We’re like a cross between a neighborhood watch and a true crime podcast, except with better snacks and considerably more chaos—like an alarming amount more.
“I vote we start with the obvious suspect,” Bunny announces, pointing at Peyton with the same enthusiasm she usually reserves for eligible bachelors. She’s a self-proclaimed maneater. “She was literally caught red-handed. Or should I say, light-handed?” She winks over at Peyton with the dig.
“That’s circumstantial evidence at best,” Chevy argues, her mystery writer brain already working through possibilities. “Anyone could have wrapped those lights around the victim’sneck and then handed them to Peyton to make her look guilty.”
I’m with Chevy. Peyton values her freedom to not wear orange on the regular to ever go through with killing someone. Especially when she’s aware of my track record of hunting down the killer.
While my unofficial detective squad debates the finer points of murder methodology, I notice the real suspects clustering around Seraphina’s body like vultures in designer clothing.
Vivienne Velour stands near the victim’s feet, her red dress a stark contrast to the evergreen backdrop. She stares down at Seraphina with an expression I can’t quite read—part shock, part something else entirely. Her thoughts are either not there or unavailable to me.
Diva Divine Temptation hovers near the Christmas trees, her theatrical presence somehow making even a murder scene look like a stage production. She keeps glancing between the body and the exit as if calculating distances.
Interesting.
Millie Ashford wrings her flour-dusted hands, her practical apron a sore thumb among the formal wear. Her eyes are fixed on the body with something that might be satisfaction or might just be shock—it’s impossible to tell which.
And Peyton, still clutching those damning Christmas lights, stares at the evidence in her hands like it might bite her. For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks genuinely rattled, her usual composure finally cracking under the weight of what’s happened.
But it’s the thoughts swirling around the crime scene that make my blood run colder than a Maine winter morning.
She finally got what was coming to her.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Someone should have done this years ago.
The world is a better place without that poisonous witch.
The mental voices are so full of venom they practically hiss, but with four suspects gathered around the body and my back turned to most of them, I can’t identify who’s thinking what.
All I know is that someone at this Christmas party is very, very glad that Seraphina Sparks just celebrated her last holiday season.
CHAPTER 5
The Crown Jewel Lounge at four-thirty on this snowy December afternoon looks like the aftermath of a very exclusive apocalypse.
Yellow police tape flutters like macabre Christmas ribbon around the evergreen crime scene, while the scent of pine mingles with lingering perfume and the metallic tang of recent death.
The jazz Christmas music has been silenced, leaving only the soft hum of heating vents and the occasional creak of settling marble as the last stragglers file out through doors that no longer seem quite so welcoming.
Crystal chandeliers shine down on abandoned champagne flutes and plates of untouched bacon-wrapped scallops, while red silk ribbons droop sadly from garlands that witnessed more scandal than any holiday decoration should legally be required to endure.
Well, that’s one way to silence a crowd,Cricket mewls from the velvet chair, her green eyes tracking the exodus with feline satisfaction.Although personally I could have told themsomething was off two hours ago. In fact, Ididtell them. Nobody listens to the cat.
I’m just glad nobody stepped on Mr. Jolly Beary during all the screaming,Rookie adds, his golden head resting on his paws as his beloved teddy bear sits safely between them.Hoomans get very careless with their feet when they’re panicking. Especially this crowd with their spiked high heels.
I stand near the entrance, watching Eagle County’s finest finish photographing angles of Seraphina Sparks that she definitely wouldn’t have approved of for her social media. My ruby-colored sweater feels too cheerful for the circumstances, but then again, I didn’t exactly plan my outfit around discovering a corpse behind the Christmas trees.
The last few guests trickle past me with the guilty shuffle of people who’ve witnessed something they’ll be gossiping about for months. Mrs. Pemberton clutches her pearls so tightly I’m concerned about circulation, while her husband mutters something about “standards declining” and “what would the founding members think.”
Probably that strangling someone with Christmas lights shows remarkable seasonal creativity, but I keep that observation to myself.
The main doors burst open with enough force to rattle the mistletoe, and my entire family storms in like they’re late for their own intervention.
Mom leads the charge along with my sisters, clearly dressed up for what she expected to be a respectable holiday luncheon, not a crime scene. Behind her, Winnie floats in looking sophisticated as always, while Neelie brings up the rear already scanning the room for photo opportunities.
“Are we late?” Mom calls out, her voice echoing in thenow-quiet lounge. “Please tell me we didn’t miss the lingerie fashion show! Winnie’s been talking about it all week!”
