All I want for Christmas is justice—and maybe a few more minutes under that mistletoe with a certain detective once all the criminals are safely behind bars.
CHAPTER 21
The Glittering Gratitude Gala and Champagne Charity Spectacular continues, and the whole ballroom is operating at maximum sparkle capacity.
Christmas Eve at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club smells like champagne wishes and caviar dreams, with hints of pine garland and perfume that require a second mortgage to afford. The string quartet has moved on to a jazzy version of “White Christmas,” while the ice sculptures admit defeat one slow drip at a time.
Have I mentioned the chocolate? There is, technically, more chocolate in this room than people. Towers of truffles. Fountains of ganache. Dessert displays that have clearly been treated as more important than most weddings.
I make my way across the ballroom toward Peyton, who’s standing near the ice sculpture of an angel, like she’s contemplating whether to pray to it or push it over. Her silver gown catches the light and shines like the blade of a very sharp knife—beautiful, elegant, and somehow dangerous all at the same time.
“Quite a party,” I say, sliding up beside her as if I’m not about to accuse her of murder.
“It’s adequate,” Peyton replies, her eyes never leaving the ice angel. “Though I notice the champagne fountain is running low, and someone clearly didn’t coordinate the lighting with the floral arrangements.”
“It’s a tragedy.”
“You have no idea how difficult it is to maintain standards when you’re working with amateurs.” She gives me the side-eye.
“Speaking of standards,” I say, deciding to cut right to the chase because subtlety has never been my strong suit, “why don’t you just admit it? You killed that poor woman.”
Peyton’s head snaps toward me so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. “Excuse me?”
“You couldn’t control your temper because you care too much about this place, and she was about to give it a bad name. Well, she technically succeeded, but you didn’t know she’d already hit send when you picked up that string of holiday lights.”
Peyton inches back from me as if I’ve just announced I’m carrying a communicable disease. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Vivienne saw you that evening,” I go on. “She said you were by the Christmas light displays, about to unplug one of the strings. You seemed very focused on what you were doing.”
For a moment, Peyton’s jaw tightens hard enough that I worry about her dental work, and I think I might actually have her cornered.
“You wish I were the killer, don’t you!” she snaps, her voice rising enough to make several nearby socialites turn and stareas if they’ve just smelled fresh gossip. “You wish you could be rid of me and never have to have me breathing down the back of your neck again. In fact, I bet that’s why youstagedit to make it look like I did it!”
Now it’s my turn to inch backward. “How in the world did I do that?”
“By planting that faulty strand of Christmas lights!” Peyton’s eyes flash with righteous indignation. “You know I have zero tolerance for imperfection, and one of the strands was blinking erratically. I said I wanted nothing but clear lights—no motion, nothing but pure, unadulterated elegance—and you couldn’t do that one measly thing for me. And now look where it got me.”
I pause to reflect on the concept of Peyton’s requests being “measly.” This is a woman who once demanded imported snow from Switzerland for a winter theme party, demanded live swans for an outdoor pond despite it being February in Maine, and required every rose to be hand-painted gold. We are running out of florists.
“I didn’t set you up,” I say firmly. “But you admit it—you picked up those lights! And when Seraphina showed up, you knew exactly what to do with them.”
We’re standing close enough now that we’re practically poking each other in the chest as we exchange accusations, which probably looks ridiculous to anyone watching two grown women have a murder argument at a charity gala.
“I was fixing a lighting malfunction!” Peyton hisses, jabbing her finger toward my sternum. “Someone—and I have my suspicions about who—installed a strand that was blinking off and on erratically!”
“So you removed it!”
“Of course, I removed it! It was ruining the entire aesthetic! That’s when I saw her, already on the floor, with a whole other set of lights wrapped around her neck.”
Oh, I should have killed the witch,Peyton thinks with enough venom to poison a small village.If I’m going to fry for it, I may as well have had fun doing the deadly deed.
I gasp so loudly that several people turn to stare at us. “You mean you’re innocent?”
Peyton frowns at me, clearly confused. “You didn’t really think I was capable of murder, did you?”But in Hattie’s case, I might just break my own rules,she adds to herself.
I close my eyes in defeat, feeling like I’ve just lost the world’s most important game of Clue.
“I need some eggnog,” Peyton announces. “Heavily spiked. And possibly a new event coordinator who doesn’t accuse me of homicide at Christmas parties.”
