Chapter 14
“This afternoon was a complete disaster,” I announce as we escape into the Country Cottage Inn’s café, which feels like a warm hug compared to Matilda’s marble mausoleum where we just survived the Great White Elephant Catastrophe of the century, and I’m grateful to be back in familiar territory where the decorations don’t require their own insurance policies.
It’s just Emmie, Jordy, Macy, and me as we settle in for some well-deserved comfort food and strategy planning for the days leading up to the big Christmas Eve shindig, which will be held right here at the inn. And I’ve just summed up every expensive detail that this afternoon offered.
Baby Ella is safely tucked away with Dad and Gwyn for a well-deserved nap, which means I can actually focus on the thousand and one details that go into throwing the Christmas Eve Gala without worrying about whether someone is going to accidentally wake the baby with their event-planning enthusiasm.
“Define disaster,” Emmie says, settling at our usual table with her laptop open. “Because on a scale of one to Georgie-chasing-Macy-with-chocolate-while-people-dangle-from-chandeliers, I’d say that was more like a solid eight.”
“At least nobody called the fire department this time,” Jordy adds, pulling out his phone and scrolling through what I assume are decorating notes for the Starlight Christmas Eve Gala.
The glass patio offers a perfect view of the darkening sky and the ocean beyond, where waves are breaking over the shore with the kind of rhythmic consistency that should be relaxing but somehow isn’t, given that we’re expecting more snow and trying to plan an event where people have to trek into the elements to make it to the inn.
Evening is falling fast, and the Christmas lights strung around the inn are starting to twinkle like tiny beacons of hope against the gathering darkness.
Santa is coming! Santa is coming on Christmas Eve! Sherlock announces with pure puppy joy as our furry crew races toward the patio door. Do you think he’ll bring me that squeaky bone I’ve been dreaming about?
The physics of Santa’s operation is highly questionable, Fish shoots back with her typical feline skepticism. One man covering the entire planet in a single night? Please. That’s almost as far-fetched as hoomans sticking to their New Year’s resolution.
Maybe he has helpers, Candy suggests hopefully.
Or maybe it’s a massive conspiracy involving parents and credit cards, Cinnamon adds with the cynicism of a cute pooch who’s figured out where the treats really come from.
You’re all missing the point, Gatsby interjects. Santa represents the magic of possibility! The belief that good things can happen to those who’ve been nice!
Define nice, Fish mutters. Because my definition probably differs significantly from the traditional Christmas standards.
Can we go play on the beach? Sherlock asks, practically bouncing with excitement. I want to look for Santa’s sleigh tracks in the sand!
“Go ahead,” I tell them, opening the patio door to let the menagerie escape into the evening air. “Just don’t chase any seagulls into the ocean.”
No promises, Fish calls back as they race toward the sandy cove with the enthusiasm of inmates escaping a minimum security prison.
Now that we’re pet-free, I turn my attention to the planning committee currently spread around the patio table like generals preparing for battle. Jordy sits across from me, looking like a Christmas catalog model despite having spent the day hauling decorations,
Emmie has her laptop open with what appears to be seventeen different spreadsheets devoted to menu planning, and Macy... well, Macy looks like someone who’s just endured a root canal disguised as a gift exchange.
“So,” Emmie says, pulling up her latest culinary masterpiece on screen, “I’m thinking we start with the honey-glazed ham with brown sugar and cloves, add the herb-crusted prime rib for variety, and include my famous cranberry-orange stuffing that’s been known to start holiday feuds in three counties.
And I’ve got an entire sheet of side dishes to go with it. ”
“Sounds perfect,” I agree, though I’m mostly just grateful that Emmie’s the kind of person who can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich taste like it should win awards.
“For the desserts,” she continues with growing enthusiasm, “we’ve got the traditional Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, chocolate Yule log cake, and my grandmother’s secret recipe sugar cookies that are basically edible Christmas magic.
