Decorated to Death (Country Cottage Mysteries #31)

Chapter 1

“Bizzy!” Georgie’s voice cuts through the ballroom like a candy cane machete.

“Have you spotted any hot elves yet? Please tell me Santa brought reinforcements, because this crowd needs some serious peppermint-scented eye candy, stat.” Although I’d take cinnamon-spiced, vanilla-infused, or even pine-fresh at this point as long as they could get the naughty job done.

My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds.

Not every mind, not every time, but most of the time, and believe me when I say, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re hosting Cider Cove’s most pretentious holiday event of the season and everyone’s thoughts are more tangled than last year’s Christmas lights.

I glance up from the refreshment table where I’m strategically positioning Emmie’s latest sugar masterpieces. “Georgie, we’ve been open for exactly twenty minutes. Give the eligible bachelors time to arrive before you start hunting them down like a Christmas cougar.”

By open, I mean for the Cider Cove Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour. The inn is officially kicking off the event tonight, and all of the holiday lookie-loos will be congregating right here in my ballroom.

And as far as Georgie goes—well, Christmas cougar would be an accurate description of Georgie Conner year-round.

“Christmas cougar!” Mom’s laughter rings out as she joins our conversation. “My goodness, Georgie, you never change. If there’s mistletoe and testosterone, you’re in your element.” And she’s more like a year-round predator anyway.

Great minds think alike. But then, anyone who’s ever met Georgie is onto her cougar-like ways.

“I prefer to think of myself as a festive opportunist,” Georgie says, fluffing the gray pouf that sits on her head like it’s her signature weapon.

She’s wearing a Christmas sweater loud enough to redirect aircraft, and her tights look like they were stolen off a candy cane during a North Pole heist. If this party were judged solely on sparkle per square inch, she’d be the winner, hands down.

“Besides,” she gives an unrepentant grin, “if some handsome stranger escaped from the North Pole and landed in Cider Cove, I want first dibs. It’s the holiday season.

A girl can dream about finding her own personal Santa under the tree.

And by under the tree, I mean under my tree, if you catch my drift.

In this snazzy place, it looks as if anything can happen here tonight—even a Christmas miracle.

” Here’s hoping that miracle lands an elf for two or even Santa himself in my bedroom. She winks my way.

Georgie knows all about my little mind-reading quirk. My mother ironically does not know, which is probably for the best considering some of the thoughts I pick up from family gatherings.

Christmas is still a week away, but I have to admit, the Country Cottage Inn does look pretty spectacular tonight.

We’ve got thick, luscious evergreen garland draped over every conceivable surface, a glorious Christmas tree in the lobby that’s roughly the size of a small building, and enough twinkle lights to power a small city.

The ballroom has been transformed into a winter wonderland with rich red and gold linens, crystal chandeliers wrapped in enough greenery to reforest Maine, and refreshment tables that are currently groaning under the weight of Emmie’s holiday confections.

The inn is gorgeous this time of year. But then, as the owner, I might be a little biased—and with Emmie’s desserts, we’re unstoppable.

Speaking of Emmie, where is my partner in culinary crime?

“Incoming!” Emmie’s voice rings out from the kitchen doorway, and I turn to see my best friend balancing what appears to be the Leaning Tower of Peppermint Bark.

Emmie is petite with the same long dark hair and denim blue eyes as me—we could pass for sisters if it weren’t for the fact that we actually share the same formal name, Elizabeth.

We’ve been besties since preschool, when our mothers thought matching overalls were the height of toddler fashion.

Her dark curls are pinned up with holly clips, and there’s enough flour dusting her festive apron to suggest she’s been wrestling with pastry dough all afternoon.

The cranberry red dress peeking out beneath the apron coordinates perfectly with her Christmas cookie earrings—because apparently everyone got the memo about going full-throttle festive except me.

“Please tell me you didn’t just refer to your desserts like they’re incoming fire about to take us all down,” I say, diving in to help stabilize what looks like a sugar-themed game of Jenga.

I take a bite out of her famous peppermint bark and moan.

“On second thought, these are so going to take us down in the very best way.”

She giggles. “Next time I’ll say incoming deliciousness.

” She grins, setting down the platter like it’s a Fabergé egg.

