Chapter 3
The weight of Balthasar’s head against my chest feels exactly like what I imagine holding a bag of wet cement would be—if wet cement wore a Santa suit and smelled like peppermint regret.
His steel-blue eyes are staring at the ceiling with the vacant expression of a person who’s clearly checked out of this particular Christmas party permanently. And here I am, the unfortunate Christmas cuddle-buddy of Santa who just ghosted out of life—literally.
“Mr. Thornfield?” I whisper, because apparently my voice defaults to librarian mode when faced with a possibly dead man in festive velvet who just so happens to have his face smashed against my boobs. If he weren’t dead, Jasper might want to kill him.
I press two fingers to his neck like I’ve seen in movies—no pulse. Just skin cold enough to chill a bottle of champagne and a general vibe of yup, definitely dead.
There’s nothing. Not even the tiniest flutter.
“OH MY GOODNESS!” I shriek at a volume that could probably wake the actual dead, though clearly not this particular dead guy who’s chosen my lap as his final resting place.
The doors to the inn practically explode inward as Jasper bursts through as if he’s been shot out of a Christmas cannon. He’s waving his badge and it catches the twinkle lights as his expression shifts from concerned husband to seasoned homicide detective in the time it takes most people to blink.
Right behind him is Deputy Leo Granger—Emmie’s husband and Jasper’s best friend—dark hair, dark eyes, and looking considerably more alert than he did a few hours ago when he was systematically destroying the desserts Emmie set out for us to sample.
If Leo’s stomach is any indicator, the desserts are going to win some serious blue ribbons—or at the very least make every resident in Cider Cove a pound or two heavier.
“Bizzy!” Jasper rushes over and plucks the dead man from my chest before lifting me away from Balthasar’s limp form with the kind of efficiency that suggests he’s had way too much practice with this exact scenario. Which, let’s face it, he absolutely has.
Leo immediately takes my place, checking for vital signs with professional thoroughness, while I stand there trying to process the fact that I’ve just been intimately acquainted with another dead body—and during the holidays, no less.
Okay, fine, so it’s not my first holiday homicide tango, but it’s something I’m never getting used to either.
At this point, I’m starting to think dead people have some kind of attraction to me, like I’m a crime scene magnet disguised as an innkeeper.
And for the love of all things red and green, please don’t let this be a holiday homicide. It’s Ella’s first Christmas. I’d rather collect baby snuggles than suspects.
“He’s gone,” Leo announces grimly, which triggers a collective scream from the growing crowd of the Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour attendees who’ve suddenly realized their festive evening has taken a rather permanent turn toward the macabre.
Jasper’s gray-blue eyes—the ones that usually make me go weak in the knees in the best possible way—fix on me with a mixture of love and concern, like a weatherman predicting a tornado with my name on it and no storm shelter in sight.
“What happened this time?” he asks, and I catch the emphasis on this time because we both know this isn’t exactly our first dead body rodeo—more like our fifteenth, and that’s probably conservative counting.
Okay, fine. We are definitely in our thirties as far as corpse collecting goes.
But honestly, that’s one oddball achievement I’m not willing to tally mark.
What can I say? We’re sort of good at it. Or at least I am. I’ve basically gone pro.
I want to be offended by the implication that I somehow attract corpses like a slice of peanut butter attracts jelly, but my track record speaks for itself, and arguing with evidence is generally a losing proposition, especially when the evidence is currently cooling off in a velvet chair.
“I was sort of dancing,” I protest, though calling what just happened dancing is being generous to the point of outright fiction.
“He spun me around, pulled me onto his lap, and then just... died. Right on me. Like, literally used me as a human deathbed, which is not exactly how I planned to spend my evening.”
I told you he smelled off, Fudge adds. Do I get treats for being right about the murdered guy?
This is not the time for treats, Fish is quick with her reply.
There’s always time for treats if you try hard enough—not to mention a homicide investigation, Fudge argues with the logic of a cute pooch who clearly has his priorities straight.
We still don’t know if he was murdered, Sherlock adds and both Fish and Fudge look up at him with their mouths hanging open.
Fish sniffs. Not murdered? Sherlock Bones, have you met Bizzy? Of course, this is a murder. The woman practically has homicide waiting to happen written all over her.
