Chapter 7
Willoughby Hall’s Grand Salon normally exudes the refined elegance that makes royalty feel slightly underdressed, but today it’s been transformed into what can only be described as Victoria’s Secret meets Downton Abbey—and the ancestors in the portraits are definitely not amused.
“Well, sugar,” Peggy announces, surveying the mayhem with delight, “I’ve seen some interesting holiday decorations in my day, but this takes the Christmas cake and covers it in something that would make Santa blush.”
“Speak for yourself,” Clarabelle shoots back, already making a beeline for a display that features items she’s examining with far too much interest. “At my age, education is education. Besides, the quality here looks exceptional.”
“Ladies,” I say, watching women in designer dresses grab merchandise like it’s the last Birkin on Earth, “maybe we should focus on the murder investigation part of this afternoon?”
“Oh honey,” Peggy waves me off while clutching a bedazzled something-or-other, “multitasking is the key to successful detecting. We can solve crimes AND expand our educational horizons at the same time.”
Peyton stands beside me, rigid as a nutcracker and twice as judgmental, glaring at the proceedings like her career is hanging by a thread made of Christmas lights.
“This is a disaster,” she mutters. “An absolute disaster. My reputation is being destroyed while watching socialites fondle tacky lingerie.”
“Look on the bright side,” I offer. “At least you’re not the one fondling lingerie.”
“Yet,” she says ominously.
The Grand Salon stretches before us like a cathedral dedicated to supernatural commerce, its soaring ceilings decorated with hand-painted cherubs who appear to be blushing at the educational displays scattered throughout the room.
Crystal chandeliers the size of small aircraft dangle overhead, occasionally swaying without any breeze and casting sparkly light across marble floors so polished they reflect not just the current chaos, but glimpses of glitzy ghosts from decades past who seem fascinated by the proceedings.
The Christmas decorations are so extravagant they border on supernatural themselves.
Towering Fraser firs stretch twenty feet toward the painted ceiling, their branches draped with garlands of real gold thread and ornaments that glow with their own inner light.
Some of the ornaments actually rotate slowly on their own, displaying intricate scenes that seem to move and change when you’re not looking directly at them.
An enormous fireplace dominates one wall, its mantel carved from medieval monastery stone, complete with gargoyles whose expressions shift when viewed peripherally. It’s totally creepy. But the fire crackles with flames that burn in impossible shades of blue and silver and that’s just beautiful.
Along the far wall, an elaborate dessert table has been arranged that looks like something from a fairy-tale Christmas market.
The table itself is draped with a burgundy velvet runner embroidered with gold thread that catches the chandelier light, flanked by towering silver candelabras holding crimson candles that smell of vanilla and cinnamon.
Crystal cake stands display an array of holiday confections that would make professional pastry chefs brim with pride—chocolate yule logs dusted with powdered sugar that looks like fresh snow, miniature Christmas puddings topped with holly made from spun sugar, gingerbread houses so intricate they appear to have been built by architectural elves, and towers of macarons in Christmas colors that sparkle with edible gold.
The scent of the evergreens mingles with cedar polish, champagne, and the irresistible aroma of butter, chocolate, and holiday spices wafting from the dessert display.
Now THIS is what I call proper event planning, Cricket mewls from the dessert table, her green eyes tracking every movement above. Here’s hoping these women are very careless with their plates. I should position myself for optimal treat acquisition.
I’m already in position, Rookie announces proudly, settling himself directly beneath the most precarious-looking cake stand. Mr. Jolly Beary and I have calculated the most likely drop zones. We’re ready for emergency cleanup duty.
That well-loved teddy bear looks mournful that it can’t actually eat a single bite.
Speaking of humans acting strange, I spot my family clustered near a display beneath a mirror that reflects glimpses of Victorian-era occupants who fade in and out like elegant ghosts.
“Oh, this is perfect!” Mom announces loud enough for both the living and spectral residents to hear. “Girls, you simply must see this adorable little number. It’s exactly what you need for your wedding nights!”
Winnie presses herself against a marble column like she’s trying to disappear, making small strangled noises, while Neelie bounces toward the display like Christmas morning came early—seemingly oblivious to the ghostly Victorian ladies in the mirrors shaking their heads in disapproval.
Across the salon, I spot Tipper and Chevy engaged in what seems to be a very civilized tug-of-war over something lacy and red.
“I saw it first,” Tipper says sweetly, maintaining her grip on one end.
“But I need it for research purposes,” Chevy counters, clutching the other end. “It’s for my next book, so it’s tax deductible.”
“Everything’s research for you,” Tipper shoots back. “You claimed that cooking class was research, too.”
“It was! The victim was poisoned in chapter twelve!”
Before their educational disagreement can escalate into actual violence, Bunny clears her throat with enough authority to make the ghosts pay attention. She sashays to the center of the salon, champagne flute in hand, wearing an emerald dress that probably has actual emeralds sewn into it.
“Ladies!” she calls out, her voice carrying across the room as if she were born for this moment. “If I could have your attention, please!”
The crowd gradually quiets, though Mrs. Pemberton continues examining what looks like an instruction manual with far too much focus.
“I’m absolutely thrilled to introduce our fabulous hostess for this afternoon’s educational experience,” Bunny continues with a smile that could light up half of Maine. “The incomparable Diva Divine Temptation!”
Diva steps forward in her purple silk dress, her platinum hair shining like the sun.
“Thank you, Bunny.” Diva gestures gracefully toward her displays. “Ladies, welcome to what I like to call Advanced Holiday Education. Today we’re exploring pieces designed to enhance connection, communication, and seasonal celebration.”
