Chapter 4
Well, that Christmas party last night was more eventful than usual, Fish mewls as we make our way toward the inn along the cobbled path that’s currently dusted with enough fresh snow to look like someone attacked it with powdered sugar.
I knew something was wrong when Jellybean said those candy cane cookies tasted funny, Sherlock adds with the kind of worried tone usually reserved for natural disasters and empty treat jars.
Speaking of Christmas... do you think the real Santa will still slide down our chimney even though that fake Santa is dead? Fish asks, and I can practically hear the concern in her meow.
Oh no! Sherlock whimpers with genuine panic. What if Santa thinks our inn is cursed? What if he skips us this year? What if baby Ella doesn’t get any presents for her first Christmas? What if we’re all automatically added to the naughty list?
Don’t be ridiculous, Fish mewls with the patience of a cat explaining basic physics to a goldfish. Everyone knows the real Santa is safe at the North Pole. Isn’t that right, Bizzy?
“That’s absolutely right,” I say aloud, adjusting Ella’s blankets as she gurgles with what sounds suspiciously like laughter from her stroller.
My three-month-old daughter has inherited Jasper’s dark hair and light gray eyes, plus dimples that match my own—though hers are considerably cuter.
She’s also been blessed with the uncanny ability to never need a wink of sleep, which would be charming if it weren’t for the fact that her lung power could probably be registered as a weapon of mass destruction with the proper authorities.
When she cries, windows rattle, pets hide, and I’m pretty sure the neighbors three cottages over start checking new places to live.
“The real Santa is probably sipping hot cocoa and checking his list twice, completely unaware that his Cider Cove impersonator met an untimely demise at our Christmas gala.”
See? Bizzy knows about these things, Fish says smugly. She’s an expert on dead people and holiday logistics.
Well, that’s one way to describe my skill set.
The December morning air carries the scent of pine needles, ocean salt, and the faintest hint of wood smoke from someone’s fireplace, creating the kind of quintessentially Maine winter atmosphere that would be absolutely perfect if not for the whole murder situation we’re currently dealing with.
Light snow continues to fall in lazy flakes that look like nature’s confetti, coating the rolling grounds of the Country Cottage Inn in pristine white that the entire scene looks as if it belongs in a snow globe—if that snow globe were showcasing an inn that has seen far more than its fair share of homicides.
And don’t think for a minute there aren’t dark souls out there who would love to get their hands on a snow globe like that.
Look at all the white fluff falling from the sky! Sherlock barks excitedly. Do you think we can build a snowman later?
Only if you promise not to knock it over five minutes after we build it, Fish replies dryly.
That was ONE TIME! And it was an accident!
Three times. And they were all “accidents,” Fish corrects with a growl.
The inn rises before us like something straight out of a holiday movie—all white with bright blue shutters that I insisted on keeping when I took over this place.
With seventy rooms in the main building and over thirty charming cottages dotted across the property like an adorable Dickens village, we’re basically our own little version of a Christmas wonderland.
I still don’t understand why hoomans need so many rooms, Sherlock muses as we approach the main building. Wouldn’t it be easier to just have one big room where everyone sleeps together in a pile?
Because hoomans are weird about personal space, Fish explains patiently. They don’t appreciate the warmth and comfort of sleeping in a furry pile.
Their loss, Sherlock concludes with a woof.
I still say it’s a Christmas wonderland—one that occasionally doubles as a crime scene, but still.
Those cottages happen to house quite the collection of characters these days—myself included.
Jasper and I call the main cottage home, while Emmie and Leo live just down the winding path in what used to be the groundskeeper’s cottage but now serves as headquarters for Emmie’s culinary empire.
Georgie has claimed the cottage that sits west of the inn and has turned it into what can only be described as a shrine to romance novels and seasonal decorating.
Georgie’s cottage smells like lavender and insanity, Fish yowls with typical feline bluntness.
That’s not very nice, Sherlock chides with a woof. Her cottage smells like bacon!
I said what I said, Fish replies without remorse. But she’s still my favorite kaftan-loving granny. The bacon part doesn’t hurt either.