“Wait until you see what else I’ve got. Gingerbread macarons with royal icing snowflakes, eggnog crème br?lée, and Christmas tree pull-apart bread that’s going to make people beg to be on the naughty list—calorically speaking, of course. ”

I’m already begging, Sherlock woofs from somewhere near my boots. But it’s because Fish won’t let me have the good spot by the window.

That’s because last time you drooled on the glass, Fish sniffs from her perch.

You brought this shame upon yourself. I shoot her a look, and she sighs hard.

Fine. I’ll share the space with you, Big Oaf, Fish mewls once again, though her tone is gentler than usual.

Just don’t drool a puddle. Some of us have standards.

Thanks, Fish! You’re the best! Sherlock barks with the kind of enthusiastic gratitude that makes me smile despite myself.

Both pets are currently engaged in what appears to be a relatively peaceful territorial negotiation over prime scrap-catching real estate, while Skittles, Buffy’s adorable ginger labradoodle, sits nearby looking like the well-behaved child in a room full of heathens.

She’s wearing a festive bow that somehow makes her look even more dignified, which is frankly insulting to the rest of us.

Buffy would be my shiny new sister—a full-blooded sister at that. We only just learned about her last Halloween, but it’s been a fun ride ever since. I couldn’t love her more if I tried.

Macy, my far more spicier sister, hasn’t quite taken to Buffy like the rest of us have, but my brother Huxley and I have all but grafted her into the fold.

Now that the conversation has moved beyond Georgie’s quest for holiday romance, I can properly take in the scene.

Georgie looks like Christmas had a party and invited every sparkly thing in the Northern Hemisphere.

Her gray pouf is extra poufy today—styled into what can only be described as a holiday haystack—and she’s wearing the aforementioned Christmas sweater so aggressively festive it could double as a warning beacon for incoming aircraft.

Sequined reindeer gallop across her chest while candy cane striped tights peek out beneath a red velvet blazer that’s seen better decades.

Mom, on the other hand, is the picture of elegant Christmas sophistication.

Her red curls are perfectly styled with the precision of a woman who has a standing appointment at the salon, her emerald green silk blouse coordinates beautifully with the festive reading glasses that have tiny jingle bells dangling from the frames, and everything about her screams I know how to dress for a holiday party without looking like a clearance rack explosion.

“Okay, enough about eligible bachelors and mistletoe emergencies,” Mom says, scanning the room like she’s on security detail. “Where are my grandbabies? They should be here by now. You know how I worry when my grandbabies are out of eyeshot for more than thirty seconds.”

Hand to heaven, this is the truth—for her and me both.

“Ella is with Gwyneth and Dad,” I explain, automatically checking my phone for the fifteenth time in ten minutes because apparently new motherhood comes with a built-in paranoia setting that makes secret service agents look relaxed.

Ella would be my precious three-month-old angel whom I can’t get enough of—even at three in the morning.

“They were just finishing up her feeding, but they should be here any moment. And Elliot might be making an appearance, too.”

Elliot would be Emmie’s sweet little boy. He’s seven months old and has wasted no time in becoming a heartbreaking charmer. Emmie and I are already planning the wedding.

“I can’t wait to see little Ella and Elliot experience their first Christmas,” Georgie says with a contented sigh that suggests she’s temporarily suspended her elf-hunting activities. “Though let’s just hope Ella doesn’t inherit your talent for finding dead bodies at large gatherings.”

“That would be inconvenient,” I mutter, because that’s exactly the kind of superpower I’d like to skip a generation—or twelve.

That might be inconvenient, Fish agrees from her perch on the windowsill, where she’s maintaining surveillance over the parking lot with the intensity of a Secret Service agent.

But she might be better at it than you are, Bizzy.

You have a tendency to trip over the dead accidentally—at regular intervals. It’s really quite alarming.

Gee, thanks. I give a wry smile to my furry critic for her vote of confidence.

Before I can defend my sleuthing credentials, I spot Macy at the ballroom entrance looking like hell on heels—red dress that looks painted on, blonde bob sharper than her attitude, and her red lipstick is the exact shade of freshly spilled blood.

Even her silver jewelry looks lethally intimidating, which is quite a feat for accessories.

Macy’s outlook on life has been colder than a snowman in a meat locker as of late. And that wicked glint in her eye says someone is about to get professionally shredded.