“Look, I didn’t send him to the big toy shop in the sky,” Holly shoots back with her professional composure cracking.“Although if I knew who did, I’d gladly shake their hand on a job well done.”
She downs the rest of her champagne in one impressive gulp. “It’s not like I’d have access to medications like that. Do I look like a doctor or a nurse to you?” She sighs, adjusting her dress with a movement that suggests her need for control. “Besides, I was visible to half the town during the entire event. When would I have had time to orchestrate his death? I was running around putting out fires—literal ones, after someone’s child set the tinsel ablaze.”
Her explanation makes a frustrating amount of sense. Holly Bellini may have wanted Nicholas dead, but her opportunity window seems narrower than my chances of surviving Christmas without finding another body.
“Fine,” I concede. “But if not you, then who?”
Holly’s gaze drifts toward the dessert table. “I don’t know, but I’d start with the people who had access to the kind of drugs that could do the job.”
She checks her watch and makes a show of being startled by the time. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on the auction. The bidding closes in twenty minutes.” With a tight smile, Holly melts into the crowd, leaving me with an empty champagne flute and a head full of questions.
Wait, did she say nurse? Why does that sound familiar?
The realization hits me like a snowball to the face.
“Oh my word!” How could I have missed this?
CHAPTER 20
Ifind Watson begging near the dessert table and reward him with a sugar cookie before finding a dark corner for the two of us to do a little internet research in private.
I look up old photos of every Honey Hollow Christmas gala going as far back as time itself and gasp at what I find. My mind races faster than reindeer on performance-enhancing carrots.
Watson squirms in my arms with his nose twitching as if he’s picked up the scent of both Christmas cookies and cold-blooded murder.
“Easy, boy,” I whisper. “We’ve got a killer to confront.”
I weave through the crowd, passing a collection of extravagant gift baskets that could feed a small nation. One features exotic coffee beans harvested by specially trained monkeys—because apparently, regular coffee picked by humans isn’t fancy enough for Honey Hollow’s elite. Another offers “Twelve Days of Christmas Wines” with bottles whose prices make my credit card whimper from inside my clutch.
An ornate sleigh filled with hand-carved wooden ornaments catches my eye next—each one depicting a scene from Honey Hollow’s history, including a suspiciously flattering renditionof Mayor Nash winning last year’s chili cook-off. The current bid would cover my rent for three months, proving once again that nothing inspires financial irresponsibility quite like the Christmas spirit.
I’m about to sidestep a table featuring “Santa’s Workshop Experience”—complete with a private North Pole tour and elf costume fitting that seems more punishment than prize—when a manicured hand clamps down on my arm. I turn to find Loretta with her face flushed either from champagne, rage, or the effort of keeping that towering hairstyle upright in defiance of gravity.
“Fine! You want to know my connection to the Bianchi brothers?” she slurs her words just enough for me to know I’m about to get the truth. “I’ll tell you,” she snarls, each word dripping with disdain like icicles melting under an interrogation spotlight. “Nicholas had some former lover who was promised a portion of the Bianchi fortune years ago. He recently informed her he was changing his will to leave everything to his brother Enzo instead. And Enzo was going to leave everything to his wife—which was going to beme!Are you happy? I was the one who would have walked away with everything if it wasn’t for you and your ridiculously dumb luck. We were just at the tree lot hours before that ill-fated meeting with the Grim Reaper at the Velvet Fox Hotel. We hired a photographer and reenacted the entire proposal. I was going to use one of the pictures as our wedding invite, and yet again you ruined that for me, too.”
She barks the last words directly into my face, close enough that I can identify at least three different types of alcohol on her breath, before storming off in a cloud of expensive perfume and entitlement.
I blink at the space where Hurricane Loretta just blew through. “Well,” I say to Watson, who looks equally stunned. “I guess we know who won’t be sending us a Christmas card this year.” Or a wedding invite, but that was sort of a given.
Watson’s only response is a confused head tilt that somehow perfectly captures my own mental state at the moment.
But with this new piece of the puzzle, I resume my search for my number one suspect.
And there she is. I spot Stella Martinelli across the ballroom, chatting with a small group of guests. Her silver-streaked dark hair is styled in soft waves, and she’s wearing a festive red velvet dress with delicate white lace trim at the collar and cuffs—Mrs. Claus goes high fashion. A glittering Christmas tree brooch adorns her lapel, twinkling under the chandeliers with each animated gesture she makes.
I watch as she excuses herself from the group and drifts toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, stopping at an auction table that’s currently unattended.
Perfect.
Watson and I trek over with my heels clicking against the polished floor like a bomb detonating with my every step.
“Hello, Stella,” I say, breathless, while adjusting Watson in my arms.
She turns with a startled gasp, one hand flying to clutch the pearl necklace at her throat. “Oh hello, Effie. You nearly scared the ghost right out of me.” Her laugh shrills through the air, sounding forced and all around artificial.
“Sorry about that,” I offer with a smile that dies upon initiating. “Enjoying the gala?”
“It’s lovely.” She nods, her gaze darting past me as if checking escape routes. “The Woman’s League has outdone themselves this year.”
