Chapter 16
The silence in my tiny cabin stretches like expensive elastic, punctuated only by Cricket’s purring and Rookie’s snoring, after Peyton all but accused everyone else of doing the deadly deed.
The scent of cookies mingles with the lingering aroma of gourmet appetizers and what I’m pretty sure is the smell of impending social disaster.
Christmas lights continue to twinkle overhead with oblivious cheer, casting festive shadows across Chevy’s murder board and the collection of wealthy women who are suddenly realizing they might be having dinner with a killer.
The tension in this room is thick enough to feel with my whiskers, Cricket mewls from the bookshelf. I’ve seen less drama in an alley fight.
Is someone going to finish those evidence eclairs? Rookie asks with a hopeful bark. Because all this tension is making me stress-eat, and those pastries smell like heaven wrapped in butter.
And they do indeed, and I snap one up because of it.
Peyton looks around the room with a smile that can double as a threat. “Well, this has been illuminating. Nothing like being tried, convicted, and sentenced by a jury of my peers over champagne and canapés.”
“The canapés were Henry’s idea,” Tipper says quickly, as if distancing herself from the refreshment choices will somehow absolve her of participating in an amateur tribunal—and maybe from being slaughtered by the killer next.
“At least the refreshments were divine!” Bunny adds, missing the entire point of the conversation. Are we done yet? I’m expecting Nicholas to slide down my chimney at any moment.
Hillary clears her throat. “I still think we should consider hiring professional help. My manicurist solves more mysteries in a week than we do, and she has much better organizational skills.”
“Your manicurist solves mysteries?” Kick asks.
She nods. “You’d be amazed what people confess during a good pedicure.”
Chevy stands near her murder board like a proud parent at a school science fair, apparently oblivious to the fact that her artistic investigation display is making everyone deeply uncomfortable. “Art imitates life, but apparently life imitates murder mysteries better than we thought possible.”
“Life also imitates soap operas,” Peyton says dryly. “Which explains why I’m sitting in a cabin the size of a large closet, surrounded by women discussing my potential guilt while eating homicide-themed appetizers.”
She has a point, Cricket notes. This does seem remarkably similar to my afternoon stories. I just hate that they always end on a cliffhanger. You don’t think tonight will end on a cliffhanger, do you?
I shrug her way, but I have a feeling it will.
I don’t understand why they’re arguing, Rookie gives a soft woof, clearly confused because his biggest concerns involve treat schedules and belly rubs. Can’t they just share the food and be happy? There’s enough for everyone.
Clarabelle lifts a finger. “Now hold on, everybody. We’re all getting a little carried away here. Peyton’s been our friend for years. Just because she had access to Christmas lights doesn’t mean she’s a killer.”
“Thank you,” Peyton says with genuine relief.
“I mean,” Clarabelle continues thoughtfully, “we all had access to Christmas lights. The whole country club is wrapped in them. We may as well be sitting in Santa’s workshop.”
“That’s not helping,” I mutter.
Santa has a workshop? Bunny muses internally, then her mind immediately flits to white noise.
The whole white noise thing would be nature’s way of sparing me from all sorts of things of an inappropriate nature. Leave it to Bunny to muscle her way onto the naughty list.
“All right, sugar plums…” Peggy jingles as she stands up, clearly deciding it’s time to restore order before someone actually does commit murder right here in my living room.
“I think we’ve accomplished enough amateur detecting for one evening.
Y’all have given me enough material to keep my bedmate entertained for hours. ”
“We’re pillow talk now?” Hillary asks with horror.
“Honey, you’ve been pillow talk material since you started carrying a purse with a two-year waitlist.”
Bunny claps her hands together as if she’s just been inspired by something. “Oh! Speaking of entertainment, should I bring Nicholas to the next meeting? He could ho-ho-ho while we discuss motives and alibis. If you’re good, he might even let you sit on his lap.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Absolutely not. This investigation is strange enough without adding professional Santa impersonators to the mix.”
These ladies keep making their social situations more complicated, Rookie says. Why don’t they just sniff each other and determine dominance like normal creatures? It’s much more efficient than all this talking.
I couldn’t agree more, Cricket adds. Though I do appreciate that they brought excellent food to accompany their pack drama. Men would have brought chips and beer.