She picks up a red silk item that sparkles with strategic embellishments. “This little number from our Mistletoe and Magic collection features hand-sewn crystals and adjustable possibilities.”
The crowd murmurs appreciatively while a ghostly Victorian gentleman in a nearby mirror appears to faint.
“And this,” Diva continues, lifting something in forest green, “is from our Christmas Carol line. It’s designed to make your partner sing... well, let’s just say they’ll be singing.”
“Does it come in other colors?” Mrs. Pemberton asks with scientific curiosity.
“Absolutely! We have it in Silent Night Blue, Jingle Bell Gold, and Ho Ho Hot Red.”
Peyton makes a sound like she’s choking on her own dignity.
“This is who I am now,” she mutters. “Someone who listens to color-coordinated intimate apparel being described like a wine menu.”
“Look on the bright side,” I whisper. “At least the ghosts seem entertained.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” There aren’t any real ghosts here, are there? She shudders with the thought.
Diva moves to her next display, featuring items that would make not only Santa blush, but ever elf in the North Pole. “And these pieces from our ‘Naughty or Nice’ collection are perfect for those special holiday moments when you want to be... well, both.”
“Now this is what I call Christmas shopping,” Hillary announces, appearing suddenly with her arms full of merchandise. “I may not have time for murder investigating, but I always have time for educational enhancement.”
“Since when do you have educational needs?” Kick asks, juggling her phone and a strategically placed bow. “Aren’t you between husbands right now?”
“Exactly.” Hillary grins. “I’m stocking up for the next one. Preparation is key.” Who needs a husband? Kick really does act as if this is 1956.
While my family and friends continue their descent into educational madness, I notice Vivienne Velour and Millie Ashford hovering near the edge of the disaster.
Vivienne looks like she’s calculating profit margins, while Millie hides behind a Christmas tree that may or may not be decorated with G-strings.
“This is quite the turnout,” I say, approaching them with Peyton still attached to my side like a very well-dressed shadow. “Are you both customers or competitors this afternoon?”
Vivienne, the lingerie designer, flashes a lethal smile my way. “Oh, I’m just here for moral support. And to see how the other half lives.” Her eyes glitter with something that might be amusement or might be something more dangerous. “Though I have to admit, the quality is impressive.”
“It’s certainly educational,” Millie adds nervously, clutching a very small shopping bag. Her baked goods are such a hit, I might be moved to look the other way if she’s the killer. “I never knew there were so many options.”
“You and me both,” I mutter, looking around at things that masquerade as both so-called toys and educational products.
She’s been taking notes the entire time.
I catch from Vivienne’s thoughts as she takes a moment to glare at Diva then at the tables filled with lingerie.
She’s probably planning to copy everything she sees of mine.
Just like this so-called baker copied those recipes.
Some people have no original ideas whatsoever.
That was harsh.
“Speaking of education,” Peyton interjects with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, “I understand you all had some interesting interactions with our recently deceased blogger friend.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees, despite the supernatural fireplace crackling merrily away.
“Seraphina was memorable,” Vivienne says carefully. “She had very strong opinions about everything.”
“Especially about other people’s business practices,” Millie adds, then immediately looks like she regrets speaking.
“What business practices?” I ask, my detective instincts finally kicking in despite the surreal surroundings.
Before either of them can answer, Diva claps her hands together, commanding attention like a very glamorous drill sergeant.
“Ladies! Before we continue our educational journey, I want to share something special with you.” Her voice carries across the salon the way only a trained diva’s can.
“Many of you may have seen the recent social media coverage of our little demonstration yesterday. Well, I’m thrilled to announce that thanks to that exposure, we’ve seen a 300% increase in online orders! ”
The crowd breaks into spontaneous applause, while Peyton makes a sound like she’s being strangled by invisible Christmas lights. Ironic, I know.
“In fact,” Diva continues, “that wonderful blogger, may she rest in peace, may have done us the greatest favor of our careers. Sometimes negative publicity really is the best publicity!”
The applause falters slightly as the implications of that statement sink in.
Well, that’s not suspicious at all, Cricket says dryly from her dessert surveillance position. Nothing says I didn’t commit murder like celebrating the victim’s contribution to your business success.
Should we be taking notes? Rookie asks hopefully while maintaining his optimal treat-catching stance. Because I think that lady just confessed to something. Also, someone just dropped a pink macaron and I’m calling dibs.
I catch Peyton’s eye, and for the first time since this educational nightmare began, we’re in complete agreement.
“Holiday,” Peyton hisses under her breath, “what are you waiting for? We need to grill the Diva! She just basically confessed to profiting from murder!”
“I know,” I whisper back, “but we can’t exactly arrest her in the middle of her sales pitch.”
“Why not? I’ve got handcuffs.”
“You have handcuffs?”
“Not the official kind,” she says darkly, “but they’ll work in a pinch.”
Before I can process that disturbing revelation, Diva begins moving toward a more secluded area of the salon, near a display of items that would make a Renaissance artist blush. Several customers follow her, creating the perfect opportunity for some casual interrogation.
“Come on,” Peyton grabs my arm with surprising strength. “Time to get some answers before she disappears into the crowd.”
We begin making our way through the throng of shoppers, past my mother, who’s now debating the merits of various seasonal accessories with Mrs. Pemberton, past Clarabelle, who’s taking detailed notes in her Christmas-themed investigation notebook, and past the dessert table where Cricket and Rookie have positioned themselves like furry security officers, guarding against dropped confections.
Diva Divine Temptation, murder suspect and purveyor of educational materials, is about to get the interrogation of her very colorful career.