Chapter 11
Downtown Edison smells like broken dreams and cheap cologne, with just a hint of desperation wafting from the pawn shops and check-cashing places that line the cracked sidewalks.
The late afternoon sun struggles to penetrate the urban haze, casting everything in a sepia tone that makes even the graffiti look depressed.
Car horns honk in the distance, punctuated by the occasional siren, while Christmas decorations hang limply from streetlights like they’ve given up on spreading holiday cheer in a place that clearly doesn’t want it.
I’m standing outside Midnight Velour Intimates with Cricket’s head poking out of my tote bag like a furry periscope, while Clarabelle holds Rookie’s leash in a grip so firm I half expect the leather to beg for mercy.
“Well, pickle my peaches,” Peggy announces, staring up at the surprisingly ritzy storefront. “This place has more class than I expected.”
The shop window displays silk lingerie arranged with alarming artistic detail. Twinkle lights frame each display case, and the gold lettering on the glass door looks like it was painted by a jeweler.
“It’s like finding a diamond in a coal mine,” Clarabelle says as her eyes scan the neighborhood for trouble that she clearly knows how to spot. “A very expensive, very scandalous diamond.”
Peyton adjusts her purse strap like she’s preparing for battle. “Let’s just get this over with. The sooner we find Vivienne Velour, the sooner I can get my life back.”
I don’t understand why we had to come to this questionable town, Cricket complains from the safety of my bag. The scents here are most disturbing. I detect at least seventeen different varieties of poor life decisions.
Are you kidding? Everything smells like adventure! Rookie counters, his tail wagging as he takes in the urban decay with golden retriever optimism. And car exhaust! I love car exhaust!
I offer him a simple smile. I knew he had a thing for Ginger.
My phone buzzes as we’re walking toward Midnight Velour Intimates, and I glance down to see our murder club group chat exploding with the enthusiasm worthy of a celebrity scandal.
Murder Club Group Chat
Chevy: EMERGENCY MEETING TONIGHT! We need to solve this case before Santa shimmies his way down every chimney! The killer is still on the loose!
Bunny: Absolutely! I’m tired of having a murderer roaming around ruining the holiday spirit. Plus, I have a reputation for being in the right place at the right time and I intend to maintain it.
Tipper: Henry is stress-baking again. I’m choosing not to read into that.
Hillary: Can we wrap this up quickly? I have a spa appointment at 4 and I absolutely cannot reschedule. My aesthetician is booked through New Year’s. Also, perp orange is simply not in my palette and I’d like to keep it that way.
Kick: Some of us have actual responsibilities! Three kids, four school plays, and a husband who thinks “helping” means giving me more holiday ideas to accomplish on a strict timeline.
Peggy: Sugar, I’ll bring my interrogation supplies and my famous sweet tea. Nothing makes people confess faster than proper Southern hospitality!
Clarabelle: I’ve got my evidence bags, my magnifying glass, and my best interrogation earrings! We’re going to crack this case wide open!
Chevy: The longer we wait, the more time our killer has to destroy evidence or flee to somewhere without extradition treaties. This is serious detective work, people!
Bunny: Plus, I refuse to spend Christmas looking over my shoulder wondering if I’m next. I have parties to attend and men to enchant!
Hillary: Speaking of next… I know I’ve mentioned it before, but shouldn’t we focus on the obvious suspect? I mean, Peyton was literally caught red-handed with the murder weapon.
Kick: Not to mention those threats she doled out. We’re talking amateur hour as far as homicides go. Why isn’t she in handcuffs yet?
Peggy: Y’all, sometimes the most obvious answer is the right answer. Just saying.
I glance over at Peyton, who’s reading over my shoulder with an expression that could freeze hellfire.
“Are they seriously discussing my guilt in a group chat AGAIN?” she hisses.
“They mean well,” I say, though it comes out more of a question as I shrug her way.
Peyton: I’M LITERALLY IN THIS CHAT. I can see everything you’re typing. And I DID NOT MURDER ANYONE!
Bunny: Peyton! How’s the whole murder suspect situation treating you? Asking with love.
Peyton: Don’t you start with me, Bunny. And again, I was trying to HELP that poor witch!
Hillary: Fascinating.
Kick: Also, why would you touch a murder weapon? Everyone knows you don’t disturb a crime scene. Guilty conscience much? Or trying to cover a crime?
Chevy: Plus, you had the most to gain from Seraphina’s death. She was threatening your job, your reputation, your entire career! Classic motive!
