Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. The only sound is the gentle bubble of hot cocoa and the soft Christmas carols playing from my phone.
“Should I leave?” Peyton asks. “Because I can solve my ownmurder case if that would make everyone more comfortable,” she says it like a threat.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say quickly, grabbing her arm and pulling her inside. “We’re all here to help clear your name.”
Are we though?Cricket wonders.Because the energy in this room suggests otherwise.
Peyton drops her bag in its usual spot, takes her usual seat, and reaches for the cookies before I’ve even finished saying hello. “Nice party. It all looks very festive.”
“It’s a book club meeting,” I remind everyone. “Technically.”
“A book club that solves murders,” Chevy points out, gesturing toward her murder board. “Which makes it amurderclub.”
“With really excellent refreshments,” Bunny adds, raising her champagne glass.
Peyton looks around the room at the faces of women who, hours ago, were discussing her guilt via group text, and I realize that hosting a murder investigation in a space the size of a large closet might not have been my best decision.
But then again, when has anything about this case been even remotely sensible?
At this point, the real mystery isn’t who committed the crime—it’s how to solve it without committing another one yourself.
CHAPTER 15
My tiny cabin now smells like a collision between a gourmet restaurant and a Christmas tree farm, with hints of perfume and nervous energy that comes from hosting a murder investigation disguised as a book club meeting.
The scent of eggnog mingles with Tipper’s picture-perfect appetizers and Peggy’s down-home casserole, while Christmas lights twinkle overhead like tiny stars trapped in evergreen branches. Soft conversation hums underneath the gentle bubble of warm beverages, punctuated by the occasional jingle from Peggy’s bell-adorned sweater.
This is the most well-catered murder investigation I’ve ever witnessed,Cricket observes from her new location on my bookshelf, having relocated to get a better view of the destruction below.
I love parties where everyone brings food,Rookie adds, sitting near the coffee table where crumbs are most likely to fall.Especially ones where people talk with their hands and drop things. And I’ve been waiting for someone to drop something.
“Okay, everyone,” Peggy calls out, settling into my loveseat, having organized church committees and knowing how to handle difficult personalities. “Y’all sit on your keisters. We need to get a move on if we want to crack this case before my bedtime.”Or more to the point, before my bedmate for the night shows up at my door.She winks my way with the thought before clearing her throat.
“It’s time for our roses and thorns.”
“Do we have to?” Hillary grunts, pausing in the middle of arranging her gourmet chocolates.
“Oh, hush now. You know this is a tradition. It’s roses and thorns time, sugar. You know the drill. Share something good that’s happened recently, that’s the rose, and something that’s been a thorn in your side. It’s basically the best gossip session of the week disguised as emotional wellness.”
Bunny claps her hands together with glee. “Oh, I love sharing! I’ll go first!”
“Hold your horses there, buttercup,” Peggy says with a grin. “Let’s go around the circle proper-like. Chevy, you’re closest to me. Start us off.”
Chevy straightens in her chair as if she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life. “Well, my rose is that my husband surprised me early with a vintage typewriter—apparently it belonged to some famous mystery writer from the 1940s. I may have peeked at my Christmas present, but honestly, who can wait?”
“You opened your Christmas gifts early?” Kick looks scandalized.
“I unwrapped one tiny corner,” Chevy defends. “It’s called gathering intel.”
Peggy and Chevy have no self-control,Cricket notes withfeline superiority.I, on the other hand, wait patiently for my treats to be served at appropriate intervals.
She does not, but I don’t have time to argue with a cat.
“And my thorn,” Chevy continues, her expression darkening like storm clouds, “is that the printer working on Hattie’s book is having what they call ‘creative differences’ with my artistic vision for the cover design. Apparently, they think a cozy mystery about a baker should look cheerful and inviting rather than darkly mysterious and foreboding.”
“Maybe because it’s a cozy mystery and not a Gothic thriller?” I suggest.
“Details,” Chevy waves her hand dismissively. “Art shouldn’t be constrained by genre expectations.”This book is going to look like a Gothic thriller yet. Who wants to read a mystery with a slice of cake on the cover?
