Chapter 22
Iglance down at the driver’s license I may or may not have swiped from the coat check here at the country club on this, the holiest night of the year, and blow out a breath that smells like champagne and guilt.
The coat check room carries the scent of mothballs, wool coats, and what I’m pretty sure is the lingering aroma of my own moral flexibility. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” echoes from the ballroom, punctuated by the sound of increasingly tipsy socialites singing along off-key.
Vivienne has a pseudonym she operates her business under—so what?
It’s probably a wise move on her part. After all, Vivienne Velour does sound infinitely better than Vivienne Kowalski.
The former suggests European sophistication and mysterious allure, while the latter sounds like someone who might work at the DMV and have strong opinions about proper paperwork.
The rustle of footsteps comes my way, and I’m about to shove the license back where I found it when a hand grabs my wrist with enough force to leave fingerprints.
I gasp and look up to find Peyton staring at me, clearly having just caught her event coordinator committing petty theft on Christmas Eve.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses, her grip tightening. “Don’t tell me you’re the one who’s been stealing loose bills from guests’ coats for the last six months.”
I shoot her a look. “More like the one who might be one step closer to clearing your name.”
I flash the driver’s license at her, and her eyes widen as she takes in the name printed in official DMV font.
“Vivienne Kowalski,” she reads aloud, then gasps like she’s just opened the best Christmas present of her life. “She’s been lying about her identity?”
A commotion near the coat check door sends us both jumping like guilty teenagers caught raiding their parents’ liquor cabinet.
I quickly toss the license back into Vivienne’s purple handbag while Peyton and I execute the world’s most elegant boot-scoot out of the coat check area and back into the holiday madness.
The Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular has clearly hit its stride. The champagne is working its magic on the usually uptight crowd, singing Christmas carols with sports-bar-level enthusiasm, swaying to the music like gilded trees in a very expensive breeze.
Cricket and Rookie come tearing past us with Jolly Beary hanging on for dear life.
I told you not to eat those cookies off the ground! Cricket scolds as they streak by. You spooked the entire catering staff! And now your rear end can explode at any moment!
They were just sitting there looking lonely! Rookie protests, his tail wagging so hard that Jolly Bear bounces like he’s riding a furry mechanical bull. I was providing a public service! Someone had to save them from getting stepped on!
“Let’s look up Vivienne Kowalski,” I say, pulling out my phone with the laser focus of a woman who might have to clean up after her dog soon.
Peyton produces her own phone, and we huddle together, planning our next move.
Within moments, we’ve found an article from a fashion industry magazine that makes for fascinating reading.
“Vivienne used to work for an entire slew of famous designers,” Peyton reads aloud, scrolling through the information. “Margot Beaumont, Viktor Darchand, Celestine Noir...”
I nod, studying the accompanying photos. “Yes, she did. And do you notice something about all of these designs?”
Peyton wrinkles her nose like she’s just smelled something unfortunate. “They look like zombie chic? Very dark, very dramatic, very... dead?”
“Exactly,” I say, my excitement building. “Peyton, I’ve seen some of these exact pieces in Vivienne’s shop. I don’t think she’s as original as she wants everyone to believe.”
Peyton sniffs with disdain. We all know she was raised on cashmere and crystal. “So what? Doesn’t all velour look dark and depressing? There’s not a lot you can do with that particular fabric.”
I shake my head. “I think you’re wrong. Look at these ruffles, these bizarre wing-like sleeves—these are all signature elements that Vivienne was priding herself on at the trunk show. I bet Seraphina had enough dirt to destroy her entire career, and I bet that’s why—”
Peyton elbows me in the ribs with enough force to rearrange my internal organs, and I look up to see a vision in velvet moving toward us.
But not just any vision—Vivienne herself is gliding across the ballroom toward the most elaborate Christmas display I’ve ever seen outside of a professional theme park.
Santa’s Workshop rises before us like something from a dream or a nightmare, constructed entirely of gingerbread, chocolate, and enough sugar to put an entire kindergarten class into hyperactive orbit.
The workshop is complete with working conveyor belts made of candy canes, chocolate machinery that actually moves, and cookie elves arranged in a way that suggests they’re hard at work creating toys. It’s simultaneously impressive and slightly disturbing.
“Let’s go,” I whisper to Peyton, and we make our way toward the sugary wonderland, casually approaching as if we definitely aren’t about to accuse someone of murder next to a chocolate assembly line.
Vivienne is examining the workshop with interest, which means she’s either genuinely impressed by confectionery architecture or looking for an escape route.
“Vivienne,” I say, approaching with a smile that probably looks more predatory than friendly. “This is quite the masterpiece, isn’t it?”
She turns with that European charm and laughs. “It’s quite the spectacle.”
The crowd seems to ease around us and I take that as a sign from the universe to dive into the deep end with this woman.
“Vivienne, would you mind if we asked you a few questions—about lingerie?”
She gives a knowing nod. I knew these young women would become desperate to please the men in their lives eventually. And that’s where I come in—taking their money, hand over fist.
She wishes.
