Huh. She paid attention yesterday. I suppose all those kisses we thought we were sneaking in didn’t go unnoticed.
The entire room shares a quick chuckle before the din of a hundred conversations going off at once starts up again, and soon everyone is too immersed in their own hunt for naughty treasure to care to pay attention to us.
“Actually,” I manage, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while holding lingerie that appears to fly in the face of basic geometry, “we’re here about Seraphina Sparks,” I say to her. “So sorry for the loss of your friend.”
The transformation in Diva’s expression is instantaneous and spectacular. Her theater-ready smile vanishes, replaced by something sharp enough to cut through the mansion’s supernatural atmosphere.
“Friend?” she practically spits, clutching a Christmas-themed negligee like it’s a weapon. “That woman was a professional destroyer! She came into my business the other day demanding free merchandise in exchange for what she called ‘positive coverage.’ When I refused, she threatened to write a review that would ruin me!”
Ooh, this is getting good,Cricket mews with satisfaction, her green eyes fixed on Diva like she doesn’t want to miss a thing.That woman is getting very agitated. Her voice is rising, and she’s waving that sparkly thing around like a war banner. I bet she’s the killer.
“But surely,” Peyton interjects, still clutching her recommended Boss Lady Bells ensemble, “you wouldn’t resort to murder over a bad review?”
“Murder?” Diva’s voice rises enough to make the crystalchandeliers chime in harmony. “Everyone sawyouarguing with her! You threatened to kill her right there in front of witnesses.” A tiny smile plays on her lips.Take that for trying to pin it on me!
“I was removing evidence from a crime scene!” Peyton protests at the top of her lungs. “There’s a difference between investigating and murdering.” She frowns my way.Although with Hattie, there seems to be a fine line.
I balk at the thought. I haven’t murdered anyone.Yet.
“Is there a difference when it comes to murder?” Diva asks sweetly, then her expression shifts to something calculating. “If you want to find a real enemy, look at Miss Perfect over there.” She gestures toward Vivienne Velour, who’s been hovering near the edge of the crowd like a very put-together vulture evaluating roadkill.
“Vivienne?” I follow Diva’s gaze. “What about her?”
“Oh, they had quite the heated conversation yesterday,” Diva says, settling into the conversation like she’s been waiting all day for someone to ask. “Something about professional jealousy and stolen ideas. Vivienne looked like she wanted to strangle that gossip gal with her own designer scarf.”
The brunette is moving toward the exit,Rookie barks, his tail starting to wag with excitement.Should we chase her? I’m excellent at chasing. Also, someone dropped a chocolate-covered strawberry and I’m calling dibs.
“What sort of professional jealousy?” I press, but Diva’s attention has already shifted to Vivienne’s suspicious movement toward the salon’s exit.
“The sort that makes people desperate,” Diva says cryptically. “She had more to lose than any of us. Much more.”
Across the salon, I catch glimpses of my family’s educational adventure. Mom is loudly discussing enhancement strategies with a group of mothers who look equally mortified and fascinated. Winnie looks as if she wants to be invisible despite the fact this was all her idea. And Neelie, oblivious to anything resembling appropriate behavior, is taking selfies with merchandise while narrating for her social media followers.
“Okay, so listen,” she says to her phone with the urgency of a breaking news correspondent, “I just found the most incredible things and let’s just say Stanton’s cardiologist may want to be on standby for Valentine’s Day.”
Meanwhile, Peggy has claimed a post near the champagne fountain, drink in hand. My guess is, it’s not the first.
“Sugar,” she calls out to Clarabelle, “are you getting all this down? I feel like I should be getting college credit for what I’m learning tonight!”
Clarabelle is across the room, tugging on a decoratively placed bow like she’s inspecting a hostage situation.
“Just doing my due diligence,” she announces cheerfully. “A woman my age didn’t get this far by making uninformed purchases.”
Disaster incoming,Cricket’s thoughts cut through the madness.Three, two, one...
Before I can respond, Clarabelle gives the ribbon one last experimental tug, and sure enough, the bow unravels.
Merchandise cascades off the shelf in an avalanche of lace, sequins, and things I will not be describing to my mother, leaving Clarabelle tangled in approximately seven yards of red ribbon as she flails backward into the dessert table.
“Well, if that don’t beat a goose a-gobbling!” Peggy shouts. “Clarabelle Harper, what in the sweet heavens to Betsy on a biscuit are you doing?”
Christmas bells jingle frantically as Clarabelle fights the ribbon. Her elbow connects with a gingerbread house. The gingerbread house connects with a cake stand. The cake stand connects with the champagne fountain. The champagne fountain, it turns out, was structurally optimistic.
Golden liquid arcs across the marble floor in three different directions. A gingerbread Santa surfs a wave of bubbly past my ankles. Somewhere in the melee, Neelie is still filming.
“This is going viral!” she shrieks with delight.
Emergency treat acquisition protocol activated!Cricket announces, leaping from her surveillance post with ninja-like accuracy to rescue falling macarons before they hit the champagne-soaked floor.