Plus, about a dozen more yummy delights that are sure to be crowd pleasers. ”
Jordy nods approvingly. “And I’ve got the final decorating details sorted. String lights around the perimeter, centerpieces for each table, and a dance floor that won’t collapse under the weight of enthusiastic Christmas celebrating.”
“You’re a miracle worker,” I tell him, and I mean it. The man can apparently build anything and make it look effortless, which is a skill I deeply admire and completely lack.
I turn back to find Macy staring out at the ocean with a pensive expression as if contemplating either her mortality or the meaning of fruitcake—it’s hard to tell which is more unsettling.
“You were pretty cold to Buffy today,” I say gently, because apparently, I’m in the mood to experience my sister’s wrath.
Macy’s spine stiffens like someone’s just inserted a steel rod. “I was perfectly polite.”
“About as polite as a candy cane to the eye. Come on, Macy, what’s really going on?”
“She’s just not my type of person,” Macy replies with the kind of dismissive tone that suggests this conversation is over before it started.
I can’t stand that I’m being replaced as Bizzy’s favorite sister by some know-it-all bookworm, the thought drifts from Macy with enough pain behind it to make my chest tighten.
My mouth falls open, but I can’t help it.
First of all, Macy was my only sister until a couple of months ago, so the whole favorite sister thing is a relatively new concept around here.
Second, I had no idea she was feeling replaced or threatened or whatever emotional cocktail is currently brewing in her mind.
“Macy, you know you can never be replaced, right?”
She looks at me with surprise, and I realize she’s probably wondering how I knew exactly what she was thinking.
“I mean it,” I continue. “You’re my sister. You were there for me before I even knew Buffy existed. Finding out I have another sister doesn’t diminish what we have—it just means there’s more room at the family table.”
Macy’s expression softens slightly, though she’s clearly trying to maintain her dignity. “I suppose she’s not completely terrible.”
“High praise from you,” I say with a grin.
“She did handle Matilda’s relationship advice session without running away screaming,” Macy admits grudgingly. “That shows character.”
“Or she’s mastered the art of smiling while screaming internally,” Emmie suggests. “Heaven knows I’ve done that a time or two myself.”
We’re just getting back to the menu planning when my phone buzzes with the distinctive sound that means someone’s sent a mass text to what appears to be half of New England. I glance down at the screen and feel my stomach drop somewhere around my ankles.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, reading the message that’s apparently been sent to the entire town of Cider Cove.
“What now?” Jordy asks, probably recognizing my expression of impending doom.
“It’s a text from Mayor Woods,” I say, reading aloud.
“The Starlight Christmas Eve Gala has been moved from Bizzy’s cursed corpse collector inn and will now officially be held at Thornfield’s Premium Christmas Confections gallery.
Expect to experience a night of elegant dining, dancing, and a Santa surprise like no other! ”
The silence that follows could ironically be heard in the next county.
“Cursed corpse collector inn?” Emmie repeats slowly. “She did not just call our inn cursed.”
“Oh, she went there,” I confirm. “She absolutely went there.”
“She moved our gala to a dead man’s chocolate factory?” Macy asks with disbelief as if gravity has been canceled.
“Apparently so,” I reply, staring at my phone like it might suddenly display a different, less insane message.
Jordy runs a hand through his hair. “So, all the decorating we just planned...”
“Completely pointless,” I confirm.
“And the menu I just perfected for the past three hours...” Emmie trails off, looking like someone’s just told her that Christmas has been canceled due to budget cuts.
“Also, pointless. Sorry about that.”
“Well,” Macy says after a moment, “this is either the worst Christmas Eve planning disaster in the history of Cider Cove or the most convenient way to walk directly into whatever trap the killer’s been setting.”
“Knowing our luck? Probably both,” I reply grimly, watching the snow begin to fall outside the café windows.
Nothing says Merry Christmas quite like discovering your town’s holiday gala has been moved to a murder victim’s business, complete with promises of mysterious Santa surprises that probably don’t involve milk and cookies.
But much like my sister Macy, I’m betting it will involve a killer.