Chapter 23
The Brambleberry Bay Country Club ballroom now smells like a collision between a champagne warehouse and a chocolate factory, with hints of pine needles and woodsy cologne that’s been diluted by ankle-deep bubbly.
“Joy to the World” plays overhead, completely unaware that the champagne is now ankle-deep.
Security guards storm through the ballroom doors, clearly having dealt with holiday party madness before, though probably not quite at this level of destruction.
Their boots splash through champagne puddles as they survey the scene with a worn-out patience that comes from working too many charity galas.
Killion, still holding his gun but now considerably less official-looking under a generous coating of chocolate ganache and champagne, transfers a very subdued Vivienne Kowalski to a couple of sheriff deputies. And he looks visibly relieved by it, too.
“Vivienne Kowalski, also known as Vivienne Velour,” he says formally, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Seraphina Sparks.”
Finally! Cricket declares from somewhere near my feet, apparently having survived the disaster with her tail intact. Though I have to say, this has been an interesting murder investigation. Can we keep some of the sushi appetizers?
Can we keep some of the mini sliders, too? Rookie asks with far too much hope, his golden fur now decorated with the remnants of several expensive desserts. It seems wasteful to just throw it all away.
I give a quick nod and Rookie goes straight to work. In truth, he’s the best clean-up committee I could ask for.
Vivienne looks as if her carefully constructed life just collapsed faster than that champagne tower, which, given recent events, is probably an accurate assessment.
“Listen up!” Peyton shouts over the melee, her voice carrying enough force to make grown men stop mid-conversation and several waiters straighten their posture instinctively.
Every head in the ballroom turns toward her, including several Santas who appear to be stuck in the chocolate ganache.
“My good name has just been cleared, and I hereby declare I’m back on the job!” she announces triumphantly, clearly vindicated by both evidence and flying tackles. Her silver gown is now decorated with various dessert casualties, but she wears the stains with pride.
The crowd erupts in scattered applause, though it’s hard to tell if they’re clapping for justice or just grateful that someone is taking charge of this disaster.
“I’ll have this place cleaned up in less than fifteen minutes,” Peyton continues, like the bossy manager she is—and the one we all missed.
Well, most of us missed. “All staff hands on deck! And I demand every last Santa abandon the premises before I toss you all in jail for trespassing and disturbing the peace with your incessant jingling!”
The Santas, who have been milling around like confused ornaments, make their way toward the exits. But before a single red suit can escape, the women of the Brambleberry Bay Country Club spring into action with impressive coordination.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Bunny calls out, grabbing the nearest Santa by his fur-trimmed sleeve. “I didn’t pay six figures for a Santa Squad just to watch you walk out the door!”
“Why in the world would you hire all of them?” Peyton snaps at her in horror.
“I may have gotten carried away,” Bunny admits, though she doesn’t look all that sorry about it. “But look how festive they are!”
What follows is a full-blown holiday dating ritual. Every eligible woman in the ballroom—and several whose eligibility is being charitably described as flexible—descends on the costumed men. By the looks of it, the Santas are not emotionally prepared.
The music swells. The ballroom, against all reason, becomes a dance floor. Socialites who have not moved their hips since their wedding receptions are now grinding against costumed Santas in a scene I will not be describing to my mother. Although, in all fairness, she is here to see it.
“All’s well that ends with jingle bell rock,” I say as Killion wraps his arms around me, close enough that I catch cedar soap, champagne, and what is unmistakably chocolate buttercream.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, his hands running over my arms and back like he’s not sure if I’m in one piece.
“No,” I say, but I’m guessing I’ll have some interesting bruises tomorrow. “I’m just decorated with half the dessert table.”
“You look beautiful covered in chocolate,” he muses with an arched brow.
“Most men would call this a fashion emergency.”
Our romantic moment is interrupted by a commotion near the destroyed champagne fountain, where Peggy has apparently decided to give her captured Santa a crash course in Southern hospitality.
“Now, sugar pie honey,” Peggy says to a particularly tall Santa who looks like he’s wishing he were at the mall, “your ho-ho-ho needs more enthusiasm. Put some heart into it!”
“Like this! HO-HO-HO!” Clarabelle demonstrates, producing a laugh that’s part Santa, part battle cry, and entirely terrifying. I fear she might be summoning werewolves.
The Santa tries to mimic her technique, resulting in a sound that’s somewhere between jolly and genuinely concerned for his vocal cords.
“Better!” Peggy declares. “Now let’s work on that belly shake. You’re too fit to be convincing.” She licks her lips as she says it. “Think more like a bowl full of jelly, less like a gym membership!”
The poor man starts jiggling like there’s no tomorrow, totally committed to his role, even if that role now involves being coached by two senior women who have earned their positions on the naughty list the old-fashioned way.
The music switches to something moody and the entire room takes a turn for the romantic.
“Want to dance?” Killion asks, nodding toward the chaos that’s now passing for a party.
I look around the ballroom—at the champagne-soaked floors, the scattered Christmas tree remains, the socialites laughing with their hostage Santas, the staff frantically trying to restore some semblance of order to the opulent disaster we’ve created.
“I was just wondering,” I say, moving closer to him, “if it’s too late to get a Christmas tree.
