And that’s true as gospel.
“Well, I’m definitely going,” Suze declares. “Any party with invitations that fancy has to have good booze.”
“Count me in,” Lily agrees. “I told Alex to wear his nice suit. The one that makes his butt look like it belongs in a fitness magazine.”
“Everett, Noah, and I will be there, too,” Lottie adds. “We can’t miss what promises to be the most dramatic event of the season. Plus, I need to scope out the competition. Rumor has it, the Velvet Fox has hired a new pastry chef from New York.”
The bell chimes again, and a harried-looking woman hustles in, unwinding a scarf the length of a python from around her neck.
“Please tell me you have gingerbread houses left,” she pleads. “My sister-in-law just texted that she’s bringing one to Christmas dinner, and I refuse to be outdone again this year.”
“Family competition is the true meaning of Christmas,” I say with a sigh as Lottie assures the woman we can accommodate her holiday one-upmanship needs.
As the day progresses, the bakery fills and empties like a holiday tide bringing in waves of customers hungry for Christmas treats. We sell out of peppermint bark twice, restock, and sell out again. The gingerbread house orders keep multiplying like rabbits on fertility drugs, and my hands are permanently stained with food coloring in festive shades of red and green. I had a good run with that flesh tone anyway.
By closing time, I’m convinced that if I never see another gingerbread man again, it will be too soon. My back aches, and I’ve inhaled so much powdered sugar I’m pretty sure my lungs could sweeten a cup of coffee.
“That’s it,” Lottie announces, flipping the sign toClosedwith a bang. “We survived another day of Christmas madness.”
“Hardly,” I groan, slumping onto a stool. “If one more person had asked for a rush order gingerbread house, I might have snapped and built them a gingerbread prison instead.”
“Save that energy for tonight,” Suze advises, untying her apron. “Something tells me that your Nona Jo’s little gathering is going to require all of your strength.”
“And possibly bail money,” Lily adds.
“See you all tonight at the Velvet Fox,” I say as I step outside into the frozen night air.
As I step out into the cold evening, a chill runs through my veins that has nothing to do with this frozen winter.
I can’t shake this feeling that someone at the Velvet Fox Hotel will be leaving in a body bag tonight—and for once it won’t have to do with me.
Or will it?
CHAPTER 10
The Velvet Fox Hotel stands in the heart of Leeds—a town affectionately known as the armpit of the Green Mountain State. Not because it smells—although the dump site on the outskirts doesn’t exactly help—but because it’s tucked into a crease of land where respectable Vermont gives way to its seedier underbelly.
While tourists flock to Honey Hollow for its quaint charm and picture-perfect main street, they come to Leeds for the bars, strip clubs, and underground gambling casinos, all of which happen to belong to my Uncle Jimmy.
The hotel’s ballroom assaults my senses before I’ve fully stepped through the double doors. The smell hits first—a pungent mixture of cheap cologne, mothballs, and dangerous levels of greed.
Next comes the visual attack—a gaudy explosion of gold lamé, hot pink twinkle lights, and paper wedding bells hanging from a ceiling that I’m guessing hasn’t been dusted since the first Bush administration. Dark wood floors, scuffed from decades of questionable dancing, stretch across the room, punctuated by round tables draped in white linens that might have beenelegant if they didn’t bear the stains of a thousand spilled Chianti glasses.
Have I mentioned the disco ball?
The music—good grief, the music—blares from speakers as Dean Martin competes with modern Italian pop in a sonic battle that makes my ears beg for mercy. The volume doesn’t just enter your ears, it takes up residence in your chest cavity and starts rearranging your internal organs.
“Well, this is...” Niki trails off beside me, searching for a descriptor that doesn’t include an expletive. Although something tells me it wouldn’t be the first one uttered in this room.
“A crime scene waiting to happen?” I suggest, stepping farther into the room with Watson trotting obediently at my heels. The golden shepherd sweetie looks around with more sophistication than most of the human attendees. His red bow tie collar is practically the most tasteful accessory in the joint.
“I was going to say it’s festive, but sure, let’s go with imminent homicide.” Niki adjusts her sequined dress that catches the light from that tacky disco ball overhead. “Oh look, there’s the family.”
Sure enough, gathered near one of the tables is the Canelli clan in all their Italian glory.
Serafina, my older sister by a year, stands primly in a conservative dress that somehow still manages to make her look like she stepped out of a magazine. Her chocolate dark hair falls in perfect waves around her face, framing coffee-brown eyes that match my own.
Unlike me, however, Serafina radiates a certain innocence that makes her look perpetually like she’s auditioning for the role of convent nun gone slightly wild. She’s the golden child of the family, the Miss Priss, the one who got steady employment at a bookstore called Between the Lines in Honey Hollow whileI got recruited into the family assassination business. Life isn’t fair.
