Cottage Grill beckons with the promise of food that won’t require mortgaging your firstborn, while to my right, Seabreeze taunts with five-star dining so expensive you need a trust fund just to read the menu.
And tucked behind me sits the Cozy Bean—converted from what used to be a utility closet where mops went to die.
It now serves overpriced lattes to guilt-ridden socialites who need caffeine to fuel their gossip sessions.
And me. I also need copious amounts of caffeine.
The scent of overpriced coffee mingles with pine from the glorious all-white tree that stands at least twenty feet tall in the middle of the rotunda, and the cloying floral cloud of members who’ve arrived early to dissect murder over their morning beverages.
Marble floors echo with the sharp click of designer heels as socialites cluster around columns draped in glorious Christmas garlands, their voices creating a symphony of “I heard...” and “Can you believe...” that rises to the vaulted ceiling like incense at a very expensive, very judgmental church service.
I still can’t believe they wasted all those bacon-wrapped scallops, Cricket mews from a velvet chair near the Cottage Grill entrance. Hoomans running around screaming about murder while perfectly good food sits abandoned. It’s tragic, really.
The crime scene probably still has crumbs, Rookie adds hopefully, his golden tail wagging as Mr. Jolly Beary bounces while strapped to his back. Maybe we could investigate for evidence. You know, food evidence. The kind that needs to be consumed immediately for public safety.
You mean the kind that needs to be consumed because you’re a walking garbage disposal with fur, Cricket corrects. Although I admit, this murder is shaping up to be our most interesting case yet. The suspects alone are more entertaining than anything we’ve seen on television.
Standing next to me like a designer-clad gargoyle contemplating the apocalypse, Peyton Blakey manages to project misery with the efficiency of a woman who’s perfected the art of professional suffering.
She’s wearing a black suit that screams I’m in mourning for my career, and she’s been sighing every thirty seconds as if to remind the world there’s no time for joy this holiday season.
“This is a nightmare,” she announces for approximately the fifteenth time in ten minutes. “Twelve years of dedication. Twelve years of turning this place into the most exclusive venue on the East Coast. And this is how they repay me?”
“Well,” I point out, trying for optimism, “technically, they’re just investigating whether you strangled someone with Christmas lights. It’s not like they’ve convicted you of anything yet.”
“Yet,” she repeats with a despair typically used for natural disasters—or any typical day with me.
“The key word being yet.” She sighs again, although this time it sounds downright hostile.
“I’m not leaving these premises unless they drag me away kicking and screaming in my Jimmy Choos.
And even then, I’m taking the chandelier with me. ”
I glance up at the aforementioned chandelier, which is approximately the size of a small spacecraft.
“That might prove to be logistically challenging.”
“I’ll find a way. Spite gives you superhuman strength.
” She crosses her arms with persistence as if planning a very upscale revolution.
“Besides, like I said, I’m not going anywhere until we solve this case and clear my name.
So stop lollygagging and start detecting, Holiday.
We have a killer to catch. And do it soon, would you?
I still have a lot of Christmas shopping to do. ”
“Lollygagging?” I repeat. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we found the body. I think that falls within acceptable investigation timeframes.”
I’m sort of feeling a little behind myself, but there’s no way I’m letting her know she’s right. I’m also sort of with her on that whole still needing to shop thing. How does every Christmas season literally get away from me?
“Acceptable for whom?” she balks. “My reputation is being destroyed in real time on social media. Every minute we waste is another nail in my professional coffin.”
She’s more dramatic than a dog who’s been denied a treat, Cricket says. Although I appreciate her commitment to the chandelier theft plan. It shows initiative.
Before I can respond to Peyton’s declaration of investigative war, the reality of my actual job crashes down like a poorly secured Christmas ornament.
“Speaking of wasting time, I still have eight hundred and forty-seven things to coordinate for the Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular before Christmas Eve.”
“The what?” Peyton’s eyebrow climbs toward her hairline.
“Your ridiculous charity event. The one raising money for the Society for the Preservation of Vintage Christmas Ornaments.”
She gasps. “I almost forgot all about that. It’s the most important evening of the year.
And if it wasn’t for your little foray into risqué accouterments, I wouldn’t be forgetting any of the important details in my life.
” Like the fact I burnt off a lock of hair with my curling iron this morning.
She taps her bun with her hand. And now I’ll have a bald spot for Christmas. Just what I’ve always wanted.
She’s right back to glaring at me as if I held the curling iron itself.
I consult my phone, which currently displays a list of tasks that would make Santa’s elves file for workers’ compensation.
“I need to approve ice sculptures, test champagne fountains, coordinate with caterers, and somehow convince three hundred of Maine’s wealthiest residents that preserving antique tree decorations is a worthy cause.”
“That is a worthy cause,” Peyton sniffs. “Those ornaments are historical artifacts.”
“They’re shiny balls that hang on trees.”
“Historical shiny balls that hang on trees.”