Vivienne’s face goes through several color changes, settling on a shade that’s somewhere between pale and guilty.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” she says as her hand flutters up to her throat.
“We’re implying,” Peyton says with a dark smile, “that maybe Seraphina discovered your little design theft scheme and threatened to expose you.”
“And maybe,” I add, “you decided to silence her permanently before she could ruin your carefully constructed new identity.”
Vivienne looks around with a hint of desperation, like she’s hoping a convenient earthquake might interrupt this conversation.
“You don’t understand,” she says finally, her accent slipping slightly to reveal something that sounds more New Jersey than Paris. “Seraphina was going to destroy everything I worked for. She had no right?—”
“So you killed her,” Peyton states flatly.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen!” That European poise abandons Vivienne all at once. “She cornered me that night, threatened to call the police, said she’d make sure I never worked in fashion again. The lights were right there, and she just wouldn’t stop talking, and I—I wrapped them around her neck. I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do!”
A thunderous commotion from the ballroom entrance cuts off any further confession as approximately two dozen men dressed as Santa Claus come streaming through the doors in a very jolly flood of red velvet and white beards, and a whole lot ofho-ho-hoing.
“What in the tacky sleigh bells is happening in my country club?” Peyton demands, staring at the Santa army with the look of a woman whose entire night has just been hijacked by a bunch of portly men.
“Bunny must have hired the entire troupe instead of just the man she’s dating,” I say, watching as Santas spread across the ballroom like holiday-themed locusts.
Peyton groans with despair as if her worst fears are being realized in real time. “This isBunnywe’re talking about. She’s probably dating the entire troupe!”
“Oh, right.” I wince because it’s probably true.
Vivienne seizes the moment of distraction to make her break for freedom, darting around Santa’s Workshop with surprising agility for someone wearing designer heels.
“Stop her!” I shout, but my words are lost in the cacophony of ho-ho-hoing Santas and increasingly confused socialites.
The chase is on, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Cricket and Rookie lead the pursuit, followed by every pampered pet in the ballroom—a parade of diamond-collareddogs, designer-clad cats, and at least one ferret wearing a tiny tuxedo.
This is the best Christmas ever!Rookie barks with glee, while bounding after Vivienne with Jolly Beary still clinging to his back.Chase scenes AND treats everywhere!
Focus on the criminal, not the food!Cricket calls back, though I notice she pauses to sniff at a fallen canapé. There’s a good chance it’s tuna.
Vivienne crashes through Santa’s Workshop like a velvet-clad wrecking ball, sending gingerbread elves flying and chocolate machinery crumbling. Cookie conveyor belts collapse under her desperate flight, and what was once an architectural marvel becomes a confectionery crime scene.
I leap onto a nearby table, having watched too many action movies, then launch myself at Vivienne’s retreating form in the world’s most ungraceful flying tackle.
We both go down in a tangle of velvet and determination, skidding across the marble floor toward the towering dessert display that represents several thousand dollars’ worth of artistic sugar work.
The impact is spectacular. Truffles explode like chocolate grenades. Elaborate cake sculptures topple with the tragic beauty of edible architecture meeting its doom. Cream puffs become projectiles, and what was once a dessert table becomes ground zero of a sugary apocalypse.
But the real disaster is yet to come.
The champagne tower—a magnificent crystal pyramid that took three people and two hours to construct—wobbles ominously from the shockwaves of our collision. For a moment, it seems like it might recover its balance.
Then it tips.
What follows is a champagne tsunami. Hundreds of glasses go down in a single coordinated act of glass-on-marble violence, sending a flood of expensive champagne across the ballroom in a wave that would make Noah nervous.
Guests slip and slide across the suddenly treacherous floor. Santas go down like holiday bowling pins. The elaborate Christmas tree forest that lines the ballroom starts toppling in a domino effect that would be beautiful if it weren’t so completely catastrophic.
Pine needles fill the air like green confetti. Ornaments explode against the marble floor in bursts of glitter and glass. The sound is like Christmas itself having a nervous breakdown.
Just as the last tree crashes down and the champagne reaches ankle depth, Killion bursts through the ballroom doors with his gun drawn, stopping the chaos cold.
“EVERYBODY FREEZE!” he shouts with enough authority to stop a stampede.
