Chapter 17
The next afternoon finds me trudging through the snow toward North Pole Confectionery with my own personal crime-fighting entourage.
The air smells like fresh snow and wood smoke from nearby chimneys, while the scent of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon rolls does its best to hypnotize me.
Christmas carols drift from speakers mounted outside the shop, competing with the gentle hum of afternoon traffic and the crunch of footsteps from holiday shoppers on the sidewalk.
I still don’t understand why we couldn’t stay home by the fire, Cricket complains from her tote bag, her head poking out as she frowns at the scenery. This investigation could have been conducted via telephone.
But think of all the treats! Rookie gives a lively bark as he strains against his leash with excitement. I can smell cookies and bread and something that might be bacon from three blocks away!
Killion walks beside me, relaxed and perfectly aware this is about to become an investigation disguised as a date. And yet the man has a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth that suggests he’s got his own agenda for this little bakery visit.
“You know,” he says, “this is nice. Just the two of us, no murder clubs, no suspicious lingerie boutiques—”
“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice interrupts. “Looks like someone’s conducting field research without her primary suspect.”
Peyton pops out from behind a parked car like she’s been lying in wait, which, based on her pink cheeks and general rage, she has.
She’s bundled in a coat entirely too ritzy for someone currently crouching behind a sedan, and she’s glaring at me like I’ve committed a personal offense by not inviting her to the eleven A.M. ambush she’s clearly been planning.
“Peyton,” I say, trying for innocent surprise and failing miserably. “What are you doing here?”
“Following my amateur detective team, apparently. Did you think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking off to investigate a suspect without me?”
Hattie, your pack has no discernible hierarchy, Cricket says. Among cats, this would not be tolerated.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting I was hoping to avoid exactly this confrontation, a car door slams with enough force to register on the Richter scale.
“Do you know how difficult it is to keep track of the two of you in this inclement weather?” Clarabelle calls out, emerging from what looks like the world’s most expensive Uber.
My mouth falls open as Peggy climbs out after her, both women looking like they’ve survived some sort of transportation-related adventure.
“Y’all move faster than greased lightning when you’re on the hunt,” Peggy announces, adjusting her purse with the wounded dignity that follows overpaying for a ride across town.
“How did you—” I start.
“Hitchhiked,” Clarabelle says proudly. “Well, technically, we used one of those rideshare applications. Cost us two hundred dollars because apparently there’s some sort of weather surcharge and an emergency fee and a holiday markup. Or was that a tip that I gave?”
“Two hundred dollars?” Killion asks, clearly trying to process the economics of small-town transportation.
“The driver said it was premium pricing for elderly passengers in hazardous conditions,” Peggy explains, clearly insulted by modern commerce.
“Elderly?” Clarabelle huffs. “I told him we were seasoned, not elderly. There’s a difference.”
Peggy and Clarabelle spend their money in the most peculiar ways, Cricket notes. Two hundred dollars could buy a month’s worth of quality cat treats.
A month?
We all stand on the sidewalk for a moment, staring at North Pole Confectionery like it might bite.
The bakery is clearly trying to win some sort of award for Most Aggressive Christmas Business in New England.
Every window is outlined in twinkle lights.
Garlands droop from the doorway with more fabric than most wedding altars.
And beside the entrance, a life-sized wooden Santa is waving mechanically, and I don’t love his facial expression—he looks angry that he can’t eat the cookies he’s forced to smell all day.
“I called ahead,” I tell the group. “Pets are welcome.”
“Of course, they are,” Killion says, eyeing the holiday decorations, beginning to suspect this isn’t going to be a quiet romantic outing after all. “Lead the way.”
He holds the door open like the gentleman he is, and we file inside to the sound of “Silver Bells” playing from hidden speakers.
“Treats are on me today,” he announces generously.
The words are barely out of his mouth when he catches sight of the menu board behind the counter, and I watch his face go through several interesting color changes.
Twelve-dollar lattes. Twenty-dollar dessert plates. Individual cookies for eight dollars each.
He just realized he’s volunteered for financial ruin, Cricket mewls with a laugh. I really do enjoy watching him learn about consequences.
The interior of the bakery looks like the inside of a Christmas snow globe—a very expensive snow globe.
Crystal chandeliers hang from exposed beams, each one wrapped in enough garland to outfit a small forest. Display cases stretch along two walls, filled with desserts that look more like art installations than actual food.