The exodus begins with awkward choreography as nobody wants to be the first to leave but everyone wants to escape.
The goodbyes are a flurry of designer bags, empty plates, and promises to reconvene when someone isn’t actively suspected of murder.
Chevy carefully disassembles her murder board, Tipper gathers her pricey platters, and Bunny makes her exit in a flurry of air kisses and hair flips.
Peggy and Clarabelle take their time with grandmotherly pats and jingly hugs, while Hillary and Kick flee with varying degrees of grace.
Peyton sticks around, apparently in no hurry to face whatever awaits her outside. She surveys the remnants of our amateur investigation—scattered photos, empty plates, the lingering smell of coffee and murder accusations.
“You know,” she says finally, “I’ve been to a lot of terrible parties in my life, but this one definitely makes the top five.”
“Only top five?”
“You haven’t met my family.” She picks up her purse—also expensive, but not quite Birkin-level—and heads for the door. “Thanks for hosting, Hattie. And for not completely assuming I’m a homicidal maniac.”
“The night is young,” I reply.
She actually smiles at that. “Call me if you need any help solving my own murder case. I have excellent insights into my own criminal psychology.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with Cricket, Rookie, and the aftermath of what might have been the most surreal book club meeting in the history of literature.
Well, that was entertaining. Cricket stretches luxuriously. Though I still don’t understand why you and Peyton need so many accessories to discuss simple pack dynamics.
I’m just disappointed nobody dropped any of those fancy chocolates, Rookie adds mournfully. All that drama and not a single treat hit the floor. What’s the point of conflict if there’s no food spillage involved?
I toss him a cookie before stepping outside into the crisp December evening, and the night air hits me like a crystalline slap of winter perfection.
Snow is falling in soft, fat flakes that catch the Christmas lights strung between the cabins like tiny frozen stars.
Above us, the sky is a deep velvet black scattered with glittering pinpricks of light that seem close enough to pluck.
The air smells like winter and evergreens and the pristine quiet that only comes with fresh snowfall.
It’s getting colder out there, Cricket notes from inside the warm cabin. I approve of you venturing into uncomfortable weather while I remain cozy.
Snow! I love snow! Rookie adds, bounding toward the door. Can we go play in it? Can we? Can we? He runs out then lets out a shrill bark and runs right back in.
It really is that cold.
As the last car disappears into the snowy evening, I spot him.
Killion stands on his front porch, and even in the swirling snow, the man looks like he stepped out of some winter romance novel. He’s wearing a dark sweater that emphasizes his shoulders, and the porch light creates this dramatic silhouette that makes my pulse spike.
Our eyes meet across the small space between our cabins, and he nods toward his door like an invitation.
“Cricket! Rookie!” I call back toward my cabin. “Come on, we’re going next door.”
Finally, a sensible decision, Cricket yowls as she runs this way.
Another adventure! Rookie bounds through the snow like a golden, furry tornado. Snow adventures with Dad! This is the best night ever!
I make my way across the short distance between our cabins, following the path that Rookie has already trampled in his enthusiasm.
Killion opens his door before I even reach the steps, and the warmth from inside spills out along with the scent of coffee and something that smells suspiciously like chocolate chip cookies.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, stepping aside to let us in.
His cabin is warm and masculine in that way only men who think of themselves as rustic can achieve—dark leather everything, exposed wooden beams, a fireplace that’s flickering exactly the way a fireplace should.
Mistletoe hangs from the beam above us with alarmingly specific placement. And, well, that’s not subtle.
Finally, Cricket immediately makes for the hearth to warm herself.
“You’ve been baking,” I gasp, surprised.
“Stress-baking,” he admits, closing the door behind us. “It’s either cookies or target practice, and the neighbors prefer cookies.”
I appreciate Killion more every day, Rookie declares, immediately investigating the source of the cookie smell.
“So,” Killion says, closing the gap between us, “how was your book club meeting?”
“Educational. We discussed literature, character development, and the finer points of murder.”
“Mm-hmm.” He wraps his arms around me and lands a quick kiss to my lips. “And did you learn anything interesting about... character development?”
“Several things, actually. For instance, I learned that some characters are more complex than they initially appear.”
