Chapter 18
The North Pole Confectionery fills with the scent of pure sugar heaven as Millie returns from her kitchen carrying what looks like edible Christmas magic.
The air practically shimmers with cinnamon, vanilla, and melted chocolate, while “Jingle Bell Rock” plays softly in the background, occasionally interrupted by the gentle hiss of the espresso machine and the soft murmur of customers who are probably wondering why we brought pets to what’s clearly Maine’s most expensive bakery.
If only that detective knew how much I hated Seraphina, Millie thinks as she approaches our table with a smile that could illuminate all of Times Square. That woman cost me everything with her ridiculous accusations.
“Here we are!” she announces, setting down a tray that looks like it was assembled by Christmas elves with serious artistic ambitions.
The spread is breathtaking. Peppermint bark brownies topped with crushed candy canes that sparkle like edible diamonds.
Eggnog tiramisu squares dusted with cinnamon and arranged as if they belonged in a jewelry display.
Gingerbread crème br?lée in individual ramekins with crystallized ginger that catches the light like tiny amber gems.
Hot chocolate macarons filled with marshmallow cream sit next to Christmas tree petit fours decorated with edible pine needles. Candy cane cheesecake bites rest on mini graham crusts like tiny architectural wonders.
“And these,” Millie says, producing another tray, “are our signature holiday lattes. Cinnamon dolce with brown sugar whipped cream, peppermint mocha with candy cane whipped cream, eggnog spice with nutmeg-dusted cocoa, and gingerbread with molasses whipped cream.”
“Holy Christmas cannoli,” Clarabelle breathes, momentarily distracted from her elf-watching activities.
“And I couldn’t forget these little ones,” Millie adds, pulling out special treats from her apron pocket. “Reindeer biscuits for Rookie and Christmas mice for Cricket—all pet-safe, naturally.”
I love Millie more than my own mother, Cricket declares, accepting her salmon and sweet potato treat with her eyes wide with anticipation. If she’s the killer, we should totally look the other way. Just this once.
’Tis the season! Rookie woofs in agreement, demolishing his reindeer biscuit and threatening to knock over a nearby chair with his enthusiasm. Christmas murders don’t count if the killer makes excellent treats!
I make a face at my pets’ moral flexibility until I bite into the gingerbread crème br?lée, and suddenly I understand their position completely.
The dessert hits my taste buds and my brain briefly stops forming sentences. It’s perfect—creamy, spiced, with a caramelized sugar top that shatters under my spoon. I briefly consider converting to whatever religion worships gingerbread-based desserts.
Maybe Cricket and Rookie are right. Maybe we should let this woman off the hook no matter what she’s done.
I should feel guilty, but honestly, Seraphina had it coming, Millie thinks while watching us eat with satisfaction, and a breath hitches in my throat just hearing it.
“This is incredible,” Peyton says, though she’s eyeing Millie with sharp focus, clearly not forgetting why we’re here.
Millie clears her throat. “So, Detective, have you made any strides into who may have sent poor Seraphina Sparks to the big Christmas pageant in the sky?”
Killion pauses with his peppermint mocha halfway to his lips. “No, I was hoping to speak to you about that.”
To my complete surprise, Millie’s face lights up as if she were waiting her entire life for this exact conversation.
“Oh, I have so much to tell you!” she says, settling into the empty chair at our table like she’s about to share the world’s best gossip. “That woman had more enemies than Santa has reindeer.” The Christmas lights were so convenient, just lying there, she thinks, her smile never wavering.
My mouth falls open at the quasi-confession. Although in general, she’s not wrong. Anyone could have grabbed them and done the deadly deed.
“I saw Peyton here arguing with Seraphina just two days before the murder.” Millie gestures toward Peyton with a macaron. “And then I heard her threaten to kill the woman right there in the country club parking lot.”
Peyton gags and sputters. “I was venting frustration,” she says quickly. “People say things they don’t mean when they’re angry.” She says that last part while looking at Killion.
“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t mean it, dear,” Millie says soothingly, offering Peyton a snickerdoodle supreme that’s practically crystallized with cinnamon sugar. “Here, try this. It’s my signature cookie—brown butter, Madagascar vanilla, organic cinnamon from Ceylon.”
Peyton frowns but takes the cookie anyway. “I didn’t do this.”
“Well, someone did,” Millie points out with logic that’s hard to argue with.
