“No way.” I shake my head, watching Loretta parade her elderly companion through the crowd with her arm wrapped possessively around him. “That’s Cooper’s sister. I have a quasi-familial duty to get to the bottom of this.”
“Your quasi-familial duty is going to get us kicked out of this place for disorderly conduct,” Suze grumbles. “And that’s tantamount to being banned from free cookies.”
“Besides”—Lily adds— “these giant peppermint pinwheels covering our bare essentials aren’t exactly covert operation attire. We’re basically wearing Christmas-themed pasties and a prayer.”
She’s got a point. These outfits make us about as inconspicuous as a neon sign in a monastery. We’re one strongbreeze away from giving everyone a very merry Christmas. The last thing I need to end up with tonight is a rap sheet.
Before I can respond, a woman in a proper Mrs. Claus outfit—someone who actually understood the assignment—trots our way. Her costume is demure, with a modest red dress and a lace-trimmed cap covering tufts of hair from what looks like a gray wig. She’s holding a tray of eggnog in cute little mugs in the shape of Rudolph’s head as her bright red glossy lips stretch into a smile.
“Ladies, would you care for some eggnog? Compliments of the Honey Hollow’s very own Jolly Holly Tree Lot.” She looks somewhere in her forties, and I can see hints of dark auburn hair peeking out from under her wig.
“Bless you and your dairy-based kindness,” Niki says, snatching up a glass.
“You’re quite welcome.” The woman chortles before moving on to the geriatric Santas and Loretta. “And here’s a lactose-free version for you, kind sir,” she says, offering a glass to the man fortunate enough not to be Loretta’s mark.
“Holly Bellini? Is that you?” Suze squints at the Mrs. Claus.
The woman turns, and her red lips part in recognition. “Suze! How wonderful to see you.”
They exchange pleasantries while I down half my eggnog. Not bad—cinnamon, nutmeg, and enough bourbon to make this elf costume seem like a better idea.
“Let me introduce my friends,” Suze says, gesturing to us. “This is Effie, Niki, and Lily. We all work at the Cutie Pie Bakery with Lottie the Tyrant.”
Suze’s lack of affection for our sweet boss has more to do with the fact Lottie has Suze’s older son on a string than it does with Lottie’s ability to boss us around. Sure, she can be bossy, but that’s because she’s the boss.
“Lovely to meet you all.” Holly offers up a smile as warm as Christmas itself. “Have you met the Bianchi brothers? They own one of the biggest toy manufacturing companies in the world. They’re a couple ofrealSt. Nicks.” She giggles as she says it. “This is Nicholas and Lorenzo Bianchi.” She points to them respectively. “And I believe this is Lorenzo’s girlfriend, Loretta Surami.”
Ha! I nearly choke on my eggnog. She can’t get her name right either.
Wait a minute—did she saygirlfriend?
I’m about to interject when Nicholas “St. Nick” Bianchi clears his throat and narrows his eyes on Holly. “Still trying to run this town into the ground with your overpriced events, Bellini? I remember when festivals were actually affordable for families.”
Everyone laughs except Holly, whose smile freezes as if doing her best rendition of Frosty the Snowman.
He was joking, right? But then again, he’s old. And old people just say whatever it is they’re thinking. Case in my point, my Nona Jo.
“Nicholas.” Holly smears his name as if it were an expletive. “It’s good to see you still have your sense of humor.” She cranes her neck into the crowd. “Stella, careful with that tray!”
She gestures to another older woman who’s navigating through the crowd with a second tray of eggnog, teetering dangerously close to spilling it on Nicholas’ Santa suit.
“And this is Stella Martinelli,” Holly says to us all as the older woman steadies herself. “She runs our caroling group.”
Stella is the picture of a warm grandmother, with silver-streaked dark hair and a festive sweater under her volunteer apron. Her sweet smile only seems to expand as she nods at Nicholas.
“Nice to see you again, Nick,” she says it with a tone that implies otherwise before nodding at his brother as well.
Before I can process the tension bubbling before us, a series of screams erupt from the stage, followed by what sounds like the mayor pleading for mercy. I whip around to see Aunt Cat and Carlotta doing their best to smother Mayor Nash with what my mother would delicately call two of their best “assets.” Or in this case,four.
“Duty calls,” I mutter, thrusting my empty glass at Niki. “Save me a struffoli.”
I dash toward the stage with my elf shoes jingling with each step. By the time I reach them, Mayor Nash looks like a man who’s seen both heaven and hell in the span of five minutes.
His Santa hat is askew, lipstick marks cover his face, and he’s clutching the armrests of his throne as if they’re the only thing anchoring him to reality.
“Ladies,” I say, inserting myself between Aunt Cat, Carlotta, and our traumatized mayor. “I think Santa needs a cookie break.”
“He can have a cookie,” Aunt Cat purrs, “but what he really wants is?—”