You know, do a little decorating, maybe cuddle around the fire, test out the new feather tickler I may or may not have picked up for myself?
” Okay, it’s for Cricket, but I don’t think she’ll mind me borrowing it.
His expression shifts into something dangerous and decidedly unprofessional.
“Actually,” he says, “I know exactly where we can find the perfect tree.”
“At this hour on Christmas Eve?”
“Trust me.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing in front of the sorriest Charlie Brown Christmas tree I’ve ever seen—the last pathetic specimen left on the tree lot, looking like it’s been through its own personal holiday disaster.
It’s more of a theory than a pine tree, with branches that seem to be reaching for help rather than capable of holding ornaments.
“This is your idea of the perfect tree?” I ask, staring at what appears to be a Christmas tree’s distant, unsuccessful cousin.
“It has character,” Killion says, trying to convince himself as much as me.
“It has bald spots.”
“Distinguished bald spots.”
We drag our adorable little tree home and prop it up in my living room, where it immediately lists to one side like it’s giving up on life.
I hang a single red ornament on the tip of the highest branch, and we both watch in fascination as it slowly bobs down to the floor as if surrendering to the holiday.
“Well,” I say, “that’s festive.”
“Maybe we should focus on other holiday projects,” Killion suggests, pulling me close.
“Such as?”
“Testing that feather tickler comes to mind.”
He kisses me with enough heat to make the pathetic tree look positively tropical, and I decide that some Christmas traditions are definitely worth improvising.
Finally, some peace and quiet! Cricket mewls from the couch. That was the most exhausting evening I’ve had in months. But with Santa due to arrive, I won’t catch a wink of sleep.
Can I have some of those cookies from the party?
Rookie asks with his tail wagging as he sniffs around the base of our tiny tree.
For emergency snacking purposes! I may have accidentally acquired a few in my fur during the chase scene.
I promise to save a few for Santa. Okay, I’ll save him two.
On second thought, maybe one. That suit is looking a little tight at the seams.
“Have at it,” I say, and he makes quick work of them.
“You know,” I say to Killion as he holds me by the fire, “when I woke up this morning, I definitely didn’t expect to end Christmas Eve by tackling a killer into a dessert table.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m thinking it was exactly the kind of Christmas miracle I needed.”
Killion kisses me thoroughly as if he’s about to go to war with an entire army of sugared-up elves before pulling back. His lips twitch with a barely-there grin as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small red velvet box. He pops it open and holds a sparkling diamond ring toward me.
“What do you say we make it official?”
I gasp because Christmas Eve just delivered the ultimate plot twist.
The next day…
Murder Club Group Chat
Hattie: MERRY CHRISTMAS! I hope everyone survived last night’s festivities. Mine ended with heated kisses—and a feather tickler that may have been put to good use.
Chevy: My editor wants to buy the rights to that ballroom scene. OH! And speaking of books, Hattie, great news! The printer issues were finally fixed and the new release date for your debut cozy mystery is February 14th! What better way to spend Valentine’s Day than at your very first book launch!
Hattie: Wow, sounds amazing! But have I mentioned that BOTH of my sisters are getting married on Valentine’s Day?
Chevy: Tell your sisters to hire a good videographer because I’m backing this release personally with more cash than their weddings combined. Your book launch is going to be SPECTACULAR!
Hillary: Speaking of expensive disasters... I’m never attending another charity gala. My dress is ruined, my shoes are sticky, and I found glitter in places glitter should never be.
Kick: The kids loved hearing about the “Christmas food fight.” Now they want to recreate it with our holiday dinner. Kirk is hiding in the garage.
Bunny: Nicholas and the Santa troupe were AMAZING! Best Christmas Eve ever! Though I may have overcommitted to dating them all...
Tipper: Henry’s already planning a “Chaos and Champagne” themed menu for New Year’s. Some people never learn.
Peggy: Sugar, I taught those Santas moves they’ll never forget! Clarabelle and I are starting a dance studio!
Clarabelle: “Ho-Ho-How to Dance Senior Style”—I can see the sign now!
Peyton: ATTENTION EVERYONE. As the newly reinstated event coordinator, I’m implementing new rules: No murder investigations during MY events. No Santas without proper permits. And absolutely NO feather ticklers as evidence. Some of us are trying to run a respectable establishment.
Hattie: I didn’t say it was evidence, I said it was put to good use. Trust me, it’s been thoroughly tested and deemed extremely effective for its intended purpose.
Peyton: I DID NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT.
Bunny: Details, Hattie! We need details!
Hattie: Some Christmas gifts are meant to be unwrapped privately. And repeatedly.
Peyton: I’M LEAVING THIS CHAT.
Chevy: Don’t leave! This is all going in my next book! “Murder, Mayhem, and Christmas Miracles!”
Peyton: I want royalties if I’m a character. And editorial approval. And my fictional counterpart better be good-looking.
Hattie: Merry Christmas, everyone! Here’s to solving murders, surviving family, and finding the perfect man who knows how to use mistletoe properly—and wields a mean velvet box. And just for the record, I said YES!
Thank you for reading! Look for the next book in the Brambleberry Bay Murder Club Series coming up soon!