Okay, fine. I wish it were true, too. Killion really did seem to appreciate that number I showed him the other day.
“We’ve been doing some research,” Peyton says, cutting straight to the point with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “About design origins and creative inspiration.”
“How fascinating,” Vivienne replies, but there’s something in her voice that suggests she finds it anything but fascinating.
I pull up the article on my phone. “Particularly about designers who worked for Margot Beaumont before her unfortunate accident.”
Vivienne’s face goes through several color changes, settling on a shade that’s somewhere between pale and guilty.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” she says as her hand flutters up to her throat.
“We’re implying,” Peyton says with a dark smile, “that maybe Seraphina discovered your little design theft scheme and threatened to expose you.”
“And maybe,” I add, “you decided to silence her permanently before she could ruin your carefully constructed new identity.”
Vivienne looks around with a hint of desperation, like she’s hoping a convenient earthquake might interrupt this conversation.
“You don’t understand,” she says finally, her accent slipping slightly to reveal something that sounds more New Jersey than Paris. “Seraphina was going to destroy everything I worked for. She had no right—”
“So you killed her,” Peyton states flatly.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen!” That European poise abandons Vivienne all at once.
“She cornered me that night, threatened to call the police, said she’d make sure I never worked in fashion again.
The lights were right there, and she just wouldn’t stop talking, and I—I wrapped them around her neck.
I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do! ”
A thunderous commotion from the ballroom entrance cuts off any further confession as approximately two dozen men dressed as Santa Claus come streaming through the doors in a very jolly flood of red velvet and white beards, and a whole lot of ho-ho-hoing.
“What in the tacky sleigh bells is happening in my country club?” Peyton demands, staring at the Santa army with the look of a woman whose entire night has just been hijacked by a bunch of portly men.
“Bunny must have hired the entire troupe instead of just the man she’s dating,” I say, watching as Santas spread across the ballroom like holiday-themed locusts.
Peyton groans with despair as if her worst fears are being realized in real time. “This is Bunny we’re talking about. She’s probably dating the entire troupe!”
“Oh, right.” I wince because it’s probably true.
Vivienne seizes the moment of distraction to make her break for freedom, darting around Santa’s Workshop with surprising agility for someone wearing designer heels.
“Stop her!” I shout, but my words are lost in the cacophony of ho-ho-hoing Santas and increasingly confused socialites.
The chase is on, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Cricket and Rookie lead the pursuit, followed by every pampered pet in the ballroom—a parade of diamond-collared dogs, designer-clad cats, and at least one ferret wearing a tiny tuxedo.
This is the best Christmas ever! Rookie barks with glee, while bounding after Vivienne with Jolly Beary still clinging to his back. Chase scenes AND treats everywhere!
Focus on the criminal, not the food! Cricket calls back, though I notice she pauses to sniff at a fallen canapé. There’s a good chance it’s tuna.
Vivienne crashes through Santa’s Workshop like a velvet-clad wrecking ball, sending gingerbread elves flying and chocolate machinery crumbling. Cookie conveyor belts collapse under her desperate flight, and what was once an architectural marvel becomes a confectionery crime scene.
I leap onto a nearby table, having watched too many action movies, then launch myself at Vivienne’s retreating form in the world’s most ungraceful flying tackle.
We both go down in a tangle of velvet and determination, skidding across the marble floor toward the towering dessert display that represents several thousand dollars’ worth of artistic sugar work.
The impact is spectacular. Truffles explode like chocolate grenades. Elaborate cake sculptures topple with the tragic beauty of edible architecture meeting its doom. Cream puffs become projectiles, and what was once a dessert table becomes ground zero of a sugary apocalypse.
But the real disaster is yet to come.
The champagne tower—a magnificent crystal pyramid that took three people and two hours to construct—wobbles ominously from the shockwaves of our collision. For a moment, it seems like it might recover its balance.
Then it tips.
What follows is a champagne tsunami. Hundreds of glasses go down in a single coordinated act of glass-on-marble violence, sending a flood of expensive champagne across the ballroom in a wave that would make Noah nervous.
Guests slip and slide across the suddenly treacherous floor. Santas go down like holiday bowling pins. The elaborate Christmas tree forest that lines the ballroom starts toppling in a domino effect that would be beautiful if it weren’t so completely catastrophic.
Pine needles fill the air like green confetti. Ornaments explode against the marble floor in bursts of glitter and glass. The sound is like Christmas itself having a nervous breakdown.
Just as the last tree crashes down and the champagne reaches ankle depth, Killion bursts through the ballroom doors with his gun drawn, stopping the chaos cold.
“EVERYBODY FREEZE!” he shouts with enough authority to stop a stampede.
The ballroom falls silent except for the gentle drip of champagne from various surfaces and the soft whimpering of what might be either traumatized socialites or confused Santas.
In Brambleberry Bay, the truth has a way of coming out in the most unexpected ways. And the most refined parties have a way of ending with everyone covered in champagne and chocolate, wondering how a simple murder investigation turned into the messiest Christmas miracle on record.