Gingerbread macarons topped with edible gold leaf sit next to peppermint bark tarts garnished with crystallized mint leaves. Eggnog crème br?lée nestles in individual crystal ramekins, while chocolate Yule logs decorated with marzipan holly berries occupy an entire refrigerated case.
Christmas tree cake pops covered in edible glitter sparkle under the lights, and candy cane cheesecake slices are arranged to holiday perfection.
Hot chocolate bombs the size of small planets promise to explode into cups of liquid heaven, while sugar cookie sculptures depict entire winter wonderland scenes complete with skating rinks and snow-covered cottages.
This place smells like every good thing that ever happened to flour and sugar, Rookie barks, his tail wagging hard enough to create a small windstorm. Can we live here? Can we? Can we?
I nod his way because I’d like to.
“Oh my word,” Clarabelle breathes, staring at a display of chocolate sculptures of famous Christmas movies. “This place makes Willy Wonka’s factory look like amateur hour.”
Peggy and Clarabelle immediately spot two older gentlemen dressed as elves manning the espresso machine, and I watch as they exchange a look that clearly says challenge accepted.
“Well, hello there,” Peggy calls out, her Southern accent suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife. “Y’all are just the cutest things I’ve ever seen in those little elf costumes.”
The men—who appear to be somewhere in their sixties and probably thought they were just working a seasonal job—suddenly find themselves the targets of two determined women with questionable motives and excellent flirtation skills. They don’t stand a chance.
“Ladies,” one of the elves says nervously.
“Don’t mind us,” Clarabelle adds with a smile that could light up half the state. “We’re just admiring your craftsmanship.”
Meanwhile, Peyton marches up to the counter, oozing with charm as if it were her secret superpower.
“Excuse me,” she says to a young woman arranging petit fours, “I’d love to speak with the owner. This place is absolutely incredible. The artistry, the attention to detail—I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The compliments flow like expensive champagne, and I have to admire Peyton’s technique. She’s laying it on thick enough to frost a wedding cake, but somehow making it sound completely sincere.
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you!” the employee gushes. “Let me get Millie. She’ll be so excited to meet you!”
Within moments, the woman herself emerges from the back kitchen area.
Millicent Ashford is probably in her late forties, with silver-streaked brown hair pulled back into a neat bun and a flour-dusted apron that somehow looks chic rather than messy.
She moves with confident grace that comes from knowing you’re exceptionally good at what you do, and her smile lights up the room as if she’s genuinely delighted to meet new customers.
“Welcome to North Pole Confectionery!” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Millie Ashford. I own this little slice of Christmas heaven.”
“It’s absolutely magical,” Peyton gushes, and for once her enthusiasm seems completely genuine. “I’m Peyton Blakely, and this is—”
“Detective Maddox!” Millie interrupts, her smile growing even brighter.
“I know exactly who you are. And you must be Hattie Holiday. I’ve heard so much about you from the country club crowd.
In fact, I think I’ve seen you at a few events.
” Good grief. Isn’t she the unfortunate soul who found the body?
Outside of that high-strung brunette. She does a double take at Peyton and gasps.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. The last thing my bakery needs is the bad luck that follows these two.
She knows who we are, Cricket notes with interest. That’s either very good or very bad for our investigation.
It’s almost always bad.
Millie forces a smile at the lot of us. “I insist on bringing you some complimentary desserts and our signature holiday lattes,” she continues, already moving toward the display cases.
“Please, have a seat by the window and I’ll be right back with a selection that’ll make your taste buds sing Christmas carols. ”
She gestures toward a cozy seating area with overstuffed chairs arranged around a small table that offers a perfect view of the snowy street outside.
“That’s very generous,” Killion says, and I can practically hear his wallet sighing with relief.
“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure. Any friends of the country club are friends of mine.” Here’s hoping my new friends won’t leave a trail of bodies in their wake.
As Millie bustles off toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare enough sugar to put us all into a coma, Peyton settles into her chair, clearly satisfied that her strategy is working as planned.
She winks at Killion. “My mother always said you catch more elves with sugar cookies than with coal.”
I snort with laughter. “Did she really say that?”
“She would have, if she’d ever met any elves. Here’s hoping Millie Ashford is about to deck the halls and tell us everything she knows.”
The sweetest investigations can start with the most innocent invitations—and sometimes the most dangerous confessions come wrapped in peppermint bark and tied with a candy ribbon.