Bunny makes her entrance, looking as if she’s ready to walk the red carpet at the Met Gala. Her holiday ensemble involves sequins that could illuminate half of Maine, and her limited-edition holiday print Birkin bag has probably been insured, appraised, and written into someone’s will.
“Santa’s secret strawberry kisses and Dom Pérignon!” she announces, somehow managing to carry both while still looking like she could pose forVogue. “Because if we’re going to solve a murder, we should do it in style!”And heaven knows I need to lead the fashion charge for the both of us. Poor Hattie can’t keep up. I’ll have to see about getting her a raise.
“Please do,” I say without thinking, and she offers me a quizzical look before shrugging it off and dancing her way to the sofa.
The cabin is starting to feel like a very expensive, very small holiday party when Peggy and Clarabelle arrive, two hurricanes wearing their holiday best—or their holiday worst, depending on your definition of both.
Peggy’s ensemble includes actual jingle bells sewn onto her sweater, and the sound follows her like a mobile Christmas concert. “Mystery meat casserole and cornbread!” she calls out, carrying covered dishes that smell like home and comfort and everything good about the holidays.
Clarabelle follows behind wearing a holiday cardigan that looks like it was knitted by someone’s grandmother, sensible shoes, and a hat decorated with enough Christmas ornaments to decorate a small tree. “Killer pecan pie and sweet tea!” sheannounces. “And my lucky questioning hat is ready for action!”
Neither of them has a Birkin bag. Instead, they’re carrying practical purses and casserole carriers that have probably seen more family gatherings than a wedding photographer.
These women brought more food than we could eat in a month,Cricket points out as my kitchen counter disappears under gourmet platters and down-home comfort food.
I love them all,Rookie declares with absolute sincerity.They understand the importance of proper party snacks.
The conversation immediately turns to holiday spending, and I watch in fascination as each woman tries to casually outdo the others.
“I just picked up the most divine cashmere throws from Hermès,” Hillary mentions while arranging her chocolates. “One for each guest room.”
“How many guest rooms do you have?” Kick asks.
“Seven.”
Chevy snorts. “I bought myself a vintage wine collection. Seventeen bottles, each one older than my first book deal.”
“As you should,” Tipper says. “Henry and I are keeping it simple this year. Just a couple’s trip to Aspen.”
“Aspen’s lovely,” Bunny sighs. “I’m spending Christmas in Monaco with Nicholas. He’s performing at a private party for some oil heiress, and she’s paying for everything. First-class flights, five-star hotel, the works.”
The room falls silent. Even by Bunny’s standards, Christmas in Monaco with a professional Santa is impressive.
“Nicholas?” Hillary asks.
“My Santa impersonator,” Bunny explains, smiling like a loon. “He’s very dedicated to his craft.”
I’m starting to understand why you and your friends need so much therapy,Cricket mewls.
Peggy shakes her head while serving herself some eggnog. “Y’all spend more on Christmas than most folks make in a year.”
“That’s the point,” Bunny says cheerfully. “Money should be fun, not practical. That’s why they call it funny money.”
Clarabelle is studying Chevy’s murder board as if she were solving a crossword puzzle. “You’ve got good organization here, sugar. It’s very professional.”
“Thank you. I believe in treating amateur detective work with the seriousness it deserves.”
The conversation flows from holiday spending to gift-giving strategies to family drama, and my tiny cabin fills with sophisticated gossip that probably fuels half the social events in New England.
The door opens, and everyone stops talking.
Peyton stands in my doorway, holding herself together with what looks like spite and very expensive concealer.
She’s dressed down from her usual power suits, wearing dark jeans and a sweater that has generational wealth written all over it, but she looks like she’s been accused of murder and is starting to believe it herself.
The silence stretches so long that even Cricket stops grooming her paw to stare.
“Well,” Peyton says finally, “this isn’t awkward at all.”
