Clarabelle: My lucky questioning hat is ready! The Christmas bells are extra jingly tonight!
Hattie: Just a reminder—this is technically a BOOK club. We were supposed to read “Murder for Christmas” by Addison Moore. Which I actually DID read, by the way.
Chevy: Who has time to READ about murder when we’re living it? Real life is so much more entertaining!
Hillary: Fiction is for people with boring lives. We have actual corpses.
Kick: Did anyone actually read the book? Be honest.
Silence
Hattie: Seriously? I’m the only one who read it? It’s actually really good!
Bunny: Reading is overrated when you have champagne and gossip!
Hattie: You’re all terrible book club members.
I set my phone down with a sigh. So much for literary discussion.
The afternoon was fraught with far too many people, far too little caffeine, and way too much Peyton Blakely for it to ever be safe. But somehow, I managed to survive—mostly because Cricket and Rookie kept suggesting I cuddle with Mr. Jolly Beary each time Peyton demanded rather loudly that I solve this case or I’ll be the next body found with holiday lights wrapped around her neck.
She’s a treasure.
But it’s evening now, and my tiny A-frame cabin smells like cinnamon, pine, and nervous energy that comes with hosting six women whose combined shoe collections alone could bankrupt a small nation.
I’ve got hot cocoa bubbling in a slow cooker that takes up half my kitchen counter, fresh coffee brewing in the machine Killion bought me, and spiced apple cider warming on the stove. Christmas lights twinkle from every available surface, garlands drape across the exposed beams, and my miniature Christmas trees have been placed to create maximum holiday ambiance in minimum square footage—and in absence of a real tree, which still makes me sniff in defeat.
How is this entire holiday season getting away from me?
I don’t understand why you’re so nervous,Cricket says from atop my bookshelf.It’s just a few people coming over to discuss murder. What could go wrong?
Everything smells like Christmas cookies and excitement!Rookie adds, his tail creating small hurricanes as he patrols the cabin.I love parties! Especially ones where people drop food!
The first knock comes at exactly seven, and I open the door to find Chevy standing there with a murder board tucked under one arm and a bottle of wine clutched in the other hand.
“Emergency deployment,” she announces, striding past me as she turns amateur detective work into an art form. She’s wearing a designer Christmas sweater that probably has its own tax bracket, dark jeans that fit like they were sewn directly onto her body, and boots that could double as weapons. Her holiday red Birkin bag matches her lipstick.
“Bestseller Brie bites,” she says, setting down a platter that looks like it came from a top chef. “And Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Because murder investigations require proper wine pairings.”
She immediately starts setting up her murder board against my living room wall, complete with photos,string, and what appears to be a flow chart of suspicious behavior.
This woman is more organized than my grooming schedule,Cricket notes with grudging respect.
Hillary arrives next, looking as if she stepped out of a holiday catalog for people with trust funds. Her cashmere turtleneck is the exact color of champagne, her leggings fit in that molded way that only happens when money is involved, and her boots are made for walking—straight into a bankvault. Her black Birkin bag has a festive scarf tied to the handle like a very expensive Christmas ornament.
“Guilty pleasure gourmet chocolates,” she announces, placing a gold box on my kitchen counter. “From that little place in Belgium that only takes appointments.”No one will know they’re being regifted. How dare my old college roommate send me something that she knows I can’t stop eating. I bet she would just love to see me in a whole new dress size for our reunion this spring.
“Thank you,” I tell her. I think.
Kick follows close behind, dressed for both a PTA meeting and a police raid. Her yoga ensemble is practical but reeks of hundred-dollar bills, and her posture suggests she could lead a PTA fundraiser or chase down a suspect with equal commitment. Her navy Birkin bag looks like it could survive a nuclear attack.
“Evidence eclairs and conviction cookies,” she says, juggling covered plates while simultaneously texting what I assume are childcare instructions. “The kids are with Kirk. I told them Mommy was going to solve a murder and they should practice their Christmas carols—loudly.”Serves the son of a witch right for demanding I make our gifts from scratch.
Tipper strides in wearing a sweater dress that hugs her figure and knee-high boots that make her legs look approximately seven feet long. And she moves like she knows exactly how good she looks.
“Henry’s suspect sliders and alibi appetizers,” she says, setting down trays that smell like heaven and look like they belong in a five-star restaurant. And they do. My brother’s. “He’s really embracing the murder theme. I’m starting tothink this investigation is affecting his brain chemistry.”Much the same way I have.She winks at me with the thought.
“No doubt,” I tell her with a smile.