And in a plot twist of the century, my father and his wife, Gwyneth—who happens to be Jasper’s mother, have taken up residence in the cottage right next door to ours. Because apparently, the universe has a sense of humor about personal space and family boundaries.
The closer we get to the inn, the more I can see the aftermath of last night’s disaster through the floor-to-ceiling bay windows that line the front of the building.
The evergreen garlands are still draped elegantly along the window frames, though they look slightly worse for wear after hosting a murder scene. Honestly, everything does.
The twinkle lights that seemed so magical last night now look more than a bit morose in the gray morning light, like party decorations the morning after a celebration that went spectacularly wrong—emphasis on spectacularly, considering it concerned the death of the head elf himself.
The double mahogany doors are festooned with wreaths that are somehow still picture-perfect despite the chaos, and as soon as I push through the entrance, I’m hit with the competing scents of pine garlands, cinnamon rolls, and the faintest hint of crime scene cleaner—a combination that would make an interesting candle if you were marketing to people with very specific interests. I’d probably buy one.
The Country Cottage Inn’s lobby glows with its usual cozy charm, with soft lighting and just enough pine-scented ambiance to make you forget someone may or may not have kicked the bucket here recently.
The white marble reception counter gleams like it has something to prove, especially next to the distressed gray wood floors that stretch across the main level—floors that, I should add, have seen more emotional whiplash than a holiday dinner with my entire family.
We’re talking proposals, shouting matches, awkward reunions, dramatic fainting spells, and the occasional homicide.
Not that anyone’s keeping a tally. Except maybe me.
The wrought iron staircase sweeps up to the second floor on my right, its railings currently adorned with enough Christmas greenery to reforest a small country.
Red velvet bows nestle among the garland like festive little surprises, and crystal ornaments catch the light streaming through those bay windows, creating tiny rainbows that flash across the walls.
The lobby bustles with the usual morning activity—guests heading to breakfast with the contented expressions of people who have no idea they’re staying at what’s apparently becoming Maine’s premier murder destination, staff members moving efficiently between tasks with the kind of ease that comes from working at a place where unexpected drama is basically a job requirement.
And speaking of my staff members...
As soon as I set foot inside the lobby, I spot Grady Pennington and Nessa Crosby locked in what can only be described as a mistletoe-fueled embrace that would make romance novel cover models take notes.
They’re positioned perfectly beneath a strategically placed sprig of that kissy weed that hangs from the chandelier like nature’s excuse for workplace inappropriate behavior.
Grady is tall, dark, and handsome in that Irish way that makes sensible women do foolish things—and right this minute, he has his arms foolishly wrapped around Nessa as if her mouth were the portal to all things chocolate.
His dark hair is artfully tousled in a way that suggests either expensive styling products or complete indifference to mirrors, and judging by the fact that he’s currently making out with his girlfriend at the front desk, despite the guests roaming freely, I’m guessing it’s the latter.
Nessa, just so happens to be Emmie’s cousin and is in possession of those gorgeous Crosby family genes that apparently come standard issue with the genetic package, with her dark hair twisted into what was probably a neat bun this morning but now looks like it’s been through a minor tornado.
Her requisite ugly sweater (we’ve both been donning them faithfully since the calendar switched to December—featuring kissing snowmen that seem oddly appropriate given the circumstances—is slightly rumpled in a way that suggests this particular mistletoe encounter has been going on for more than just a quick peck.
I clear my throat loud enough to make them jump apart like a couple of teenagers, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Really?” I tease. “You do realize we have over seventy rooms in this place. One of them is bound to be empty.” It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve helped themselves to a room or two.
“And by the way,” I say as Fish hops up on the counter, “we had a murder here last night, in the event you weren’t aware. ”
Oh, they’re plenty aware, Fish mewls.
They’re just used to it by now, Sherlock woofs before trotting over to the Christmas tree near the bay windows and giving it a sniff before lifting a leg.
I clear my throat again and shoot him a look that says, don’t even think about it, Buster, and he’s quick to retreat.