Chapter 15
My tiny cabin now smells like a collision between a gourmet restaurant and a Christmas tree farm, with hints of perfume and nervous energy that comes from hosting a murder investigation disguised as a book club meeting.
The scent of eggnog mingles with Tipper’s picture-perfect appetizers and Peggy’s down-home casserole, while Christmas lights twinkle overhead like tiny stars trapped in evergreen branches.
Soft conversation hums underneath the gentle bubble of warm beverages, punctuated by the occasional jingle from Peggy’s bell-adorned sweater.
This is the most well-catered murder investigation I’ve ever witnessed, Cricket observes from her new location on my bookshelf, having relocated to get a better view of the destruction below.
I love parties where everyone brings food, Rookie adds, sitting near the coffee table where crumbs are most likely to fall. Especially ones where people talk with their hands and drop things. And I’ve been waiting for someone to drop something.
“Okay, everyone,” Peggy calls out, settling into my loveseat, having organized church committees and knowing how to handle difficult personalities.
“Y’all sit on your keisters. We need to get a move on if we want to crack this case before my bedtime.
” Or more to the point, before my bedmate for the night shows up at my door.
She winks my way with the thought before clearing her throat.
“It’s time for our roses and thorns.”
“Do we have to?” Hillary grunts, pausing in the middle of arranging her gourmet chocolates.
“Oh, hush now. You know this is a tradition. It’s roses and thorns time, sugar. You know the drill. Share something good that’s happened recently, that’s the rose, and something that’s been a thorn in your side. It’s basically the best gossip session of the week disguised as emotional wellness.”
Bunny claps her hands together with glee. “Oh, I love sharing! I’ll go first!”
“Hold your horses there, buttercup,” Peggy says with a grin. “Let’s go around the circle proper-like. Chevy, you’re closest to me. Start us off.”
Chevy straightens in her chair as if she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life.
“Well, my rose is that my husband surprised me early with a vintage typewriter—apparently it belonged to some famous mystery writer from the 1940s. I may have peeked at my Christmas present, but honestly, who can wait?”
“You opened your Christmas gifts early?” Kick looks scandalized.
“I unwrapped one tiny corner,” Chevy defends. “It’s called gathering intel.”
Peggy and Chevy have no self-control, Cricket notes with feline superiority. I, on the other hand, wait patiently for my treats to be served at appropriate intervals.
She does not, but I don’t have time to argue with a cat.
“And my thorn,” Chevy continues, her expression darkening like storm clouds, “is that the printer working on Hattie’s book is having what they call ‘creative differences’ with my artistic vision for the cover design.
Apparently, they think a cozy mystery about a baker should look cheerful and inviting rather than darkly mysterious and foreboding. ”
“Maybe because it’s a cozy mystery and not a Gothic thriller?” I suggest.
“Details,” Chevy waves her hand dismissively. “Art shouldn’t be constrained by genre expectations.” This book is going to look like a Gothic thriller yet. Who wants to read a mystery with a slice of cake on the cover?
I frown at her. I would so love to read a mystery with a slice of cake on the cover—and then eat that slice of cake, too.
Hillary goes next, discussing matters of national security. “My rose is that I found the most exquisite holiday boots at Bergdorf’s—Italian leather, exactly my size, on sale for only thirty percent off. A Christmas miracle, really.”
“Thirty percent off is a miracle?” Peggy asks.
“At Bergdorf’s, yes. And my thorn,” Hillary’s voice drops a notch, “is that my aesthetician is booked solid through New Year’s. I might have to find a new one, and you have no idea how traumatic it is to break in a new skincare professional.”
First-world problems have reached new heights, Cricket says. Next, Hillary will complain about her champagne being the wrong temperature.
Kick shifts forward, clearly holding back a flood of domestic frustration. “My rose is that the kids’ Christmas pageant went well. No costume malfunctions, no forgotten lines, and Tommy didn’t try to eat the fake snow during the Nativity scene.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, genuinely impressed.
