Chapter 20
Christmas Eve at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club is the kind of scene where you can practically smell the money.
The Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular is in full swing—crystal chandeliers throwing colored light across the ballroom, a string quartet playing carols dressed up in jazz arrangements, and approximately forty silk gowns rustling against marble in a way I’ll never afford to replicate.
“Merry Christmas, sugar pot pie!” Peggy calls out, appearing at my elbow with a champagne flute in one hand and her third chocolate truffle in the other. She’s wearing a deep green velvet dress that brings out her eyes and makes her look like a sophisticated Christmas tree.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I reply, adjusting my glittering red gown that catches the light like liquid fire with every movement.
“Have you seen the selection of available men tonight?” Bunny asks, joining our little circle with a predatory gleam.
Her gold sequined dress sparkles brighter than the chandeliers, and she’s scanning the room with terrifying focus.
“I count at least six potentials, though none of them compare to my Nicholas.”
“Is your Santa dropping by tonight?” Peggy asks with amusement.
“My St. Nick will be here any minute now,” Bunny says with a possessive satisfaction. “And before anyone gets any ideas, I’m not sharing. Christmas or no Christmas, a woman has to maintain some boundaries.”
“I wouldn’t dream of poaching your Santa,” I assure her.
“Good, because I’ve already warned him about husband-hunting widows and divorcées with questionable intentions.” She shoots the aforementioned guilty parties a dirty look.
Clarabelle appears beside us, holding a plate piled high with chocolate truffles that look dipped in gold—and knowing this club, they probably are.
“Ladies, dinner was divine, but this dessert spread is something to write home about. Thank heavens Millie Ashford and North Pole Confectionery agreed to cater despite our recent little mishap.”
I follow her gaze toward the dessert table, which is calling entirely too much attention to itself, then let my eyes wander across the rest of the transformed space.
The ballroom has been decorated within an inch of its very expensive life.
Crystal ornaments the size of small planets hang from the ceiling, catching the light from chandeliers that drip with enough crystals to make Tiffany’s jealous.
Gold and silver garlands drape across every surface, while towering arrangements of white roses, pine branches, and what look like actual silver bells create centerpieces that might as well be comprised of hundred-dollar bills.
Ice sculptures of angels and Christmas trees glisten under the lights, slowly melting into artistic puddles that someone with a very expensive mop will eventually have to clean up.
The champagne fountain bubbles merrily near the entrance, surrounded by enough candles to summon something evil, and with hundreds of delicate flutes stacked around it with impossible symmetry.
Peyton stands near the dessert table surveying the scene, clearly satisfied that every detail is perfect—even if she is currently breaking and entering. Okay, so that’s a stretch, but I wanted to say it at least once.
Her black evening gown is elegant and understated, letting her work speak for itself, though I notice the slight tension around her eyes that suggests the stress of organizing a gala while being a murder suspect hasn’t exactly been relaxing.
Who are we kidding? I organized this entire thing from head to toe like I always do.
“It’s impressive,” she says as I make my way over, “though not that impressive considering I was on site every day making sure things went off without a hitch.”
“Even while not getting paid for it,” I point out.
“Especially while not getting paid for it.” She takes a moment to glare at me. “Nothing motivates perfectionism like spite—except maybe chocolate truffles. Speaking of which...” She takes off in the direction of a chocolate truffle paradise.
It’s true. The ballroom has been transformed into a winter wonderland that would make the North Pole jealous.
Along one wall, a gingerbread village sprawls across multiple tables—Santa’s Workshop included, citizens included, glowing candy-cane streetlights very much included.
A forest of themed Christmas trees skirts the room, each one fully committed to a very specific theme.
The whole setup looks like a holiday movie with a six-figure budget.
“Hattie!” Mom’s voice carries across the ballroom with the warm, slightly too loud cheer of a woman two glasses into the champagne. She makes her way over in a deep blue dress that’s clearly her best piece, Winnie right behind her in a silver gown built to catch every chandelier in the room.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Mom says, pulling me into a champagne-scented hug. “Doesn’t everything look wonderful?”
“It’s magical,” Winnie agrees, scanning the room with the eye of someone who’s about to plan a wedding. “I can’t believe Valentine’s Day is only six weeks away. A double wedding. Honestly.”
“Six weeks to pull off the social event of the year,” I say. “Plus, the small matter of sharing it with Neelie. No pressure.”
“Please. I’ve had a binder for this since I was eight.” She shrugs. “Fitz is just lucky I let him into the planning at all. Neelie will happily ride on my coattails.”
I’m about to respond when I spot Neelie across the room, hanging onto Stanton’s arm like he’s a flotation device. He is, for the record, already eyeing the cocktail waitress.
