“Are you seriously considering shopping for... educational materials... as part of our murder investigation?”
“Our murder investigation?” I repeat. “Since when did this become a team effort?”
“Since my career depends on solving this case before the board of directors decides I’m a liability.” Peyton’s expression shifts from tragic to determined. “If investigating a suspect requires attending another raunchy trunk show, then that’s what we’re doing.”
“We?” Winnie looks between Peyton and me with growing amusement. “Oh, this is getting interesting. Are you planning to coordinate outfits for your undercover operation, too?”
“There is no undercover operation,” I say firmly. “There’s just me, possibly attending an educational event, and definitely not coordinating anything with anyone.”
“Definitely attending,” Peyton corrects. “We’re definitely attending. Together. As a team.”
“Since when are we a team?”
“Since approximately five minutes ago when you became my only hope for career salvation.”
This is better than the time I found out about catnip,Cricket purrs with satisfaction.I can’t wait to see how spectacularly this goes wrong.
Winnie claps her hands together with delight. “Perfect! The trunk show starts at two o’clock. That gives you both time to mentally prepare for what promises to be a veryilluminatingafternoon.”
She starts to bounce away, then pauses and turns back with an expression of pure sisterly evil.
“Oh, and Hattie? You might want to bring a notebook. You know, for...notes. I have a feeling you’re going to learn things that Killion will appreciate.”
I watch her disappear toward the Cottage Grill, probablyto grab coffee and plot further chaos, while Peyton stands next to me wearing an expression that suggests she’s reconsidering every life decision that led to this moment.
“So,” she says finally. “A trunk show at a mansion. Featuring educational materials. To investigate a murder suspect.”
“Apparently.”
“This is either going to solve our case or get us both arrested for public indecency.”
Probably both,Cricket meows cheerfully.But at least it won’t be boring.
I look around the lavish rotunda, with its crystal chandelier and marble floors and clusters of gossiping socialites, then think about spending my afternoon at Willoughby Hall pretending to shop for things that would make my grandmother reach for her smelling salts while interrogating a woman who demonstrates questionable undergarments for a living.
Somewhere in the distance, “Silver Bells” plays softly through the country club’s sound system, because apparently even murder investigations come with a Christmas soundtrack.
One thing is for sure—if this goes sideways, at least I’ll have spoken to a suspect. And possibly discovered something useful for my own honeymoon one day. Not that I’d ever admit that last part to Winnie.
CHAPTER 7
Willoughby Hall’s Grand Salon normally exudes the refined elegance that makes royalty feel slightly underdressed, but today it’s been transformed into what can only be described as Victoria’s Secret meetsDownton Abbey—and the ancestors in the portraits are definitely not amused.
“Well, sugar,” Peggy announces, surveying the mayhem with delight, “I’ve seen some interesting holiday decorations in my day, but this takes the Christmas cake and covers it in something that would make Santa blush.”
“Speak for yourself,” Clarabelle shoots back, already making a beeline for a display that features items she’s examining with far too much interest. “At my age, education is education. Besides, the quality here looks exceptional.”
“Ladies,” I say, watching women in designer dresses grab merchandise like it’s the last Birkin on Earth, “maybe we should focus on the murder investigation part of this afternoon?”
“Oh honey,” Peggy waves me off while clutching a bedazzledsomething-or-other, “multitasking is the key to successful detecting. We can solve crimes AND expand our educational horizons at the same time.”
Peyton stands beside me, rigid as a nutcracker and twice as judgmental, glaring at the proceedings like her career is hanging by a thread made of Christmas lights.
“This is a disaster,” she mutters. “An absolute disaster. My reputation is being destroyed while watching socialites fondle tacky lingerie.”
“Look on the bright side,” I offer. “At least you’re not the one fondling lingerie.”
“Yet,” she says ominously.
