I shrug. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in figuring out what happened. A man died while motorboating my peppermint pinwheels—that creates a certain bond, if you know what I mean.”
She gives a conciliatory shrug at the thought because I’m not wrong.
“Look”—she says as she leans in— “I don’t know what happened to Nicholas. But if you’re digging for information, I’d talk to Stella Martinelli. She’s known him longer than I have, and I saw her having a full-blown argument with him just minutes before he dropped dead. If anyone knows something, my money is on her.”
Interesting. I file that away for future reference because I happened to see the very same thing.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Holly is about to turn away when her gaze catches on the shirtless Santa situation unfolding at the candle table. She pauses, pulls out her phone, and snaps a quick picture.
“Really?” I hike an eyebrow her way.
“Strictly for research purposes,” she manages to say with a straight face. “Event planning requires thorough documentation of successful attractions.” With that, she glides away with that clipboard once again pressed to her chest like armor.
I’m about to head over to the hot wax spectacle taking place myself —purely for investigative purposes, of course—when something catches my eye. Actually, someone.Two someones.
Loretta Salami is pawing all over Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi near a booth selling ornate glass ornaments. Her hands flutter over his expensive coat like she’s searching for his wallet, while he gazes at her with the slightly vacant expression of a man who’s either smitten or can’t remember where he parked his car. Possibly both.
Not only that, but I spot Cooper just a few feet away as our happy-go-lucky pooch Watson races in my direction, already thrilled to see me. Must be the snacks I keep in my pocket—or possibly the lingering scent of peppermint pinwheels.
Cooper follows Watson’s trajectory and spots me, then returns his gaze to his sister and her elderly fiancé. It’s too late. He’s already done the geriatric math, and I’m guessing it equals a premature death.
He holds a finger my way before heading straight for the May-December (or perhaps March-December) couple.
Oh boy.
I’m about to witness a family reunion colder than the North Pole and twice as explosive as Aunt Cat’s infamous rum-spiked eggnog.
CHAPTER 7
The sound of Cooper’s boots crunching angrily through the snow punctuates the festive Christmas carols blaring from nearby speakers. But not by much. Those carols are far too loud if you ask me.
I sprint after him, the scent of gingerbread and pine mingling with the sharp bite of winter air as I weave through the crowd. His broad shoulders are squared with a determination that screams “detective on a mission”—or possibly “brother about to commit a homicide.” At the moment, it’s hard to tell the difference.
“Cooper, wait,” I call out as my fingers grasp for his leather jacket.
Watson bounds past us both, his golden fur gleaming under the festival lights, and that cute little red bow of his bounces with each leap. He looks like the personification of Christmas morning himself, oblivious to the family drama about to erupt. At least someone is having a good time.
I catch up to Cooper just before he reaches Loretta and her geriatric Romeo. “Hold on,” I say, tugging him back. “You can’t just go storming over there like?—”
“Like what?” His marbled blue eyes flash. “Like my sister is being pawed at by a man who was collecting Social Security when The Beatles were still together?”
“Maybe she’s into him,” I cringe as I say it. Those words felt wrong even as they leave my mouth. “Or maybe she’s into his bank account? You know how it goes. Some women like their men the way they like their cheese—aged and wealthy.”
“What are you talking about, Eff?” Cooper says my name like the expletive it was meant to be before charging ahead. “That geezer is clearly attacking her.”
And he’s not wrong about the geezer part either. Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi makes Father Time look like a spring chicken. His weathered face carries enough lines to map a small country, and his hands—currently wrapped around Loretta’s waist—are spotted like a leopard against her red coat.
Before I can stop him, Cooper closes the gap and yanks Lorenzo back rather abruptly. “Get your filthy paws off my baby sister!”
Loretta whirls around and, to my absolute shock, swats Cooper silly with that designer handbag she’s toting.
It’s a rapid-fire assault of Italian leather that I’m sure costs more than my parents’ house in Grimstone Heights. Come to think of it, most things do. The old neighborhood hasn’t exactly appreciated. Last time I checked, you could buy a three-bedroom there for what some people spend on a pair of shoes—namely the ones Loretta is currently wearing as she dances around her brother, swinging her bag as if she’s training for the Purse-Wielding Olympics.
“Cooper Carmichael Jackson Knox!” she screeches. “How dare you!”
Aww, he has two middle names. Did I know that?
A commotion erupts behind us as a parade of half-dressed men with wax dripping down their chests comes running out ofthe candle-making tent. They’re followed by Niki, Aunt Cat, and Carlotta, all looking slightly too pleased with themselves.
