“Well, hello there,” Peggy calls out, her Southern accent suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife. “Y’all are just the cutest things I’ve ever seen in those little elf costumes.”
The men—who appear to be somewhere in their sixties and probably thought they were just working a seasonal job—suddenly find themselves the targets of two determined women with questionable motives and excellent flirtation skills. They don’t stand a chance.
“Ladies,” one of the elves says nervously.
“Don’t mind us,” Clarabelle adds with a smile that could light up half the state. “We’re just admiring yourcraftsmanship.”
Meanwhile, Peyton marches up to the counter, oozing with charm as if it were her secret superpower.
“Excuse me,” she says to a young woman arranging petit fours, “I’d love to speak with the owner. This place is absolutely incredible. The artistry, the attention to detail—I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The compliments flow like expensive champagne, and I have to admire Peyton’s technique. She’s laying it on thick enough to frost a wedding cake, but somehow making it sound completely sincere.
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you!” the employee gushes. “Let me get Millie. She’ll be so excited to meet you!”
Within moments, the woman herself emerges from the back kitchen area.
Millicent Ashford is probably in her late forties, with silver-streaked brown hair pulled back into a neat bun and a flour-dusted apron that somehow looks chic rather than messy. She moves with confident grace that comes from knowing you’re exceptionally good at what you do, and her smile lights up the room as if she’s genuinely delighted to meet new customers.
“Welcome to North Pole Confectionery!” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Millie Ashford. I own this little slice of Christmas heaven.”
“It’s absolutely magical,” Peyton gushes, and for once her enthusiasm seems completely genuine. “I’m Peyton Blakely, and this is?—”
“Detective Maddox!” Millie interrupts, her smile growing even brighter. “I know exactly who you are. And you must be Hattie Holiday. I’ve heard so much about you from the country club crowd. In fact, I think I’ve seen you at a few events.”Good grief. Isn’t she the unfortunate soul who found the body? Outside of that high-strung brunette.She does a doubletake at Peyton and gasps.Oh, for Pete’s sake. The last thing my bakery needs is the bad luck that follows these two.
She knows who we are,Cricket notes with interest.That’s either very good or very bad for our investigation.
It’s almost always bad.
Millie forces a smile at the lot of us. “I insist on bringing you some complimentary desserts and our signature holiday lattes,” she continues, already moving toward the display cases. “Please, have a seat by the window and I’ll be right back with a selection that’ll make your taste buds sing Christmas carols.”
She gestures toward a cozy seating area with overstuffed chairs arranged around a small table that offers a perfect view of the snowy street outside.
“That’s very generous,” Killion says, and I can practically hear his wallet sighing with relief.
“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure. Any friends of the country club are friends of mine.”Here’s hoping my new friends won’t leave a trail of bodies in their wake.
As Millie bustles off toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare enough sugar to put us all into a coma, Peyton settles into her chair, clearly satisfied that her strategy is working as planned.
She winks at Killion. “My mother always said you catch more elves with sugar cookies than with coal.”
I snort with laughter. “Did she really say that?”
“She would have, if she’d ever met any elves. Here’s hoping Millie Ashford is about to deck the halls and tell us everything she knows.”
The sweetest investigations can start with the mostinnocent invitations—and sometimes the most dangerous confessions come wrapped in peppermint bark and tied with a candy ribbon.
CHAPTER 18
The North Pole Confectionery fills with the scent of pure sugar heaven as Millie returns from her kitchen carrying what looks like edible Christmas magic.
The air practically shimmers with cinnamon, vanilla, and melted chocolate, while “Jingle Bell Rock” plays softly in the background, occasionally interrupted by the gentle hiss of the espresso machine and the soft murmur of customers who are probably wondering why we brought pets to what’s clearly Maine’s most expensive bakery.
If only that detective knew how much I hated Seraphina,Millie thinks as she approaches our table with a smile that could illuminate all of Times Square.That woman cost me everything with her ridiculous accusations.
“Here we are!” she announces, setting down a tray that looks like it was assembled by Christmas elves with serious artistic ambitions.
The spread is breathtaking. Peppermint bark brownies topped with crushed candy canes that sparkle like edible diamonds. Eggnog tiramisu squares dusted with cinnamonand arranged as if they belonged in a jewelry display. Gingerbread crème brûlée in individual ramekins with crystallized ginger that catches the light like tiny amber gems.
