Chapter 8
The Grand Salon at half past two on this snowy December afternoon continues to buzz with chaotic energy that follows both spectacular murder revelations and bulk lingerie purchasing.
The scent of vanilla candles from the dessert table mingles with imported perfume, champagne bubbles, and what I’m pretty sure is the distinct aroma of my remaining dignity slowly evaporating.
Christmas jazz plays softly through hidden speakers, occasionally harmonizing with the phantom orchestra that seems to approve of the afternoon’s educational proceedings, while the gentle clink of champagne flutes provides percussion to conversations about well-placed cutouts and seasonal enhancement.
The chandeliers sway overhead while the women below clutch their shopping bags with the quiet determination of people who have made their questionable choices and are at peace with them.
Diva Divine Temptation kneels beside a large shipping box near the display case, pulling out tissue-wrapped packages one by one with an expression that suggests each one is exactly as scandalous as the last.
“Ladies,” she announces, her voice carrying across the salon like silk wrapped around a megaphone, “I’m absolutely thrilled to present our newest arrivals from the Christmas Confessions Collection!”
She unwraps the first item—something in midnight blue that sparkles with strategically placed crystals and contains what I can only describe as a deeply optimistic amount of fabric.
“This little treasure is called Silent Night Secrets,” Diva purrs, holding it up for inspection. “Perfect for those moments when you want to be anything but silent.”
I don’t understand why hoomans need costumes for mating rituals, Rookie barks from beneath the dessert table, his golden head tilted in confusion. Why don’t they just sniff each other and get it over with? It’s much more efficient.
Because hoomans complicate everything, Cricket replies from her surveillance post near a tower of macarons that’s swaying slightly in the mansion’s mysterious breezes. They can’t even eat properly without using seventeen different utensils. Of course, their romance requires specialized equipment.
Diva continues her unveiling with something forest green, adorned with actual holly leaves made from silk. “And this beauty is Deck the Halls and Everything Else—because why stop at halls?”
The crowd murmurs appreciatively, though Mrs. Pemberton looks like she’s taking mental notes for her church auxiliary meeting. I have no doubt the entire club will be hearing about this. She’s our most notorious gossip.
“But my personal favorite,” Diva says, producing an item wrapped in red ribbon, “is Christmas Morning Surprises. It comes with its own gift bow, because presentation is everything.”
Peyton makes a sound like she’s choking on her own professional standards.
“This is what my career has come to,” she mutters. “Standing in a haunted mansion listening to lingerie described like holiday decorations.”
“Look on the bright side,” I whisper. “At least the ghosts seem to approve. That Victorian gentleman in the corner mirror just applauded.”
Before Peyton can respond to that dubious comfort, Diva’s attention focuses directly on us as if she were programmed to locate embarrassment.
“Oh, you two!” she exclaims, gliding toward us with her arms full of educational materials. “Perfect timing! I have exactly the right pieces for both of you.”
My fight-or-flight response kicks in, but Peyton grabs my arm with the grip of someone drowning in professional desperation.
“You,” Diva points at Peyton with something black and sparkly, “strike me as a Boss Lady Bells woman. It’s from our Power and Pleasure line—perfect for someone who likes to take charge.”
Peyton’s face runs through more shades of red than the supernaturally shifting Christmas lights overhead.
“I don’t... that is... I’m here on business...,” she finally stammers.
“And for you, dear,” Diva turns to me with an item in deep red that appears to feature actual mistletoe as part of the design, “I’m thinking Mistletoe Mischief. Perfect for surprising that handsome detective of yours.”
Huh. She paid attention yesterday. I suppose all those kisses we thought we were sneaking in didn’t go unnoticed.
The entire room shares a quick chuckle before the din of a hundred conversations going off at once starts up again, and soon everyone is too immersed in their own hunt for naughty treasure to care to pay attention to us.
“Actually,” I manage, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while holding lingerie that appears to fly in the face of basic geometry, “we’re here about Seraphina Sparks,” I say to her. “So sorry for the loss of your friend.”
The transformation in Diva’s expression is instantaneous and spectacular. Her theater-ready smile vanishes, replaced by something sharp enough to cut through the mansion’s supernatural atmosphere.
“Friend?” she practically spits, clutching a Christmas-themed negligee like it’s a weapon.
“That woman was a professional destroyer! She came into my business the other day demanding free merchandise in exchange for what she called ‘positive coverage.’ When I refused, she threatened to write a review that would ruin me!”
Ooh, this is getting good, Cricket mews with satisfaction, her green eyes fixed on Diva like she doesn’t want to miss a thing. That woman is getting very agitated. Her voice is rising, and she’s waving that sparkly thing around like a war banner. I bet she’s the killer.