“My thorn,” Kick’s voice rises several octaves, “is that Kirk made our six-year-old hand-write thank-you notes for gifts she hasn’t opened yet. He calls it gratitude pre-loading.”
How has Kirk not been murdered yet? Cricket mewls, and I shrug at her because I’m wondering the very same thing.
“Did you kill him?” Bunny asks with interest. I knew I liked her.
Kick nods. “I considered it. Briefly. But you ladies are far too good at what you do, and I don’t want to end up behind bars prematurely.” If only I could frame Peyton. But then, it seems Hattie beat me to it.
I take a moment to frown at her.
Tipper smooths her sweater dress and gives us her most gracious smile. “My rose is that Henry’s restaurant is booked solid through New Year’s Eve. We’re completely sold out, which is amazing for business.”
“That’s fantastic,” I say.
“My thorn is that Henry’s so busy with the restaurant being booked solid, he won’t have time to shop for a dazzling diamond for Christmas. I’ve been dropping hints the size of billboards, but the man is completely focused on menu planning and profit margins.”
“The perils of dating a successful restaurateur,” Bunny sighs sympathetically. As soon as he dumps Tipper, I’m hopping on the Holiday Express.
I clear my throat.
Henry gave up his legal career to follow his restaurant dreams. I’m glad he’s succeeding in them. Here’s hoping he doesn’t burn out on them or Tipper.
Bunny bounces in her seat with excitement as her turn arrives. “My rose is that Nicholas—my Santa impersonator—is even better at his ho-ho-ho than I expected. He’s got this deep, resonant laugh that just makes you believe in Christmas magic. Let’s just say, he’s very inspiring.”
“Inspiring,” Hillary repeats slowly.
“Oh yes. And my thorn is that I have too many holiday party invitations and I can’t decide which millionaires to disappoint.
The Ashfords are having their annual champagne and caviar soirée, the Pembertons are doing their winter wonderland theme, and the Vanderbilts are flying everyone to their place in the Hamptons. It’s causing me genuine anxiety.”
“The horror,” Peyton mutters from her corner, speaking for the first time since arriving.
How are these women still alive? she muses to herself as she chugs a mug of cocoa, which I actually think belonged to Clarabelle.
And knowing Clarabelle, it’s spiked. On second thought, Peyton has earned that drink.
Peggy grins and gives a little jingle as she adjusts her position. “My rose is that my bedmate brings me coffee in bed every morning. Fresh ground, perfect temperature, served with a side of charm that would make a saint blush.”
“Bedmate?” Clarabelle asks.
“What can I say? Life’s too short for boring companionship.”
I like Peggy, Cricket decides. She has practical priorities.
“My thorn,” Peggy continues, “is that I can’t find decent sweet tea anywhere in this godforsaken state. Y’all Yankees don’t understand the sacred art of proper tea preparation.”
Clarabelle pats her friend’s arm sympathetically. “My rose is that I won the church Christmas cookie competition for the third year running. My snickerdoodles are officially legendary.”
“Congratulations,” I say.
“My thorn is that everyone keeps asking for my secret recipe, and I’m running out of polite ways to tell them that family secrets die with family. Some traditions are sacred.”
All eyes turn to me, and I realize I’m supposed to share my deepest holiday joys and frustrations with a room full of women who could probably buy and sell my entire life.
“My rose is that Killion moved in next door,” I say, trying not to grin like an idiot. “The view from my kitchen window has definitely improved.”
“I bet it has.” Bunny winks. If Hattie wasn’t into him, I would have landed in that man’s bed a year ago.
I lift a brow her way. Honestly, I can’t blame her. Killion is a specimen.
“My thorn is that I still don’t have a firm publication date for my cozy mystery.
