Chapter 10
It’s late afternoon at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club, and the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and freshly brewed coffee wraps around me like a warm hug I didn’t know I needed.
The Cozy Bean hums with the quiet conversations of club members pretending they’re not gossiping about yet another murder on club grounds.
The Cozy Bean is exactly what its name promises—cozy—with its dark wood walls warm from years of coffee steam, mismatched armchairs angled toward a fireplace that looks like it was built by someone who takes winter personally, and enough flickering candlelight to make everyone look like they’re harboring a secret.
Christmas is staging a hostile takeover of the autumn decorations.
Winnie’s crew moved through here earlier like holiday elves on a mission, clearing out mini pumpkins to make room for garlands of evergreen that now drape along the ceiling beams. Winnie owns The Crafty Treehouse, a crafter’s paradise, and I’ve also hired her to take care of the seasonal décor around here.
And now twinkle lights shaped like tiny snowflakes have replaced the acorn fairy lights, and the scent of pine mingles with the coffee and cinnamon in a way that makes everything smell like Christmas morning.
I’m hunched over my laptop at a corner table, frantically finalizing details for the Christmas Eve Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular.
“The name alone requires its own zip code, but Peyton insisted on maximum pretentiousness.” I force a smile over at Cricket, pretending that Peyton herself wasn’t within earshot as she makes her way over.
I nod back at my laptop. “Ice sculptures? Check. Champagne fountains? Double check. A twelve-piece orchestra playing ‘Silent Night’ in seventeen different styles? Apparently, that’s a thing now.
I want to get every detail perfect because I really don’t want to get fired by my big mean boss—who ironically, might be getting fired herself. ”
I wink at Peyton, who’s settling into the chair across from me like she owns the club and has the receipts to prove it.
“I wish I were still your big mean boss,” Peyton says, tapping her holiday latte with a manicured hand. “Once I’m reinstated, I can’t wait to fire you. Ha-ha.”
Coming from Peyton, that’s practically a declaration of friendship. I decide not to tell her that.
“Ha-ha yourself,” I reply, taking a sip of my latte. The whipped cream is approximately three stories tall and decorated with fondant holly leaves that have absolutely no business being this adorable.
I still don’t understand why they insist on putting decorative leaves in your beverages, Cricket says from her perch on the armrest of my chair. It’s like garnishing water with tiny trees. It makes no sense.
I think it’s festive! Rookie counters from his spot sprawled across my feet, his tail creating a small earthquake every time someone walks by with food. Everything smells like Christmas cookies and happiness.
Your standards for happiness are disturbingly low, Cricket replies. You also think the mailman is a celebrity.
It’s true. He does. And don’t think for a minute that the mailman doesn’t appreciate it.
Peyton takes a delicate sip and immediately gets whipped cream on her nose, which she doesn’t seem to notice.
“So,” she says, leaning forward with that white, fluffy dot decorating her face, “where are we going next?”
Before I can answer, the unmistakable sound of determined footsteps echoes across the café’s exposed brick floor.
I look up to see Peggy and Clarabelle bearing down on our table like two women on a mission, each carrying a plate with cinnamon rolls the size of small planets. And wow, do they ever look delicious.
“Good afternoon, you two sugar pot pies!” Peggy announces, setting down her plate precariously close to me, as if she’s never heard the words finders keepers.
Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and she’s wearing a coat so thoroughly covered in tiny Christmas ornaments that I genuinely can’t identify the original color underneath.
“Wow,” I muse at the sweet treats in front of me that could probably be classified as weapons of mass confection. “Did you order those or adopt them?”
Peyton grunts as if they’ve personally offended her. “Each one could probably feed a small village.”
It really takes a special person to be offended by a cinnamon roll. And I am not that person.
“I mean, look at them,” I marvel as I pull a plate in close. “They’re swirled with enough cinnamon and sugar to put a person in a coma, and dripping with icing that looks like it was dumped on by the gallon. I’m pretty sure this pastry is my new love language.”
“I’ll let the hot detective know,” Peggy says, pulling the plate back in her direction.
Those pastries are larger than my entire body, Cricket notes with what might be respect. But then, Peggy and Clarabelle have no concept of appropriate portion sizes, so it makes sense she doesn’t want to share.
Can we have some? Rookie asks hopefully, his nose twitching as the scent of cinnamon and butter wafts our way. I promise I’ll only eat half.
And I volunteer to eat the other half.
Peggy chortles. “Honey, when you get to be our age, you don’t mess around with small pastries,” she says, settling into a chair that creaks ominously under the weight of her winter coat. “Life’s too short for bite-sized anything.”
Peyton lifts a brow. Was that an innuendo? she muses internally. Oh, with these old bats, everything is an innuendo.
“Never mind these ooey-gooey balls of frosted delight,” Clarabelle says, bundled in enough layers to survive an arctic expedition. “We need to put our investigative pedal to the metal! Who’s next on our suspect list?”
Peyton and I exchange a look across the table. A look that happens when two people who used to hate each other realize they’re thinking the exact same thing.
