“Tell me about it,” Peyton mutters, still clutching the Christmas lights like they’re a lifeline instead of evidence.
My brain, apparently deciding this is the perfect moment to engage my mouth without consulting common sense first, blurts out the obvious.
“You’re one to talk,” I balk at my caustic boss. “You were holding the lights when I found you hovering over the body!”
The collective gasp from our growing audience could probably heat the country club for a week.
Pandemonium erupts faster than popcorn in a microwave.
“SHE’S THE KILLER!”
“CALL THE POLICE!”
“THE POLICE ARE ALREADY HERE!”
“CALL MORE POLICE!”
It’s technically the sheriff’s department, but something tells me this isn’t the time for semantics.
Killion raises his hands, trying to restore order. “Everyone, calm down! Let’s not jump to conclusions based on?—”
But his voice is drowned out by the growing crowd of country club members who’ve apparently decided that a murder scene is the perfect place for an impromptu social gathering—despite the fact that we were already having one.
He pulls out his phone and steps away, speaking in the clipped tones of someone calling in a homicide. “This is Detective Maddox. I need the full team at the Brambleberry Bay Country Club. We’ve got another body.”
The wordanotherrings in my mind like a gong.
While Killion handles the official business, the unofficial business of solving the crime kicks into high gear, because apparently my social circle has developed a taste for amateur detective work.
“Well, butter my biscuit,” Peggy declares, rubbing her hands together with enthusiasm as if she had just discovered a new hobby. “Looks like the murder club is back in business!”
Knew it.
“It’s a book club, Peggy,” I say automatically, though we both know that ship sailed approximately six corpses ago.
“A book club that seems to have a remarkable talent forstumbling into homicides,” Clarabelle adds, pushing her way closer to examine Seraphina and snaps a few pictures of the poor woman to boot. “Although I have to say, this is our most festive murder yet.”
She’s not wrong. Although, technically, not the first holiday murder.
Tipper Luxemburg appears as if summoned by the mention of mystery-solving, her brassy blonde hair catching the Christmas lights as she surveys the scene. She, too, is one of our esteemed so-called book club members. And fun fact: she happens to be dating my brother. It’s new. Sort of.
“Someone actually strangled her with holiday decorations?” Tipper gasps with what sounds like delight. I never said she wasn’t deranged. “That’s either brilliant or completely unhinged.”
“Why not both?” Hillary Pepperwood strides over, her red hair gleaming like fire in the twinkle lights. Hilly used to have the hots for Killion, so that makes us mortal enemies. Okay, we’re not, but still. She did have the hots for him once. And really? Who could blame her? “Although I have to admire the seasonal commitment,” she adds with a nod.
Kick Lawson pushes through the crowd, her athletic build allowing her to navigate the pine forest with ease. She wears her dark hair in a pixie cut and has far too many children for me to count.
“Are we seriously doing this again?” she scoffs. “Because I haven’t finished processing the emotional trauma from the last three murders we solved.”
Same, sister. Same.
“Four,” Chevy Von Champs corrects, appearing with a notebook already in hand because, of course, she’s taking notesfor her next book. “And trauma builds character. Besides, think of the material!”
Chevy is our resident author—I sort of am, too. She’s a best-selling mystery author, blonde, pretty, divorced twice, but with a new husband on hand and has children in a Swiss boarding school. She’s old money on both sides of her family—a cattle ranch and a vodka empire. That alone tells you how much fun she can be.
I should probably explain to anyone wondering how an innocent book club transformed into Brambleberry Bay’s unofficial murder investigation squad. It started innocently enough—a group of women getting together to discuss our favorite mysteries over wine and cheese. But somewhere between our third corpse and fourth bottle of champagne, we realized we were actually pretty good at this whole detective thing.
What began as casual speculation about whodunit evolved into full-scale amateur investigations, complete with evidence boards, suspect lists, and enough conspiracy theories to make a government whistleblower jealous.
