Chapter 21
The Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular continues, and the whole ballroom is operating at maximum sparkle capacity.
Christmas Eve at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club smells like champagne wishes and caviar dreams, with hints of pine garland and perfume that require a second mortgage to afford.
The string quartet has moved on to a jazzy version of “White Christmas,” while the ice sculptures admit defeat one slow drip at a time.
Have I mentioned the chocolate? There is, technically, more chocolate in this room than people. Towers of truffles. Fountains of ganache. Dessert displays that have clearly been treated as more important than most weddings.
I make my way across the ballroom toward Peyton, who’s standing near the ice sculpture of an angel, like she’s contemplating whether to pray to it or push it over.
Her silver gown catches the light and shines like the blade of a very sharp knife—beautiful, elegant, and somehow dangerous all at the same time.
“Quite a party,” I say, sliding up beside her as if I’m not about to accuse her of murder.
“It’s adequate,” Peyton replies, her eyes never leaving the ice angel. “Though I notice the champagne fountain is running low, and someone clearly didn’t coordinate the lighting with the floral arrangements.”
“It’s a tragedy.”
“You have no idea how difficult it is to maintain standards when you’re working with amateurs.” She gives me the side-eye.
“Speaking of standards,” I say, deciding to cut right to the chase because subtlety has never been my strong suit, “why don’t you just admit it? You killed that poor woman.”
Peyton’s head snaps toward me so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. “Excuse me?”
“You couldn’t control your temper because you care too much about this place, and she was about to give it a bad name. Well, she technically succeeded, but you didn’t know she’d already hit send when you picked up that string of holiday lights.”
Peyton inches back from me as if I’ve just announced I’m carrying a communicable disease. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Vivienne saw you that evening,” I go on. “She said you were by the Christmas light displays, about to unplug one of the strings. You seemed very focused on what you were doing.”
For a moment, Peyton’s jaw tightens hard enough that I worry about her dental work, and I think I might actually have her cornered.
“You wish I were the killer, don’t you!” she snaps, her voice rising enough to make several nearby socialites turn and stare as if they’ve just smelled fresh gossip.
“You wish you could be rid of me and never have to have me breathing down the back of your neck again. In fact, I bet that’s why you staged it to make it look like I did it! ”
Now it’s my turn to inch backward. “How in the world did I do that?”
“By planting that faulty strand of Christmas lights!” Peyton’s eyes flash with righteous indignation.
“You know I have zero tolerance for imperfection, and one of the strands was blinking erratically. I said I wanted nothing but clear lights—no motion, nothing but pure, unadulterated elegance—and you couldn’t do that one measly thing for me. And now look where it got me.”
I pause to reflect on the concept of Peyton’s requests being “measly.” This is a woman who once demanded imported snow from Switzerland for a winter theme party, demanded live swans for an outdoor pond despite it being February in Maine, and required every rose to be hand-painted gold. We are running out of florists.
“I didn’t set you up,” I say firmly. “But you admit it—you picked up those lights! And when Seraphina showed up, you knew exactly what to do with them.”
We’re standing close enough now that we’re practically poking each other in the chest as we exchange accusations, which probably looks ridiculous to anyone watching two grown women have a murder argument at a charity gala.
“I was fixing a lighting malfunction!” Peyton hisses, jabbing her finger toward my sternum. “Someone—and I have my suspicions about who—installed a strand that was blinking off and on erratically!”
“So you removed it!”
“Of course, I removed it! It was ruining the entire aesthetic! That’s when I saw her, already on the floor, with a whole other set of lights wrapped around her neck.”
Oh, I should have killed the witch, Peyton thinks with enough venom to poison a small village. If I’m going to fry for it, I may as well have had fun doing the deadly deed.
I gasp so loudly that several people turn to stare at us. “You mean you’re innocent?”
Peyton frowns at me, clearly confused. “You didn’t really think I was capable of murder, did you?” But in Hattie’s case, I might just break my own rules, she adds to herself.
I close my eyes in defeat, feeling like I’ve just lost the world’s most important game of Clue.
“I need some eggnog,” Peyton announces. “Heavily spiked. And possibly a new event coordinator who doesn’t accuse me of homicide at Christmas parties.”
She stalks away as if she’s just been vindicated by her own thoughts, leaving me standing next to a melting ice angel, wondering how I could have been so completely wrong.
Any luck catching the killer? Cricket asks, appearing at my feet with Rookie beside her.
Jolly Bear is strapped to Rookie’s back, wearing a tiny Santa hat that makes him look like the world’s most adorable Christmas decoration.
We’ve been conducting surveillance, she continues.
Though mostly we’ve been eating dropped appetizers and investigating the dessert table.
The chocolate fountain is AMAZING! Rookie adds with a bark. But we haven’t seen anyone confess to murder yet. Any luck on your end?
“None,” I mutter in response to Cricket’s question. “No luck whatsoever.”
I look around the ballroom, taking in the lavish crowd of people who are all potential killers disguised as philanthropists.
My gaze lands on Vivienne Velour, who’s surrounded by socialites fawning over her like she’s some sort of fashion oracle instead of a woman who sells questionably tasteful lingerie.
It’s funny how the tables have turned. A few weeks ago, these same people probably wouldn’t have given her the time of day, and now they’re all suddenly in love with her European designs.
“Wait a minute,” I say aloud, causing Cricket to look up at me with interest. “Didn’t Millie say something about—”
Before I can finish the thought, Millie herself walks by carrying a tray of chocolate sculptures shaped like Christmas trees.
“Millie!” I call out, stepping into her path. “That day at your bakery, you mentioned something about Diva and Vivienne—about how neither of them was quite what they seemed.”
Millie pauses, balancing her tray as if she can do it in her sleep. “Oh yes, from what I hear, Diva’s never been good with finances. Sweet woman, but couldn’t balance a checkbook if her life depended on it.”
She starts to move away, but I’m not done yet.
“Not a lot of people are good with finances,” I say quickly. “But what did you mean when you said Vivienne wasn’t who she claims to be?”
Millie glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leans closer.
“Vivienne Velour is something akin to a stage name. I can’t recall what her legal name is, but it was something plain Jane like Dibowski or Jagowski.
Anyway, Seraphina told me so long ago, and I can’t recall.
You know, it was something run-of-the-mill that wouldn’t move the wicked merchandise she’s trying to unload on those poor souls just to turn a dime.
” Some people will do anything for money, she thinks as she walks away.
Though I suppose I shouldn’t judge, considering what I did for it.
“I’d better go,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“I’ll be rolling out my gingerbread surprise that I’ve been working on all month for this swanky event.
I just hope you’ll eat it right up.” She takes off with a wave.
What are you going to do? Rookie asks, his Santa-hat-wearing passenger bouncing slightly as he tilts his head.
“Follow me,” I say, already moving toward the coat check area with the focus of an amateur sleuth who’s just had a breakthrough.
The coat check room is tucked away near the entrance, staffed by a young woman who looks deeply unimpressed by everything she’s been asked to hang up tonight.
I scan the hanging garments until I spot what I’m looking for—a long velvet coat in deep purple, with a matching purse hooked over the hanger.
“Just checking on my coat,” I tell the attendant with a smile that suggests I definitely belong here and am absolutely not about to commit a minor felony.
I quickly pull out the wallet from the purple purse and flip it open to the driver’s license.
Vivienne Kowalski.
Not Dibowski or Jagowski, but close enough. Millie was right about the plain Jane name, and I have to wonder if I’m even closer to the truth than I thought.
The most dangerous lies are the ones hiding behind the prettiest names—and the best place to find the truth is in someone else’s purse.