Noel’s candy cane earrings jingle as she shakes her head. “Sorry, he’s not in at the moment,” she says as she chews away on the gum in her mouth. “Gabe always cuts out early on Saturday nights. It’s sort of his thing.”
“Any idea where I might find him?” I press. “It’s kind of important—it’s sort of a custom ornament emergency, if you know what I mean.”
Noel glances over her shoulder as if checking for eavesdropping elves before leaning my way. Her breath smells like peppermint schnapps barely masked by the cinnamon gum she’s chewing. It’s nice to know how she gets so holly and jolly.
She nods my way. “He likes to spend his free time and his money at some sleazy gentlemen’s club in Leeds called Red?—”
“Red Satin?”
Her eyes widen. “You know it?”
“More intimately than I’d like to admit,” I mutter, already turning to collect my sister and pooch. “Niki! Put down the nutcracker and grab Watson. We’re heading to Leeds.”
CHAPTER 16
Iguess you could call Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club my almost workplace.
Niki, Watson, and I hightail it to the armpit of Vermont in less than fifteen minutes. I credit the icy roads for expediting the effort.
Remember me telling you that just last year when I got laid off from my cushy tech job, I was so desperate to avoid moving back to our parents’ house that I went crawling to the biggest crime lord I know—my dear Uncle Jimmy.
He gave me two options: dance at his strip club or hunt down his enemies. And seeing that I’m no fan of public nudity, I opted for murder.
My mortality rate might be nil so far, but Loretta Sleazzari just might change that ratio.
Yeah, this is the place where all of my stripping dreams would have come true if I had opted for what was behind red door number one.
Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club sits at the end of a row of equally disreputable establishments with its neon sign flickering like a crimson beacon for the morally flexible.
Inside, there’s far more crimson than should ever be legal—red walls, red carpet, and red lights, hence the red light district nickname it’s garnered for itself, casting a bordello glow over the perverted proceedings.
The music is loud, the lighting is dim, and the scent of cheap cologne mingles with spilled beer, debauchery, and the unmistakable aroma of world-renowned nachos being ferried to tables by women wearing nothing but strategically placed pasties and G-strings.
“Those nachos are legitimately delicious,” Niki practically drools as she eyes a passing tray. Watson gives a sharp woof as if he agreed, too. “Do you think Uncle Jimmy would be upset if we helped ourselves to a platter or two on the house?”
“Considering he still thinks I successfully offed Lorenzo Bianchi, I think we’ve got some nacho credit to spare.”
The club is packed with the usual Saturday night crowd—a sea of drunken men waving dollar bills at the small army of women dressed as a naughty Mrs. Claus—or rather undressed while twirling around poles to a bass-heavy remix of “Santa Baby.”
I take a few steps deeper inside with Watson trotting happily beside me, when something—or rather, someone—stops me dead in my tracks.
Watson barks up a storm. On second thought, he’s already drooling over the girls bouncing around on stage juggling what he must think are flesh-colored volleyballs. And boy, does he want to play. He really is such a boy.
“Isn’t that Cooper?” Niki says, pointing toward a corner booth.
“It sure is,” I growl as I spot my hot detective boyfriend seated with a brunette with some seriously offensive red highlights that look as if they were applied with a Sharpie.“Would you look at that hair? That’s who he chooses to cheat on me with?”
Niki squints at the woman. “She really should see Mom at Hairway to Heaven.”
My mother, who works part-time at my aunt’s hair salon, would have a field day fixing whatever tragedy is happening on that woman’s head. But hair disasters are the least of my concerns right now as the crowd parts slightly, giving me a clearer view of Cooper’s companion.
“Holy cannoli, that’s Loretta Sassafras!” I hiss, recognizing Cooper’s sister—the very same Loretta whose name now burns a hole in my memory (and a slightly singed spot in the snow at the Jolly Holly Tree Lot).
Niki grabs my arm and attempts to pull me in their direction. “We should go say hello. This is too good to pass up.”
I’m about to reluctantly follow when I spot another figure seated alone at a table near the stage—a heavyset man with dark hair and a genuine white beard that makes him look like Santa on his day off. Gabriel Esposito, in the flesh, looking significantly less jolly than his Christmas shop persona would suggest. He’s got the requisite platter of nachos in front of him, a finger length of something brown in a glass, and a prime view up Mrs. Claus’s skirt.
“Change of plans,” I say, redirecting Niki toward Gabe’s table. “There’s our target.”