It’s about a baker who can see the dead—she helps solve murders by talking to the victims. Chevy’s publishing company picked it up, and it’s supposed to come out soon, but at this point I’m starting to think the universe isn’t on board with my literary career. ”
“The universe is notoriously unreliable,” Chevy says supportively. “But good art takes time.” If only she knew that the publishing industry moves at a glacial pace. And if she did, she might abandon fictional murder in favor of the nonfiction variety.
Finally, all eyes turn to Peyton, who’s been sitting in the corner, a storm cloud in designer clothing. She looks around the room with an expression that sends Rookie hiding under the couch with a whimper.
“Rose?” she asks, her voice icy enough to frost a window. “I have no rose. It’s all thorn, and you darn well know what that thorn is.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Well,” Bunny sniffs as if detecting cheap champagne, “spoken like a true killer.”
Peyton’s eyes flash, radiating enough fire to melt steel. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Bunny waves her hand airily. “Just an observation.”
This is about to get very interesting, Cricket mewls with satisfaction. Peyton and Bunny’s pack dynamics are fascinating when survival is involved. I do believe a good old-fashioned cat fight is still on the table.
Good gravy, I hope not.
Before Peyton can respond with what I’m sure would be a beautifully crafted verbal assault, Chevy claps her hands together, calling the room to order like an experienced moderator.
“All right then! Time for the murder board.” She stands and moves to the dry erase board she’s set up on an easel near the fireplace, complete with markers in multiple colors, and a slide projector.
“Did you bring audiovisual equipment to my book club?” I ask, mostly amused.
“I believe in thoroughness,” Chevy replies, pulling out a stack of black and white glossy 8x10 photographs. “I had these printed at the camera shop downtown. They’re professional quality.”
She starts arranging the photos on the board, creating an art exhibit. Each suspect gets their own section, complete with name cards written in Chevy’s flawless handwriting.
“Looks like a modeling career gone wrong,” Peyton says, studying her own photograph with detached interest. “Good grief, these could double as headshots.”
“Very funny,” Chevy says, adding red string between various pieces of evidence. “Now, let’s review what we know about each suspect.”
She writes PEYTON BLAKELY at the top of the first section and stands back to admire her work.
“Based on our investigation so far,” Chevy begins, consulting a leather-bound notebook with her initials embossed in gold, “Peyton had motive—Seraphina was threatening her job. She had means—access to Christmas lights throughout the country club. She had an opportunity—she was at the event when the murder occurred. And she was found holding the murder weapon.”
“I was removing it from her neck for the hundredth time,” Peyton says through gritted teeth. And right now, I’d like to place it on yours.
I groan just hearing the thought.
“So you claim,” Hillary adds with a shrug.
Peyton and Hillary are turning on each other, Rookie barks. This is like watching squirrels fight, but with better snacks.
“DIVA DIVINE TEMPTATION,” Chevy writes on the second section, adding Diva’s picture like she’s pinning up a wanted photo. “Financial troubles, potential blackmail, and according to our source, her business isn’t as successful as she pretends.”
“And VIVIENNE VELOUR,” she adds the third name and photo. “Mysterious, well-informed about everyone’s private business, and suspiciously eager to point fingers at other people.”
I clear my throat. “Actually, Vivienne mentioned someone else during our conversation. Millie Ashford from the North Pole Confectionery.”
Chevy’s eyes light up like Christmas morning. “Another suspect! This is getting better by the minute.” She grabs a fresh marker and starts adding MILLIE ASHFORD to the board.
“So we have four suspects,” she announces with satisfaction. “This is shaping up to be a proper murder mystery.”
“Five,” Peyton corrects darkly. “Don’t forget the possibility that one of you did it and you’re all just enjoying watching me squirm.” I would not put it past these witches.
The room falls silent except for the gentle bubble of hot cocoa and the soft jingle of Peggy’s Christmas sweater.
Plot twist, Cricket notes with interest. Peyton suspects the investigators.
The most dangerous part of solving a murder isn’t finding the killer—it’s surviving your own investigation team.