“But surely,” Peyton interjects, still clutching her recommended Boss Lady Bells ensemble, “you wouldn’t resort to murder over a bad review?”
“Murder?” Diva’s voice rises enough to make the crystal chandeliers chime in harmony. “Everyone saw you arguing with her! You threatened to kill her right there in front of witnesses.” A tiny smile plays on her lips. Take that for trying to pin it on me!
“I was removing evidence from a crime scene!” Peyton protests at the top of her lungs. “There’s a difference between investigating and murdering.” She frowns my way. Although with Hattie, there seems to be a fine line.
I balk at the thought. I haven’t murdered anyone. Yet.
“Is there a difference when it comes to murder?” Diva asks sweetly, then her expression shifts to something calculating.
“If you want to find a real enemy, look at Miss Perfect over there.” She gestures toward Vivienne Velour, who’s been hovering near the edge of the crowd like a very put-together vulture evaluating roadkill.
“Vivienne?” I follow Diva’s gaze. “What about her?”
“Oh, they had quite the heated conversation yesterday,” Diva says, settling into the conversation like she’s been waiting all day for someone to ask. “Something about professional jealousy and stolen ideas. Vivienne looked like she wanted to strangle that gossip gal with her own designer scarf.”
The brunette is moving toward the exit, Rookie barks, his tail starting to wag with excitement. Should we chase her? I’m excellent at chasing. Also, someone dropped a chocolate-covered strawberry and I’m calling dibs.
“What sort of professional jealousy?” I press, but Diva’s attention has already shifted to Vivienne’s suspicious movement toward the salon’s exit.
“The sort that makes people desperate,” Diva says cryptically. “She had more to lose than any of us. Much more.”
Across the salon, I catch glimpses of my family’s educational adventure.
Mom is loudly discussing enhancement strategies with a group of mothers who look equally mortified and fascinated.
Winnie looks as if she wants to be invisible despite the fact this was all her idea.
And Neelie, oblivious to anything resembling appropriate behavior, is taking selfies with merchandise while narrating for her social media followers.
“Okay, so listen,” she says to her phone with the urgency of a breaking news correspondent, “I just found the most incredible things and let’s just say Stanton’s cardiologist may want to be on standby for Valentine’s Day.”
Meanwhile, Peggy has claimed a post near the champagne fountain, drink in hand. My guess is, it’s not the first.
“Sugar,” she calls out to Clarabelle, “are you getting all this down? I feel like I should be getting college credit for what I’m learning tonight!”
Clarabelle is across the room, tugging on a decoratively placed bow like she’s inspecting a hostage situation.
“Just doing my due diligence,” she announces cheerfully. “A woman my age didn’t get this far by making uninformed purchases.”
Disaster incoming, Cricket’s thoughts cut through the madness. Three, two, one...
Before I can respond, Clarabelle gives the ribbon one last experimental tug, and sure enough, the bow unravels.
Merchandise cascades off the shelf in an avalanche of lace, sequins, and things I will not be describing to my mother, leaving Clarabelle tangled in approximately seven yards of red ribbon as she flails backward into the dessert table.
“Well, if that don’t beat a goose a-gobbling!” Peggy shouts. “Clarabelle Harper, what in the sweet heavens to Betsy on a biscuit are you doing?”
Christmas bells jingle frantically as Clarabelle fights the ribbon. Her elbow connects with a gingerbread house. The gingerbread house connects with a cake stand. The cake stand connects with the champagne fountain. The champagne fountain, it turns out, was structurally optimistic.
Golden liquid arcs across the marble floor in three different directions. A gingerbread Santa surfs a wave of bubbly past my ankles. Somewhere in the melee, Neelie is still filming.
“This is going viral!” she shrieks with delight.
Emergency treat acquisition protocol activated! Cricket announces, leaping from her surveillance post with ninja-like accuracy to rescue falling macarons before they hit the champagne-soaked floor.
This is what I came for! Rookie barks with joy, diving into the fray to save a chocolate yule log that’s rolling toward certain destruction. Mr. Jolly Beary and I are saving Christmas desserts! We’re heroes! Nice list, here we come!
In the midst of this spectacular catastrophe, I notice Vivienne Velour making her escape toward the salon’s exit with casual urgency that screams guilt louder than Clarabelle’s Christmas bells.
“Peyton,” I grab her arm, still clutching our recommended educational materials, “we need to follow Vivienne before she disappears.”
“Right,” Peyton agrees, stepping over a fallen gingerbread chimney while Clarabelle continues her battle with decorative ribbons in the background. “Because nothing says professional investigation like chasing suspects through a mansion while carrying Christmas-themed lingerie.”
As we head toward the exit in pursuit of our fleeing suspect, I can’t help but think that in a room full of secrets, scandals, and strategic cutouts, the most revealing thing might be who runs away when the chaos starts.