Peyton: I HATE ALL OF YOU.
Hattie: You’re all insane. Also, I may need backup at another trunk show this afternoon at 2. Don’t ask.
Bunny: TRUNK SHOW?! I’m there. Is this the educational kind? Because I have OPINIONS about quality craftsmanship.
Peggy: An educational trunk show for a murder investigation? Honey, I’ve seen everything now. Save me something lacy!
Clarabelle: At my age, education is education. Count me in. Someone needs to sample the dessert. There will be dessert, right?
Peyton: Wait, are you investigating suspects WITHOUT me? I demand to be included! It’s MY reputation on the line!
Kick: I can’t. I just CAN’T. My children read my texts. How do I explain “Mommy’s going to an educational trunk show to catch a killer”??
Chevy: This is the best plot twist I’ve ever encountered. I’m definitely stealing this for my next book. Hattie,you should too.
Hattie: On second thought, you’re all banned from coming. This is serious detective work, not a social event.
Bunny: Too late! Already picking out my outfit. See you at 2!
Peggy: Wouldn’t miss it for all the sweet tea in Georgia!
Peyton: If you’re going, I’M going. Someone needs to supervise this disaster.
Hattie: I’m changing my phone number.
Clarabelle: No you’re not, sugar. You need us. Besides, who else is going to document this historical moment?
Chevy: “The Case of the Christmas Light Killer and the Educational Trunk Show.” It practically writes itself!
Peyton: I’m unfriending all of you after we solve this case.
The rotundaof the Brambleberry Bay Country Club at ten o’clock on this crisp December morning buzzes with the nervous energy that follows a spectacular murder. The massive domed ceiling stretches overhead like an upside-down snow globe, complete with a crystal chandelier that looks like it eats smaller crystal chandeliers for breakfast,dangles precariously above conversations conducted in hushed, scandalized whispers.
This rotunda serves as the beating heart of the club’s main building—the Cottage House—a structure so grand it makes actual cottages feel inadequate.
To my left, the Cottage Grill beckons with the promise of food that won’t require mortgaging your firstborn, while to my right, Seabreeze taunts with five-star dining so expensive you need a trust fund just to read the menu. And tucked behind me sits the Cozy Bean—converted from what used to be a utility closet where mops went to die. It now serves overpriced lattes to guilt-ridden socialites who need caffeine to fuel their gossip sessions. And me. I also need copious amounts of caffeine.
The scent of overpriced coffee mingles with pine from the glorious all-white tree that stands at least twenty feet tall in the middle of the rotunda, and the cloying floral cloud of members who’ve arrived early to dissect murder over their morning beverages.
Marble floors echo with the sharp click of designer heels as socialites cluster around columns draped in glorious Christmas garlands, their voices creating a symphony of “I heard...” and “Can you believe...” that rises to the vaulted ceiling like incense at a very expensive, very judgmental church service.
I still can’t believe they wasted all those bacon-wrapped scallops,Cricket mews from a velvet chair near the Cottage Grill entrance.Hoomans running around screaming about murder while perfectly good food sits abandoned. It’s tragic, really.
The crime scene probably still has crumbs,Rookie adds hopefully, his golden tail wagging as Mr. Jolly Beary bounceswhile strapped to his back.Maybe we could investigate for evidence. You know, food evidence. The kind that needs to be consumed immediately for public safety.
You mean the kind that needs to be consumed because you’re a walking garbage disposal with fur,Cricket corrects.Although I admit, this murder is shaping up to be our most interesting case yet. The suspects alone are more entertaining than anything we’ve seen on television.
Standing next to me like a designer-clad gargoyle contemplating the apocalypse, Peyton Blakey manages to project misery with the efficiency of a woman who’s perfected the art of professional suffering. She’s wearing a black suit that screamsI’m in mourning for my career, and she’s been sighing every thirty seconds as if to remind the world there’s no time for joy this holiday season.
“This is a nightmare,” she announces for approximately the fifteenth time in ten minutes. “Twelve years of dedication. Twelve years of turning this place into the most exclusive venue on the East Coast. And this is how they repay me?”
“Well,” I point out, trying for optimism, “technically, they’re just investigating whether you strangled someone with Christmas lights. It’s not like they’ve convicted you of anything yet.”
“Yet,” she repeats with a despair typically used for natural disasters—or any typical day with me. “The key word beingyet.” She sighs again, although this time it sounds downright hostile. “I’m not leaving these premises unless they drag me away kicking and screaming in my Jimmy Choos. And even then, I’m taking the chandelier with me.”
I glance up at the aforementioned chandelier, which is approximately the size of a small spacecraft.
“That might prove to be logistically challenging.”
