Chapter 23
The Country Cottage Inn welcomes me back from the park with its comforting scent of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies—the kind of smell that makes you want to curl up with a romance novel and pretend your biggest problem is choosing between chocolate chip and snickerdoodles.
And boy, do snickerdoodles sound good right about now.
The lobby has been transformed for fall with the enthusiasm of a decorator who clearly has a holiday addiction and isn’t seeking treatment.
Miniature pumpkins line the mantelpiece above the crackling fireplace like tiny orange soldiers, and arrangements of rust-colored chrysanthemums and golden maple leaves adorn every table.
Even the ancient grandfather clock in the corner wears a small wreath of autumn berries around its face, because apparently, everything needs seasonal accessories now.
“You two look exhausted,” I murmur to Fish and Chip, who slouch in their respective tote bags. Their royal parade attire now looks decidedly less regal. Chip’s bowtie hangs at an odd angle, and Fish’s crown sits askew despite her earlier insistence on perfect alignment.
That’s because we were forced to take pictures with guests for forty-five minutes straight, Fish grouses. My royal smile may never recover. I’m filing for hazard pay.
I’m not tired, Chip protests, even as his eyelids droop. I’m storing energy for the next inevitable corpse. It’s coming. I can feel it in my whiskers.
“Let’s shoot for a murder-free evening,” I say, approaching the front desk where Grady, a dark-haired young man in his early twenties, taps away at the ancient computer.
“Hey, Josie,” he greets me with a smile that suggests he’s more interested in his phone than his job. “How was your day?”
“Magical. The cats were a sensation yet again.” I set both totes on the counter with careful nonchalance and both cats stroll out and stretch.
“Quick question—is Vivian Templeton staying here? The conference organizer? She mentioned something about meeting for coffee, but didn’t say her room number. ”
Okay, so it’s a bit of a stretch, but life in general feels like a bit of a stretch right now.
Grady glances at his computer screen. “Yeah, she’s in 201. Just three doors down from your room, actually.”
“Great, thanks.” I keep my expression neutral, though my heart rate kicks up a notch. “She’s quite the particular guest, isn’t she?”
“You have no idea.” Grady rolls his eyes. “She’s only sent back breakfast twice and threatened to write a scathing review once. All because the coffee wasn’t exactly one hundred and sixty-two degrees. Who measures that?”
“Editors-in-chief, apparently,” I comment. “Is she in her room now?”
“Nah, she left about an hour ago. Said something about a conference closing ceremony planning meeting.” He returns to his phone without a second thought.
“Perfect, thanks!” I say, perhaps a bit too brightly as I scoop up both cats and head for the stairs.
I know that tone, Fish notes. That’s your ‘I’m about to do something ill-advised’ voice.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I mutter, climbing the stairs with purpose.
Please tell me we’re just going to our room for a much-deserved nap, Chip pleads. And snacks. We so deserve snacks.
I thought you weren’t tired, Fish yowls his way.
I lied. I’m always ready for snacks and naps. He nods my way. How is the snack slash nap line-up looking?
“It’s on. But just a quick detour first.”
The second floor hallway is quiet save for the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner.
I pause at the corner, peering around to see a housekeeper emerging from room 201—Vivian’s room.
She’s pushing a cleaning cart laden with fresh towels and tiny bottles of shampoo.
I hang back, pretending to dig for my key card, until she disappears into the supply closet at the far end of the hall.
You’re not seriously considering— Fish begins.
“Shh!” I dart forward, slipping toward room 201 just as the door begins its slow automatic close. I catch it moments before it latches, my heart hammering so loudly I’m sure everyone in the inn can hear it.
Breaking and entering, Chip says. Excellent. I can add accomplice to a felony to my resume. This week just keeps getting better.
“It’s not breaking if the door was open,” I whisper with the logic of a theme park manager who’s clearly watched too many legal dramas and retained none of the actual legal knowledge. “It’s just... entering.”
I slide inside, closing the door softly behind me like I’m defusing a bomb instead of committing several misdemeanors. Both cats jump from my arms as if abandoning this felonious ship.
Vivian’s room is nearly identical to mine in layout, but the similarities end there faster than my marriage to Clyde.
While my room has become a chaotic nest of scattered clothes and cat toys that suggests a small tornado hit a pet store, hers is meticulous with the kind of organization that professional organizers can only dream to achieve.
The bed is perfectly made with hospital corners sharp enough to cut a diamond, there are toiletries arranged with geometric precision on the bathroom counter like a chemistry lab, and a laptop sits squarely centered on the desk with such precision, you’d think someone used a ruler to land it there.
She color-coded her socks, Fish notes, peering from the tote at the open suitcase. I totally approve of her organizational standards, even if she is potentially a cold-blooded killer. Bizzy is sort of a slob, but I still love her.
My attention focuses on the chair in front of the desk, where a tailored vest lies draped with the kind of careful deliberation that suggests it’s been positioned by a woman who treats clothing like art installations.
Even from across the room, I can see the glint of enamel pins covering its surface like tiny metallic flowers.
My pulse quickens as I move closer, examining the collection of vintage Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland pins arranged across the vest. My eyes scan the colorful array—a carousel horse, a teacup, a miniature version of the blue castle—mentally checking off each one against what I remember from the reception.
Every single pin placement artfully creates a pattern—save for two empty spaces leaving a toothless gap. Spaces that should hold the Tree pin from Everwhirl Hollow and the Haunted Gold Mine pin! The exact two pins found beside Ned’s body.
“Gotcha,” I whisper.
Is that true-blue evidence or just a highly suspicious coincidence? Fish mewls from her perch on the desk chair.
“In the real world? Suspicious. In my amateur detective mind? Practically a signed confession.”
A sound from the hallway freezes me in place—voices approaching, one distinctly Vivian’s crisp, authoritative tone.
“—need those reports before five, or we’ll miss the print deadline.”
Panic floods me. I scoop up the cats, shoving them unceremoniously against my chest amid sounds of feline protest.
This is undignified! Fish hisses.
She is getting arrested, Chip counters.
I rush to the door, pressing my eye to the peephole. Vivian stands just a few yards away, still on her phone. I count to three, then ease the door open just enough to slip through, closing it silently behind me. I walk briskly toward my own room, fishing out my key card with trembling fingers.
Just as I reach my door, I hear Vivian’s voice again, closer now. I don’t look back, just slide my card into the reader and push inside my room the instant the light turns green. I close the door and lean against it, heart pounding.
“That,” I say to the cats as I set their totes down, “was close.”
Impressively stealth for someone who regularly trips over flat surfaces, Fish remarks, shaking out her ruffled dignity.
Did you at least get what you needed? Chip asks, stretching.
“Oh yeah,” I say as I sink onto the edge of my bed, the image of those empty spaces on the pin-covered vest seared into my memory. “Vivian Templeton just became suspect numero uno.”
Let’s just say if the pins fit, she’s wearing them to prison.