We weave through the crowd, dodging wandering hands and sloshing drinks until we reach Gabe’s table. Without waiting for an invitation, I slide into the seat across from him with Niki following suit.
“Hey there, Hot Stuff,” I say with a wink as Gabe looks up from his whiskey, shocked and definitely not thrilled by our sudden appearance.
But in three seconds flat, Watson has jumped into his arms as he struggles to get a better look at the women on stage and his tail manages to slap poor Gabe silly from utter excitement.
Gabe belts out a hearty,ho, ho, ho, and it sounds like a genuine cackle on his part as Watson licks his face.
“What are a couple of nice girls like you doing in a sleazy joint like this?” he asks once he’s recovered.
Niki snags a nacho from his plate. “Our uncle owns the place.”
Gabe’s face grows pale and he nearly tosses Watson out of his lap. “Your uncle? As in Jimmy ‘The Candy Man’ Canelli?”
Uncle Jimmy’s nickname—earned not from any Willy Wonka-like generosity but from his habit of “sweetening the deal” for business partners right before they mysteriously vanished—has always struck me as inappropriately whimsical for a man who once threatened to feed someone their own kneecaps.
“Yup,” Niki says, leaning in hard. “So you’d better think twice before lying to us about the questions we’re about to ask.”
“Good grief,” I groan, resisting the urge to slide under the table. “Why do I bring you along again?”
“Because I’m the pretty one,” Niki replies without missing a beat. “You’re the brains, I’m the beauty, and Watson is our muscle.”
I turn my attention back to Gabe, who’s looking increasingly like he regrets every life choice that led him to this moment.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say. “How well did you know Nicholas Bianchi?”
Gabe takes a fortifying swig of his whiskey. “He was a business rival, nothing more. He was trying to put me out of business.”
I tip my head his way. “Care to elaborate?”
“Look, I’ve been running Miracle on Main Street for five years now, ever since I burned out in corporate marketing and decided to follow my Christmas dream.” His tone suggests the dream has since turned into a nightmare. “Everything was fine until Nicholas decided to open a pop-up Christmas store during the holidays—selling the same merchandise as me but cheaper because he could afford to take a loss.”
“That’s not very holly jolly of him,” Niki says as she steals another nacho—with just the right amount of orange goo on it, might I add.
“It gets worse,” Gabe continues, warming to his tale of Christmas treachery. “He was planning to open a permanent toy and Christmas store in Honey Hollow. He would have put me out of business within a month.”
“So, you had words with him at the Jubilee,” I say.
Gabe shifts uncomfortably. “We exchanged some heated opinions, yeah. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“And what about his brother?” I ask casually.
“Lorenzo?” Gabe snorts. “That old fossil was worse than Nicholas. At least Nicholas had the decency to tell me to my face he was going to destroy me. Lorenzo would just smile and pretend he wasn’t bankrolling the whole operation.”
“Sounds like you had motives for both brothers checking out early,” Niki observes while helping herself to yet another glob of orange goo.
“Hey, I didn’t shed any tears when I heard the news, but I didn’t help them along either.” Gabe’s eyes narrow. “If you’re looking for someone with a real grudge, talk to Holly Bellini. She and Nicholas had some kind of financial arrangement that went south.”
“Holly the event planner?” I ask, recalling the perfectionistic woman from the Jubilee.
“Yeah. And there was that older woman, too—the one who was always hovering around him at events. Sweet as sugar to your face but cold as ice when you turned around. Those two had a history with the guy, if you know what I mean. They’ll both be at the auction at the Evergreen tomorrow night, as will I.”
Before I can press for more details, the music changes to a thumping remix of “Deck the Halls,” and the stage lights sweep across the club. The current performers exit the stage and begin moving through the audience, selecting victims—I mean, participants—for what appears to be an interactive portion of the show.
“And now the real fun begins,” Gabe shouts with glee.
A woman in a Mrs. Claus outfit that’s been reduced to little more than a red bikini and a Santa hat zeroes in on our table. Before I can protest, Watson is scooped up by one performer, Niki is pulled to her feet by another, and I’m grabbed by a third. Gabe spontaneously hops out of his chair and chases a fourth woman who looks as if she’s trying to evade him.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—the DJ announces over the speakers— “give it up for our brave volunteers!”