Tipper: And you definitely have access to Christmas lights. The country club is practically wallpapered with them right now. Means and opportunity!
Peggy: Honey, it’s not looking good for you. Maybe you should start thinking about plea bargains?
Peyton: This is character assassination via emoji and I want it on record that I find it deeply unprofessional!
Clarabelle: Now sugar, no need to get hostile. Guilt makes people cranky.
Bunny: Should we be concerned that she’s getting angry? Murderers often have explosive tempers...
Hillary: Good point! Peyton, please confirm you’re not currently holding any Christmas decorations or other potential weapons? For our safety?
Peyton makes a sound that’s somewhere between a growl and a scream. “This is unbelievable! They’re treating me like I’m already convicted!”
“Welcome to trial by murder club,” I mutter. “It’s like trial by social media, but with more casseroles and interrogation techniques.”
Peyton: For the record, I am completely weaponless and focused on CLEARING MY NAME, not adding to the body count!
Chevy: That’s what they all say... Meeting at 7 PM sharp! We’re putting this case to bed before Santa makes his rounds! Justice waits for no jolly old elf!
Kick: Fine, but I’m bringing my kids. They can practice their Christmas carols while we discuss murder. Multitasking at its finest.
Peggy: Y’all are going to solve this faster than my granny can peel sweet potatoes! See everyone tonight!
Peyton: This is worse than being interrogated by the sheriff’s department. At least they have professional standards!
Bunny: Professional standards are overrated, darling. We have style, grit, and really excellent wine.
Hattie: Tonight’s off. I have a date with a very attractive homicide detective. The murder club can wait until tomorrow.
A flurry of hearts, thumbs up, and what I can only describe as aggressively supportive emojis flood my screen—with the notable exception of two very pointed thumbs down from Peyton, who has apparently decided that my love life is less important than her freedom.
Fair enough.
I shove my phone back into my purse as we reach the lingerie shop. “Well, that was encouraging.”
Peyton’s jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised her teeth don’t crack. “They’ve already got me tried, convicted, and planning my prison wardrobe.”
“On the bright side,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “at least they’re motivated to solve the case quickly.”
“Their motivation is to see me behind bars before Christmas morning!”
Peyton is so dramatic, Cricket says from the tote bag. Although this murder club does seem remarkably efficient at jumping to conclusions.
Maybe they’ll solve it in time for Christmas treats! Rookie adds optimistically. I love holiday meetings. There’s always extra food that gets dropped. Remember that time I ate a plateful of chocolate chip cookies and my rear end exploded all night long?
Both Cricket and I groan in unison at the memory.
But on the bright side, at least he’s finally convinced that chocolate can kill him. Some boys just need to learn the hard way.
“Come on,” I tell Peyton, pulling open the door to Midnight Velour Intimates. “Let’s go find some actual evidence to prove your innocence.”
“At this point,” Peyton mutters, “I’d settle for finding evidence that proves I’m not the devil incarnate.”
Sometimes the real mystery isn’t who committed the murder—it’s how to survive your own defense team.
The shop door chimes with a sound that’s probably supposed to be sultry but comes across as slightly ominous.
We step inside, and it’s like entering an alternate universe where Edison suddenly developed taste and a budget.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over displays of lingerie that wouldn’t look out of place in a Parisian boutique.
Plush velvet armchairs are scattered throughout the space, and classical music plays softly in the background—something luxe and European that makes you feel like you should be sipping champagne instead of trying to solve a murder.
The place is busier than I expected. Well-dressed women browse through racks of silk and lace, while others examine displays that I’m pretty sure require age verification to purchase. The whole setup screams expensive sophistication, which makes its location in downtown Edison even more bizarre.
“Well, if that don’t make my pearls sweat,” Peggy breathes, immediately gravitating toward a display of what can questionably be described as educational merchandise. “Would you look at that? They’ve got more gadgets than a NASA launch pad.”
Clarabelle follows her, conducting what I’m sure she thinks is important research. “Well, I’ll be. That one there looks like it could double as a kitchen appliance.”
Oh good grief. I think it is a kitchen appliance—or at least it started as one.
Peyton wanders off toward a rack of velvet robes that look like they belong in a Victorian brothel—if Victorian brothels had been run by people with excellent taste and unlimited budgets.
I’m scanning the shop for any sign of Vivienne Velour when my eyes land on a couple examining a display near the back of the store, and my heart drops straight through the floor.