She stalks away as if she’s just been vindicated by her own thoughts, leaving me standing next to a melting ice angel, wondering how I could have been so completely wrong.
Any luck catching the killer?Cricket asks, appearing at my feet with Rookie beside her. Jolly Bear is strapped to Rookie’s back, wearing a tiny Santa hat that makes him look like the world’s most adorable Christmas decoration.We’ve been conducting surveillance,she continues.Though mostly we’ve been eating dropped appetizers and investigating the dessert table.
The chocolate fountain is AMAZING!Rookie adds with a bark.But we haven’t seen anyone confess to murder yet. Any luck on your end?
“None,” I mutter in response to Cricket’s question. “No luck whatsoever.”
I look around the ballroom, taking in the lavish crowd of people who are all potential killers disguised as philanthropists. My gaze lands on Vivienne Velour, who’s surrounded by socialites fawning over her like she’s some sort of fashion oracle instead of a woman who sells questionably tasteful lingerie.
It’s funny how the tables have turned. A few weeks ago, these same people probably wouldn’t have given her the time of day, and now they’re all suddenly in love with her European designs.
“Wait a minute,” I say aloud, causing Cricket to look up at me with interest. “Didn’t Millie say something about?—”
Before I can finish the thought, Millie herself walks by carrying a tray of chocolate sculptures shaped like Christmas trees.
“Millie!” I call out, stepping into her path. “That day at your bakery, you mentioned something about Diva and Vivienne—about how neither of them was quite what they seemed.”
Millie pauses, balancing her tray as if she can do it in her sleep. “Oh yes, from what I hear, Diva’s never been good with finances. Sweet woman, but couldn’t balance a checkbook if her life depended on it.”
She starts to move away, but I’m not done yet.
“Not a lot of people are good with finances,” I say quickly. “But what did you mean when you said Vivienne wasn’t who she claims to be?”
Millie glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leans closer. “Vivienne Velour is something akin to a stage name. I can’t recall what her legal name is, but it was something plain Jane like Dibowski orJagowski. Anyway, Seraphina told me so long ago, and I can’t recall. You know, it was something run-of-the-mill that wouldn’t move the wicked merchandise she’s trying to unload on those poor souls just to turn a dime.”Some people will do anything for money,she thinks as she walks away.Though I suppose I shouldn’t judge, considering what I did for it.“I’d better go,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I’ll be rolling out my gingerbread surprise that I’ve been working on all month for this swanky event. I just hope you’ll eat it right up.” She takes off with a wave.
What are you going to do?Rookie asks, his Santa-hat-wearing passenger bouncing slightly as he tilts his head.
“Follow me,” I say, already moving toward the coat check area with the focus of an amateur sleuth who’s just had a breakthrough.
The coat check room is tucked away near the entrance, staffed by a young woman who looks deeply unimpressed by everything she’s been asked to hang up tonight. I scan the hanging garments until I spot what I’m looking for—a long velvet coat in deep purple, with a matching purse hooked over the hanger.
“Just checking on my coat,” I tell the attendant with a smile that suggests I definitely belong here and am absolutely not about to commit a minor felony.
I quickly pull out the wallet from the purple purse and flip it open to the driver’s license.
Vivienne Kowalski.
Not Dibowski or Jagowski, but close enough. Millie was right about the plain Jane name, and I have to wonder if I’m even closer to the truth than I thought.
The most dangerous lies are the ones hiding behind the prettiest names—and the best place to find the truth is in someone else’s purse.
CHAPTER 22
Iglance down at the driver’s license I may or may not have swiped from the coat check here at the country club on this, the holiest night of the year, and blow out a breath that smells like champagne and guilt.
The coat check room carries the scent of mothballs, wool coats, and what I’m pretty sure is the lingering aroma of my own moral flexibility. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” echoes from the ballroom, punctuated by the sound of increasingly tipsy socialites singing along off-key.
Vivienne has a pseudonym she operates her business under—so what? It’s probably a wise move on her part. After all, Vivienne Velour does sound infinitely better than Vivienne Kowalski. The former suggests European sophistication and mysterious allure, while the latter sounds like someone who might work at the DMV and have strong opinions about proper paperwork.
The rustle of footsteps comes my way, and I’m about to shove the license back where I found it when a hand grabs my wrist with enough force to leave fingerprints.
I gasp and look up to find Peyton staring at me, clearly having just caught her event coordinator committing petty theft on Christmas Eve.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses, her grip tightening. “Don’t tell me you’re the one who’s been stealing loose bills from guests’ coats for the last six months.”
I shoot her a look. “More like the one who might be one step closer to clearing your name.”
I flash the driver’s license at her, and her eyes widen as she takes in the name printed in official DMV font.