“Vivienne Velour,” we say simultaneously.
The timing is so perfect it’s like we rehearsed it. Even Cricket looks impressed, and she’s notoriously hard to please.
Peggy’s eyes light up like someone just announced free cinnamon rolls for everyone. “Well, butter my biscuit! Great minds think alike.” She’s already pulling out her phone with the fervor of someone half her age. “Let me see what the internet has to say about Miss Mysterious Lingerie Designer.”
Her fingers fly across the screen with surprising dexterity while Clarabelle devotes herself to her cinnamon roll with a level of commitment most people never find in a relationship.
“I bet she’s somewhere close by,” Peggy mutters, scrolling through what I assume are social media sites. “These fancy designer types always want to be where the money is, and honey, Brambleberry Bay has more money than a Swiss bank account, and most of it is mine.”
Clarabelle pauses in her systematic destruction of breakfast pastry. “That woman disappeared faster than common sense at a casino yesterday. But nobody just vanishes into thin air. She’s got to be somewhere.”
Peyton sips her latte with one manicured finger tapping against her cup, clearly plotting our next move.
“The question is where. She could be anywhere between here and Montreal by now.” If I was the killer, I wouldn’t stick around this one-horse town, she thinks to herself.
Not with Hattie Holiday sniffing out homicidal maniacs like it was her job.
She takes a moment to frown at me. Not that I’d ever say that to her face.
I press my lips tight to keep the smile from taking over, because she sort of did exactly that.
“Found her!” Peggy announces triumphantly, holding up her phone like she just discovered buried treasure. “Midnight Velour Intimates. Says here they’ve got a shop in Edison, about twenty minutes away.”
I lean over to look at the screen, which displays a website that’s equal parts sultry and professional. The logo features silhouettes that leave very little to the imagination, and the tagline reads Where Mystery Meets Luxury.
“Edison,” I repeat, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
Edison is where dreams go to die and hope gets mugged in broad daylight.
It’s not exactly the sort of place you’d expect to find high-end lingerie boutiques.
“Are we sure this is the same Vivienne Velour? Because Edison isn’t exactly known for its upscale shopping experience. ”
Peggy squints at the screen. “Says right here, Proprietress: Vivienne Velour, formerly of Paris, now bringing European sophistication to the American Northeast. That’s got to be our girl.”
I don’t understand why women make their undergarments so complicated, Cricket muses. Fur is much more practical. It’s warm, it’s stylish, and you never have to worry about matching sets.
But think of all the colors! Rookie exclaims. And the sparkly bits! Humans love sparkly bits almost as much as they love treats.
Cricket swishes her tail at him. Someone has been rummaging through Hattie’s unmentionables again.
Clarabelle wipes cinnamon sugar from her fingers with a napkin that immediately surrenders to the stickiness. “Well, I’ll be. Edison’s not exactly the fashion capital of Maine, is it?”
“That’s putting it generously,” Peyton says, sounding like she wouldn’t be caught dead in Edison under normal circumstances. “It’s where sophistication goes to die a slow, painful death.”
I study the website more closely. The photos show luxurious displays of lingerie that wouldn’t look out of place in a Parisian boutique, but something about the whole setup feels off. Like putting a tiara on a garbage can and calling it royalty.
“The last place anyone goes looking for high-end anything is somewhere like Edison,” I point out.
“Which maybe makes it the perfect place to put it.” I shrug.
“I’m obviously not business-minded, but then maybe Vivienne isn’t either.
Plus, she’s not from around here. She may not have realized where she was putting down stakes. ”
Peggy nods. “Smart thinking, sugar. Plus, rent’s probably cheaper than dirt in Edison. More money for fancy lace and whatnot.”
Peyton pulls out her own phone and starts typing, turning research into an art form. “According to this, Midnight Velour Intimates has been open for six months. Just long enough to establish a customer base but not long enough to attract too much attention.”
“And,” I add, reading over her shoulder, “they specialize in custom consultations for the discerning woman. That could mean anything from personal shopping to... well, things I don’t want to think about while drinking coffee.”
I take another sip of my increasingly delicious latte and consider our options. Edison is not exactly a destination any of us would choose under normal circumstances. It’s where GPS probably apologizes for taking you there. But we don’t really have a choice in the matter.
“I guess we’re going to Edison,” I say.
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Even the fire seems to dim a little at the prospect.
Peggy claps her hands together, generating enough enthusiasm to light up the entire café. “Road trip! I call shotgun!”
This should be interesting, Cricket notes. Peggy, Clarabelle, Peyton, Hattie, and two pets in a car trip to investigate a lingerie shop in a questionable part of town. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, Rookie adds cheerfully. But think of the adventure! And maybe they’ll have treats! He glances at the cinnamon roll on Peggy’s plate, and without thinking twice, he snatches it up and takes off for the door.
I don’t even bother reprimanding him. Honestly, he just beat me to it.
I grab my coat. Peyton’s name isn’t going to clear itself.