“Peyton,” I say, trying for innocent surprise and failing miserably. “What are you doing here?”
“Following my amateur detective team, apparently. Did you think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking off to investigate a suspect without me?”
Hattie, your pack has no discernible hierarchy,Cricket says.Among cats, this would not be tolerated.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting I was hoping to avoid exactly this confrontation, a car door slams with enough force to register on the Richter scale.
“Do you know how difficult it is to keep track of the two of you in this inclement weather?” Clarabelle calls out, emerging from what looks like the world’s most expensive Uber.
My mouth falls open as Peggy climbs out after her, bothwomen looking like they’ve survived some sort of transportation-related adventure.
“Y’all move faster than greased lightning when you’re on the hunt,” Peggy announces, adjusting her purse with the wounded dignity that follows overpaying for a ride across town.
“How did you—” I start.
“Hitchhiked,” Clarabelle says proudly. “Well, technically, we used one of those rideshare applications. Cost us two hundred dollars because apparently there’s some sort of weather surcharge and an emergency fee and a holiday markup. Or was that a tip that I gave?”
“Two hundred dollars?” Killion asks, clearly trying to process the economics of small-town transportation.
“The driver said it was premium pricing for elderly passengers in hazardous conditions,” Peggy explains, clearly insulted by modern commerce.
“Elderly?” Clarabelle huffs. “I told him we were seasoned, not elderly. There’s a difference.”
Peggy and Clarabelle spend their money in the most peculiar ways,Cricket notes.Two hundred dollars could buy a month’s worth of quality cat treats.
A month?
We all stand on the sidewalk for a moment, staring at North Pole Confectionery like it might bite. The bakery is clearly trying to win some sort of award for Most Aggressive Christmas Business in New England. Every window is outlined in twinkle lights. Garlands droop from the doorway with more fabric than most wedding altars. And beside the entrance, a life-sized wooden Santa is waving mechanically,and I don’t love his facial expression—he looks angry that he can’t eat the cookies he’s forced to smell all day.
“I called ahead,” I tell the group. “Pets are welcome.”
“Of course, they are,” Killion says, eyeing the holiday decorations, beginning to suspect this isn’t going to be a quiet romantic outing after all. “Lead the way.”
He holds the door open like the gentleman he is, and we file inside to the sound of “Silver Bells” playing from hidden speakers.
“Treats are on me today,” he announces generously.
The words are barely out of his mouth when he catches sight of the menu board behind the counter, and I watch his face go through several interesting color changes.
Twelve-dollar lattes. Twenty-dollardessertplates. Individual cookies for eight dollars each.
He just realized he’s volunteered for financial ruin,Cricket mewls with a laugh.I really do enjoy watching him learn about consequences.
The interior of the bakery looks like the inside of a Christmas snow globe—a veryexpensivesnow globe. Crystal chandeliers hang from exposed beams, each one wrapped in enough garland to outfit a small forest. Display cases stretch along two walls, filled with desserts that look more like art installations than actual food.
Gingerbread macarons topped with edible gold leaf sit next to peppermint bark tarts garnished with crystallized mint leaves. Eggnog crème brûlée nestles in individual crystal ramekins, while chocolate Yule logs decorated with marzipan holly berries occupy an entire refrigerated case.
Christmas tree cake pops covered in edible glitter sparkleunder the lights, and candy cane cheesecake slices are arranged to holiday perfection.
Hot chocolate bombs the size of small planets promise to explode into cups of liquid heaven, while sugar cookie sculptures depict entire winter wonderland scenes complete with skating rinks and snow-covered cottages.
This place smells like every good thing that ever happened to flour and sugar,Rookie barks, his tail wagging hard enough to create a small windstorm.Can we live here? Can we? Can we?
I nod his way because I’d like to.
“Oh my word,” Clarabelle breathes, staring at a display of chocolate sculptures of famous Christmas movies. “This place makes Willy Wonka’s factory look like amateur hour.”
Peggy and Clarabelle immediately spot two older gentlemen dressed as elves manning the espresso machine, and I watch as they exchange a look that clearly sayschallenge accepted.