His hands run up and down my back, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Is that so?”
“Very much so. Some characters seem professional and by-the-book on the surface, but underneath they’re secretly romantic enough to stress-bake cookies.”
“And some characters,” he murmurs against my ear, “seem innocent and law-abiding but keep conducting unauthorized investigations in lingerie boutiques.”
A tiny laugh bubbles from me. “Why do I get the feeling I’m about five minutes from getting arrested?”
“Because getting arrested by me is your favorite thing.” He buries a few kisses in my neck and I giggle like mad. “You’re infuriating,” he murmurs as his thumb traces my cheekbone.
“You’re not exactly a walk in the park yourself, Detective.”
“Is that so?” His voice drops to that low, husky tone that makes me forget where I was going with this conversation.
I nod. “You’re bossy, overprotective, and you have this annoying habit of being right about things,” I tell him.
“And yet you keep me around.”
I give a slight shrug. “You have your compensating qualities.”
“Such as?”
“Well, there’s the stress-baking,” I say. “I’m incredibly turned-on by a man who bakes.”
I’m turned-on by a man who bakes, too, Rookie barks before looking at Cricket. What does turned-on mean?
His eyebrow quirks with interest. “Would you still be turned-on by a man who buys baked goods?”
I pull back slightly to study his face. “Are you telling me you bought these?”
“I can cut and bake with the best of them,” he says with mock indignation. “But I’m talking about you and me hitting Millie Ashford’s bakery tomorrow.”
I gasp. “Are you inviting me into your investigation?”
He frowns. “Not even close. I’m inviting you to eat gingerbread cookies with me. I overheard Chevy saying Millie was your next suspect. I figured I’d cut you off at the bakery pass.”
“Very sneaky, Detective.” I laugh.
“I have my moments.” His mouth finds mine again, and this time there’s nothing gentle about it. It’s a kiss that turns my thoughts to static. His hands tangle in my hair, and I can taste chocolate chip cookie on his lips, which is somehow both domestic and incredibly sexy.
He backs me toward the leather sofa, and I glance up to see we’re positioned directly under one of the strategically placed sprigs.
“Mistletoe?” I ask against his lips.
“Holiday tradition,” he murmurs.
“That’s some thorough holiday decorating on your part.”
“I believe in being prepared.”
Oh, not this again, Cricket mewls from next to the fire, her tail twitching with feline displeasure. Can’t Hattie and Killion engage in mating rituals in private? Some of us are trying to enjoy the warmth in peace.
I love Dad’s cookies! Rookie barks with glee after discovering the plate on the coffee table. These are even better than the ones at the country club! Can I have another one? Can I? Can I?
“The pets are protesting,” I point out, though I’m not making any effort to move away from him.
“The pets have terrible timing,” he replies, his lips finding that spot just below my ear that makes my heart go boom. “Rookie, I baked you a batch without chocolate chips and they’re next to your dog dish.”
COOKIES! he barks with glee.
Killion and I get right back to the important business of joining our lips together once again. And this time, we have no intention of parting.
This is highly inappropriate behavior in a shared living space, Cricket continues her commentary. I don’t understand why Hattie and Killion can’t simply announce their intentions and proceed with efficiency.
More cookies! Rookie adds, apparently having decided that if the humans are going to be distracted, he might as well take advantage. Dad makes the best cookies in the entire world!
“Rookie approves of your baking skills,” I say, as his enthusiastic tail-wagging threatens to knock over a lamp.
“He has excellent taste.” Killion pulls me down onto the sofa with him.
“Unlike Cricket, who’s clearly a critic,” I say with a wink as I look at her.
I’m a realist, Cricket huffs. Some of us maintain standards.
The kiss that follows makes me forget about pet commentary, murder investigations, and a solid chunk of the English language. Somewhere, my mother is sensing inappropriate behavior from three towns over, and silently willing me to keep both feet on the floor.
“So,” I say when we finally come up for air, “it’s a date at the bakery.”
“It’s a date,” he confirms, and then he’s kissing me again, thoroughly serious about this whole mistletoe situation.
Sometimes the best investigations start with the simplest invitations—and sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is say yes to a man who knows exactly how to use mistletoe to his advantage.