I wince just hearing it—because she’s not exactly wrong.
“All right, Bizzy,” Jasper exhales hard. “I need to call this in,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone like he’s ordering takeout but for crime. And believe me, we’ve ordered from this menu one too many times before. One fleet of sheriff’s deputies and one coroner to go.
“I’m already securing the scene,” Leo confirms, producing crime scene tape with the kind of speed that suggests he keeps it handy for everyday occasions—which, sadly, is probably accurate.
I’m about to say something when Mom and Georgie speed this way like two Christmas-themed tornadoes wearing enough holiday sparkle to be visible from low-flying aircraft.
“Another body?” Mom gasps, her red curls pulsing with pure horror.
“Bizzy, we really should just add a murder mystery dinner to the inn’s website at this point.
” She’s missing out on some serious revenue.
And oddly enough, Bizzy herself could probably provide the corpse. Not that she’s a killer. I hope.
My eyes widen in her direction, but before I can protest her inner musings, Georgie staggers forward another notch.
“Oh my word!” Georgie exclaims, clutching her sequined reindeer sweater like she’s having heart palpitations from excitement.
“This is the most thrilling Christmas party we’ve had since the Great Figgy Pudding Explosion of 2019!
Although I have to say, this particular Christmas corpse has significantly better fashion sense than some of our recent victims. Way to go, Biz.
If you’re going to slay at the holidays, you may as well go big or go home. Santa was the only right choice.”
“Georgie,” Mom hisses, but she’s fighting back what looks suspiciously like amusement, because apparently, even death can’t kill any trace of inappropriate humor.
“What?” Georgie feigns innocence. Come to think of it, that’s basically her natural state at this point.
“I’m just making an observation about quality tailoring!
Look at that burgundy velvet—it’s clearly custom work.
If you’re going to expire during the holidays, you might as well look fabulous doing it. ”
“Oh, Bizzy, I’m so sorry.” Buffy heads my way and winces, and I’m struck again by how much she looks like me—but with better core strength and significantly less corpse exposure. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks sweetly.
“Yes, you can stay exactly where you are,” comes a voice sharp enough to slice fruitcake, and we turn to see Mayor Mackenzie Woods bearing down on us in a power suit that somehow manages to be both festive and terrifying—like a Christmas tree designed by corporate lawyers.
That’s Mackenzie’s entire wardrobe in a nutshell.
“Another murder, Bizzy? Really?” Mackenzie’s voice could freeze hot cocoa mid-sip.
“The Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour kickoff is off to a deadly start, no thanks to your Grim Reaper shenanigans! Do you have any idea what this is going to do to our town’s reputation?
Our tourism revenue? Our standing in the New England Christmas Village rankings? ”
“I hardly think this is Bizzy’s fault,” Emmie says, appearing beside Mackenzie like a level-headed guardian angel sent to prevent mayoral meltdowns. “She didn’t exactly send out invitations that said ‘Check in for a cozy escape. Check out courtesy of the Grim Reaper.’”
“Didn’t she?” Mackenzie snaps with the intensity of a mayor whose carefully planned municipal events keep getting derailed by homicide. “Because from where I’m standing, dead bodies follow your best friend around like tourists following GPS directions to scenic overlooks of doom!”
Emmie places a firm hand on Mackenzie’s arm and starts steering her away from what’s clearly about to become a very public political crisis that could end up on the evening news.
Okay, so we will definitely land on every newscast everywhere in Maine for the next two days at least. “Let’s give the investigators some space to work,” Emmie suggests, which is Emmie-speak for let’s get you out of here before you end up as a viral video titled Mayor Loses Mind at Murder Scene.
It’s happened before. And now Mackenzie’s sanity is questionable at best, according to recent opinion polls.
Before I can take two steps from the crime scene, Macy materializes like a blonde shark who’s caught the scent of blood in perfectly heated water and decided to investigate with predatory enthusiasm.
Her red dress remains flawless despite the surrounding chaos, and her expression is sharp enough to cut both ribbon and arteries with equal efficiency.
“Well, well, well,” she says, fixing her laser-beam gaze on Buffy with the kind of predatory focus she usually reserves for clearance sales at high-end boutiques. “Isn’t it interesting how the first murder in months happens right after our little family reunion gets a shiny new addition?”