Chapter 19
Before we knew it, we were booted out of North Pole Confectionery—possibly banned for life—after what might just be the most expensive food fight in the history of Maine.
Between Peggy chasing elves and desserts becoming airborne, I’m pretty sure we’ve set some sort of record for turning a simple investigation into complete chaos. I knew the holidays brought out the worst in people, but I had no idea they sponsored the desire to throw perfectly good food.
Killion and I drove Peggy and Clarabelle home and landed back in Moonlit Meadows covered, head to toe, looking as if we were hit with a cupcake grenade.
“How about I call in a pizza and we take a quick shower before it gets here?” Killion suggests, pulling a piece of crystallized ginger from his hair as we get out of his truck.
I hike a brow his way.
“Shower separately, of course,” he adds with a wink, but that devilish smile suggests the wet offer was still on the table—or in the shower as it were.
“Separately,” I agree, though the way he’s looking at me suggests he’s thinking the same thing I am—that separately is really more of a technical requirement than a preference.
“I’ll wash the frosting out of your hair if you wash the peppermint bark out of mine,” he offers with that grin that makes my brain shut down all non-essential functions. “Wait, did I say separately?” He winks again and this time frowns right after.
“I’ve got marshmallow cream in places marshmallow cream should never be.”
“That’s quite an image.”
“Detective Maddox, are you having impure thoughts about my marshmallow situation?” I bite down on a smile as I wrap my arms around him.
“Absolutely. And I’m not sorry about it.”
“Neither am I,” I say, landing a quick kiss to his lips and making a run for it before we both turn into a couple of snowmen.
Twenty minutes later, we’re both freshly scrubbed and sitting in front of my fireplace with a deep-dish pizza that’s basically a cheese-covered work of art. Extra pepperoni, extra sausage, extra everything that makes life worth living.
Killion’s wearing jeans and a sweater that makes his shoulders look even more impressive than usual, and I’ve got on my favorite Christmas pajamas—the ones with reindeer that look slightly drunk.
Millie Ashford is a culinary genius, Cricket announces from her spot on the bookshelf, apparently still processing our bakery experience. I don’t care if she strangled someone with Christmas lights—have you tasted those salmon treats?
She’s basically the best human who ever lived, Rookie agrees, devoted beyond reason. Even better than the bacon lady at the farmers’ market!
If we have to testify against her, I’m developing sudden amnesia about everything except those Christmas mice treats, Cricket continues, and it appears that her ethics are entirely food-based.
“Just FYI, the pets have been corrupted by gourmet pet snacks,” I say, taking a bite of pizza that’s so good it should be illegal.
Speaking of corruption, Rookie adds, it’s my turn with Jolly Bear! I need comfort food after that traumatic bakery experience!
Traumatic? Cricket scoffs, abandoning her salmon treat to grab one end of the stuffed bear. You were catching flying cookies for sport!
That doesn’t mean it wasn’t emotionally challenging! Rookie protests, pulling on Jolly Bear’s other arm. I had to make split-second decisions about which treats to catch first!
“They’re going to decapitate that poor bear,” I say as the tug-of-war escalates.
“Let them work it out,” Killion says, settling back against the sofa with his slice of pizza. “So, did you overhear any interesting thoughts today?”
“Funny you should ask,” I say, curling up beside him. “Millie Ashford’s mind was quite the dark place for a woman who makes Christmas cookies that could convert an atheist.”
I give him the highlights of Millie’s mental commentary—her hatred for Seraphina, the accusations that cost her everything, her observation about how convenient those Christmas lights were, and her admission that she never meant for things to go as far as they did.
“Well,” Killion says slowly, “that’s not exactly the thoughts of an innocent woman.”
“Not exactly. Plus, there’s everything else we learned from my suspect tour of duty. Diva’s desperate financial situation, Vivienne’s suspicious knowledge about everyone’s private business, and Millie’s hints about Seraphina investigating Vivienne’s background.”
I won! Rookie announces triumphantly, having successfully wrestled Jolly Bear away from Cricket. Victory is mine!
Enjoy it while it lasts, Cricket growls, already plotting her revenge. I know where you sleep.
“The pieces are starting to form a picture,” I continue, “but I feel like we’re still missing something crucial.”
Killion reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. “Actually, I got some news from the lab today. Forensics found fingerprints on the Christmas lights used to strangle Seraphina.”
“Fingerprints?” I sit up straighter, nearly dropping my pizza. “That’s huge!”
“It could be. Forensics is running them through the system now, but it’ll take a day or two to get results. I already have Peyton’s prints on file from when we brought her in for questioning.”
“What about the others?”
“That’s where things get complicated. I need to get prints from Diva, Vivienne, and Millie for comparison.” He pauses, looking slightly sheepish. “That is, if I can get within ten feet of the bakery after today’s incident.”
“I’m pretty sure Millie would happily provide fingerprints if you asked nicely and brought cash for damages.”
“The damages are going to be significant.”
At least the food was good before it became projectiles—and afterwards, Rookie barks philosophically, having settled down with Jolly Bear for a post-victory cuddle.
“Christmas Eve is in two days,” I point out. “Are we going to solve this case in time, or are we going to spend Christmas morning arresting someone between opening gifts?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Killion says, sliding his arm around me. “We make a good team.”
“We do, don’t we?” I lean into him, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the solid comfort of his presence. “Even if our investigative methods involve food fights and elderly women chasing costumed employees.”
“Especially because of that,” he says, his lips finding that spot just below my ear that makes me bite down hard on my lip. “Traditional detective work is overrated.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Detective?”
“That’s my personal opinion,” he murmurs against my neck. “My professional opinion is that we should probably focus on the case.”
“And what does your personal opinion say we should focus on?”
His answer involves kissing me thoroughly enough to make me forget about fingerprints, Christmas lights, and possibly my own name. The fire pops behind us, and for one quiet, snow-muffled moment, the only thing I care about is the fact that he tastes like cedar and woodsmoke and trouble.
Hattie and Killion are so easily distracted, Cricket mewls from the bookshelf. They start talking about murder and end up sucking faces. It’s completely illogical.
I think it’s nice when they’re happy, Rookie counters, his voice muffled by Jolly Bear’s fur. Happy humans make better decisions about treat distribution.
When we finally break apart, I am breathless and exactly zero percent prepared to think about murder.
“So,” I say, while his hand traces slow circles on my back, “what’s our next move?”
“Tomorrow, I get those fingerprints. You try to stay out of trouble.”
“I always try to stay out of trouble.”
“You never succeed.”
“Details.”
He laughs and kisses me again, and I realize that some investigations are definitely more enjoyable than others—especially when they involve deep-dish pizza, firelight, and a detective who knows exactly how to make Christmas Eve feel like the most romantic homicide deadline in the world.