I never meant for it to go that far, but she just wouldn’t stop, Millie’s thoughts continue their guilty parade, and it’s all I can do to keep from gasping again.
“And then there’s Diva Divine Temptation,” Millie continues, with a sigh that sounds suspiciously contrived.
“That woman owes money to half the state of Maine. I heard she borrowed fifty thousand from Seraphina last spring and never paid it back. She said her couples after-dark education business was going to revolutionize intimate apparel.”
“Fifty thousand?” I ask, nearly choking on my eggnog tiramisu.
“Oh yes. Seraphina was furious about it. She called Diva a con artist and a fraud. Threatened to expose her business practices to the Better Business Bureau.”
Killion is taking notes on his phone now. His detective instincts are fully engaged despite the sugar overload. You have to admire the dedication to the craft, especially when there are sweet treats of this caliber around.
“But the really interesting one,” Millie says, leaning forward, “is that Vivienne Velour woman. She’s not who she claims to be at all.”
My ears perk up. “What do you mean?”
“Her designs,” Millie says, dropping a hint rather than a bombshell. “Let’s just say they’re not as original as she’d have everyone believe. Seraphina had her suspicions about where those European creations really came from.”
“What suspicions?” Killion asks.
Millie glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “All I know is that Seraphina was doing some digging into Vivienne’s background. She said there were inconsistencies in her story, gaps in her timeline. Something about her previous work experience is not adding up.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Seraphina mentioned she was looking into some things. She had a few contacts in the fashion world, you know how she was with her connections. She seemed to think Vivienne’s story didn’t quite add up.”
And when Seraphina threatened to expose her, well… Millie’s thoughts trail off ominously.
“Did Seraphina confront Vivienne about this?” Killion asks.
“Oh yes. The night of the country club event. I overheard them arguing near the dessert buffet. Seraphina was giving her some sort of ultimatum, though I couldn’t make out all the details from where I was standing.”
The pieces are starting to form a picture in my mind, but before I can process it fully, chaos erupts on the other side of the bakery.
“Come here, you adorable little elf!” Peggy calls out, chasing one of the costumed elves around a display of gingerbread houses. “I just want to pinch those rosy cheeks!”
“Ma’am, please—” the elf starts, but Clarabelle has joined the pursuit.
“Don’t run from us, sugar! We’re harmless!” Clarabelle adds, though her pursuit technique suggests otherwise.
The poor elf, cornered by two determined elderly women, backs up one step too many. His elbow catches the corner of the towering gingerbread village display.
Time slows down.
The display wobbles. A gingerbread chimney slides off a roof. A frosted reindeer tilts at an alarming angle. For one optimistic second, I think it might right itself.
It does not.
The entire structure crashes to the floor in an explosion of cookie architecture and royal icing.
“Oh heavens!” Millie gasps, jumping up from our table.
But the destruction is just beginning. Other customers, startled by the crash, start backing away from the pursuing women and bumping into more displays. A tray of chocolate Yule logs goes flying, followed by a cascade of candy cane cheesecake bites.
“FOOD FIGHT!” someone yells, though I’m not sure if they’re announcing or starting one.
And really? This is the second one this week—maybe third. I’m sensing a theme.
Hot chocolate macarons become projectiles. Whipped cream starts flying. The second elf takes one look at the situation and bolts for the kitchen. And, of course, Peggy, undeterred, gives chase.
“I just want to ask about your working conditions, honey buns!” Peggy shouts, slipping on scattered Christmas cookies.
A customer screams as eggnog tiramisu splatters across his expensive coat. Another patron dives behind a display case as gingerbread crème br?lée becomes ammunition.
This is the most entertaining meal I’ve ever witnessed, Cricket meows from the safety of her tote bag. You and Peyton really know how to make catching a killer exciting.
Can I catch the flying cookies? Rookie asks, his tail wagging hard as pastries sail overhead. This is like the best game ever!
In the middle of the sugar-coated mayhem, with expensive desserts flying through the air like edible confetti and customers screaming in panic, Killion jumps to his feet.
His hand moves to his badge. “EVERYONE FREEZE!”
The command cuts through the chaos. Everything stops. The only sounds left are the Christmas carols playing on the speakers and the soft, tragic plop of frosting hitting the floor.
Turns out, the only way to clear a room mid-pastry-fight is reminding everyone that one of you carries a badge along with a sweet tooth.