The Christmas trees around us seem to lean in closer, their pine-scented branches heavy with twinkle lights that cast shadows across what’s become the most macabre holiday display in Maine’s history.
The soft hum of electrical circuits mingles with the distant sound of “Jingle Bell Rock” still playing with aggressive cheer right here in the Crown Jewel Lounge, while the scent of pine and expensive perfume battles with what smells like an electrical fire waiting to happen and the combination makes my stomach perform acrobatics I didn’t sign up for.
Peyton’s scream cuts through the festive atmosphere like a chainsaw through wrapping paper.
Her voice hits a pitch that could shatter crystal ornaments, and honestly? I can’t blame her. Finding yourself holding the business end of a murder weapon tends to have that effect on people.
My own scream follows immediately after, because apparently my vocal cords decided this was the perfect time for a duet.
The Christmas lights around Seraphina’s neck continue their cheerful red and green blinking, as if they’re completely unaware they’ve just been promoted from holiday decoration to homicide evidence.
What’s all the screaming about?Cricket’s voice cuts through my panic as she bounds into the evergreen alcove, her tan fur bristling like a bottle brush.Did someone finally tell Peggy her hair color isn’t fooling anyone?
Death!Rookie barks, skidding to a halt next to me with Mr. Jolly Beary bouncing on his back like a fuzzy brown witness to murder.Death smells all wrong! Not like the good kind of dead fish at the beach, but the bad kind of dead that makes hoomans act crazy!
Oh my whiskers.Cricket’s tail puffs to twice its normal size as she takes in the scene.Someone turned that annoying social media menace into a Christmas decoration. And that’s... actually kind of creative.
This is very, very bad,Rookie whimpers, pressing against my legs for comfort.When hoomans scream like that, other humans come running with loud noises and bright lights. Killion usually brings his badge and his gun.
And right on cue, it looks like Rookie’s psychic abilities extend beyond predicting dinner time because the cavalry arrives.
“Sweet mother of maple syrup!” Peggy’s voice carries across the pine forest before I even see her leopard-print ensemble pushing through the Douglas firs. “What in Sam Hill is going on back here? Sounds like someone’s being murdered!”
“Well, technically...” I start, but Peggy’s already spotted poor Seraphina.
“Oh my stars and garters!” She clutches her chest dramatically, as any proper Southern belle would do, her copper curls catching the Christmas lights. “Is that woman wearing a necklace made of... are those Christmas lights?”
Clarabelle emerges behind her, her blinking reindeer sweater somehow managing to compete with the crime scene for most inappropriate holiday display. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. That’s one way to get into the Christmas spirit.”
“Clarabelle!” I gasp.
“What? I’m just saying the color coordination is surprisingly effective.”
“That’s horrible, Clarabelle.” Bunny gasps, appearing with her blonde bob slightly mussed and her emerald dress wrinkled from pushing through pine branches. But her blue eyes are wide with fascination rather than horror. “Although I’ve seen worse centerpieces at the Hamptons.”
“This is not the time for decor commentary!” I snap, though honestly, in Brambleberry Bay, there’s never really an inappropriate time for fashion commentary, even after a homicide.
The sound of pounding feet on marble grows louder, followed by voices shouting instructions and what sounds suspiciously like someone calling for backup.
“FREEZE! BRAMBLEBERRY BAY SECURITY!”
Three men in ill-fitting uniforms burst through the Christmas trees like action heroes in a very low-budget holiday movie, weapons drawn and faces set in expressions of grim determination.
Right behind them, moving with the fluid grace of a man who actually knows what he’s doing, comes Killion Maddox.
My heart does its usual gymnastics routine at the sight of him with his dark hair slightly tousled, his green eyes sharp and alert, and he’s wearing a charcoal sweater that hugs his shoulders in ways that should probably be illegal. He’s got his service weapon drawn, but the moment he takes in the scene, his expression shifts from professional alertness to weary resignation.
Truthfully, he’s seen it all before.
“Stand down,” he tells the security team, holstering his gun. “It’s a crime scene, not an active threat.”
One of the security guards, a burly man with a mustache that looks like a holdover from the 1980s, kneels beside Seraphina and checks for a pulse. After a moment that stretches like a Christmas morning without coffee, he shakes his head at Killion.
“She’s gone, Detective.”
Killion runs a hand through his hair and fixes me with a look that’s part exasperation, part resignation, and part something that makes my knees forget their primary function. Have I mentioned how hot he is?
“Geez, Hattie,” he sighs, his voice carrying the weight of a frustrated detective who’s had this conversation before. “We need one public gathering in this town that doesn’t end with a murder.”
