The ballroom falls silent except for the gentle drip of champagne from various surfaces and the soft whimpering of what might be either traumatized socialites or confused Santas.
In Brambleberry Bay, the truth has a way of coming out in the most unexpected ways. And the most refined parties have a way of ending with everyone covered in champagne and chocolate, wondering how a simple murder investigation turned into the messiest Christmas miracle on record.
CHAPTER 23
The Brambleberry Bay Country Club ballroom now smells like a collision between a champagne warehouse and a chocolate factory, with hints of pine needles and woodsy cologne that’s been diluted by ankle-deep bubbly.
“Joy to the World” plays overhead, completely unaware that the champagne is now ankle-deep.
Security guards storm through the ballroom doors, clearly having dealt with holiday party madness before, though probably not quite at this level of destruction. Their boots splash through champagne puddles as they survey the scene with a worn-out patience that comes from working too many charity galas.
Killion, still holding his gun but now considerably less official-looking under a generous coating of chocolate ganache and champagne, transfers a very subdued Vivienne Kowalski to a couple of sheriff deputies. And he looks visibly relieved by it, too.
“Vivienne Kowalski, also known as Vivienne Velour,” hesays formally, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Seraphina Sparks.”
Finally!Cricket declares from somewhere near my feet, apparently having survived the disaster with her tail intact.Though I have to say, this has been an interesting murder investigation. Can we keep some of the sushi appetizers?
Can we keep some of the mini sliders, too?Rookie asks with far too much hope, his golden fur now decorated with the remnants of several expensive desserts.It seems wasteful to just throw it all away.
I give a quick nod and Rookie goes straight to work. In truth, he’s the best clean-up committee I could ask for.
Vivienne looks as if her carefully constructed life just collapsed faster than that champagne tower, which, given recent events, is probably an accurate assessment.
“Listen up!” Peyton shouts over the melee, her voice carrying enough force to make grown men stop mid-conversation and several waiters straighten their posture instinctively.
Every head in the ballroom turns toward her, including several Santas who appear to be stuck in the chocolate ganache.
“My good name has just been cleared, and I hereby declare I’m back on the job!” she announces triumphantly, clearly vindicated by both evidence and flying tackles. Her silver gown is now decorated with various dessert casualties, but she wears the stains with pride.
The crowd erupts in scattered applause, though it’s hard to tell if they’re clapping for justice or just grateful that someone is taking charge of this disaster.
“I’ll have this place cleaned up in less than fifteen minutes,”Peyton continues, like the bossy manager she is—and the one we all missed. Well, most of us missed. “All staff hands on deck! And I demand every last Santa abandon the premises before I toss you all in jail for trespassing and disturbing the peace with your incessant jingling!”
The Santas, who have been milling around like confused ornaments, make their way toward the exits. But before a single red suit can escape, the women of the Brambleberry Bay Country Club spring into action with impressive coordination.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Bunny calls out, grabbing the nearest Santa by his fur-trimmed sleeve. “I didn’t pay six figures for a Santa Squad just to watch you walk out the door!”
“Why in the world would you hire all of them?” Peyton snaps at her in horror.
“I may have gotten carried away,” Bunny admits, though she doesn’t look all that sorry about it. “But look how festive they are!”
What follows is a full-blown holiday dating ritual. Every eligible woman in the ballroom—and several whose eligibility is being charitably described asflexible—descends on the costumed men. By the looks of it, the Santas are not emotionally prepared.
The music swells. The ballroom, against all reason, becomes a dance floor. Socialites who have not moved their hips since their wedding receptions are now grinding against costumed Santas in a scene I will not be describing to my mother. Although, in all fairness, she is here to see it.
“All’s well that ends with jingle bell rock,” I say as Killion wraps his arms around me, close enough that I catch cedarsoap, champagne, and what is unmistakably chocolate buttercream.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, his hands running over my arms and back like he’s not sure if I’m in one piece.
“No,” I say, but I’m guessing I’ll have some interesting bruises tomorrow. “I’m just decorated with half the dessert table.”
“You look beautiful covered in chocolate,” he muses with an arched brow.
“Most men would call this a fashion emergency.”
Our romantic moment is interrupted by a commotion near the destroyed champagne fountain, where Peggy has apparently decided to give her captured Santa a crash course in Southern hospitality.
“Now, sugar pie honey,” Peggy says to a particularly tall Santa who looks like he’s wishing he were at the mall, “your ho-ho-ho needs more enthusiasm. Put some heart into it!”