I wince. “I still can’t believe Neelie’s marrying that cad.”
Mom follows my gaze, her face shifting through several stages of maternal alarm mixed with social horror. I’ve seen Stanton with other women around town. Poor Neelie has no idea what she’s getting herself into.
I saw that idiot just last week at the cottage grill with that blonde from the yacht club, Winnie growls with the thought. And he doesn’t even bother to hide it.
“We have to talk her out of this,” I say, watching as Stanton’s attention wanders to another passing cocktail waitress while Neelie chatters obliviously beside him.
“We’ll tackle this after the new year,” Mom says, using the same calm tone she’s used to defuse family drama since we were in diapers. “No point ruining Christmas with wedding interventions.”
“Agreed,” Winnie nods. “Family confrontations should never interfere with holiday champagne consumption.”
They head off toward the champagne fountain, leaving me to do the math on whether Neelie would listen to reason. The answer, based on twenty-six years of evidence, is no.
“Quite a party.”
I turn to find Killion approaching in a dark suit and a red tie that matches my dress so exactly I’m going to need answers. He looks, frankly, criminal. The good kind of criminal.
“Did we coordinate on purpose, or are we just that kind of couple?” he asks, taking in our matching color scheme.
“I think we might be that kind of couple,” I admit.
“I can live with that.”
He moves closer. I’m pretty sure I’m about to be kissed in front of approximately three hundred witnesses. And I’m so okay with that.
Cricket and Rookie streak past us at full speed, chasing a small white dog wearing a diamond collar that has more carats than most engagement rings.
“Cricket! Rookie!” I call after them. “Walk, don’t run!”
This place is full of other furry creatures! Cricket calls back without slowing down. We’re conducting a head count!
That little white dog has TREATS in his fancy jacket! Rookie adds, like a dog on a treat scouting mission. I have located snacks and I am ON THE CASE!
“The rich only love one thing more than money,” I say, watching as several other pampered pets parade through the ballroom wearing outfits that look straight off a Milan runway, “and that’s their fur-babies.”
“At least our pets fit in with high society,” Killion says, sliding his arm around my waist.
“Just by the hair of their chinny chin chin.”
“Hello, Hattie,” a smooth voice interrupts. “Detective Maddox.”
We turn to find Vivienne Velour materializing beside us like she’s been there the whole time. Black dress, a dark, sleek updo, and the carefully composed face of a woman who knows exactly how she looks and has used that to her advantage before.
“Lovely party,” she trills with a smile that says the champagne is too great to pass up so I didn’t. “Since you’re here, Detective, I was just chatting with Diva Divine. Such an interesting woman. Did you know she’s been having some rather serious financial difficulties lately?”
“I may have heard something about that,” he says.
“Yes, well, desperation makes people do terrible things, doesn’t it?” Vivienne’s smile sharpens slightly. “Speaking of terrible things, I couldn’t help but notice something the night poor Seraphina died.”
My attention snaps to full focus. “Oh?”
She nods. “I saw Peyton near the Christmas light displays that evening. She was about to unplug one of the strings of lights. She seemed rather focused on it, actually.”
I inch back. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I remember thinking it was odd—why would the event coordinator be unplugging decorations during the party?” Vivienne holds up her empty champagne flute. “Well, I need a refill. Please excuse me.”
She strides off toward the champagne fountain, leaving me staring after her with a head full of questions and a growing sense that the pieces of this puzzle are finally starting to click into place.
Diva Divine drifts past moments later, her red dress flowing around her like liquid silk. She gives us a polite smile, but I catch the sharp calculation in her eyes.
Before I can process the last few minutes, Killion’s phone buzzes with an insistent tone.
He checks the screen and his expression shifts. “It’s forensics.”
“Good news or bad news?” I ask.
“We’ve got a match on the fingerprints,” he says, already eyeing a quieter corner of the ballroom.
“I’d better call in and get a full report.
” He kisses me quickly but thoroughly enough to remind me what we’ll be doing later once this murder case is finally solved.
“Keep off the naughty list while I’m gone.
” He starts to walk away, then turns back. “Until later, that is.”
I swat at him playfully as he disappears into the crowd, leaving me standing in the middle of Maine’s ritziest Christmas party with a head full of clues and a growing suspicion that this case is about to crack wide open.
Across the ballroom, I spot Peyton standing alone near the ice sculpture of an angel, staring at it like it might hold the answer to her prayers—or her mortgage.
Time to get some answers.
All I want for Christmas is justice—and maybe a few more minutes under that mistletoe with a certain detective once all the criminals are safely behind bars.