“Someone stop that killer nurse,” I yell, but most people just stare in confusion or assume we’re part of some strange Christmas performance art. Worse yet, a flash mob of two.
Watson, refusing to be left out of the action, bounds after us, barking with enough enthusiasm to rival the “Jingle Bells” now blasting through the speakers. He weaves between legs and under tables, occasionally pausing to snatch an unattended cocktail weenie off a dropped appetizer plate.
Stella quickly sees that her escape route through the main doors is blocked by late arrivals and veers sharply toward the dessert tables. She grabs a plate of gingerbread men and flings them at me like ninja throwing stars. I duck and watch in horror as the cookie projectiles decapitate the snowman ice sculpture. Its head rolls across the floor, knocking down several guests as efficient as a frozen bowling ball.
I’m gaining on her when Stella grabs a bowl of whipped cream and tosses it backward. The white cloud explodes in my face, temporarily blinding me with the sugary fluff.
I wipe my eyes clear just in time to see her heading for the exit, a true escape so tantalizingly close for the holiday homicide specialist.
But fate—and Lottie Lemon—have other plans.
Just as Stella makes her final dash for freedom, Lottie appears in the doorway, rolling an enormous gingerbread house on a cart—a masterpiece of spiced architecture that has taken us days to construct. It’s at least five feet tall, with intricate piping,candy windows, and a functioning doorbell that plays “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” when pressed.
“Special delivery for the—” Lottie begins before Stella crashes into the confectionery mansion at full speed.
The collision is spectacular—in the most disastrous way possible. Gingerbread walls crumble like the Walls of Jericho, sending a cascade of candy shingles, gumdrop bushes, and peppermint fence posts raining down. And Stella disappears under an avalanche of sugary debris, momentarily stunned by the impact.
With all the inertia going, I can’t stop now and launch myself forward in a flying tackle that would make a football coach weep with pride. We go down in a tangle of limbs and icing, rolling across the floor as an avalanche of powdered sugar snow falls over us. I end up on top, pinning Stella beneath me as the fondant Santa that once adorned the gingerbread roof lands on my head like a festive crown.
“Got you,” I pant, blowing a glob of royal icing off of my nose.
“Everybody freeze,” Cooper shouts as he runs this way with his gun drawn and a look on his face that lets me know he can’t quite figure out which way is up.
“She confessed,” I shout up at him, still straddling the wriggling woman amid the gingerbread carnage. “She killed both Bianchi brothers! She poisoned them with pentobarbital because Nicholas was going to expose their euthanasia scheme and cut her out of his will!”
Cooper holsters his weapon and pulls out handcuffs instead. “Stella Martinelli, you’re under arrest for the murders of Nicholas and Lorenzo Bianchi.” His voice is steady despite the fact that I’m covered in icing and Stella has a gumdrop stuck to her forehead.
Security guards appear to help with the arrest, hauling a frosting-streaked Stella to her feet while Cooper reads herrights. She glares at me with the venom of someone who’s just had decades of carefully laid plans—and a perfectly coordinated Christmas outfit—ruined by a woman wearing half a gingerbread house.
As they escort Stella out, Cooper pulls me in for a strong embrace—totally not caring about the frosting transferring to his impeccable tux. “Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes scanning my face for injuries rather than dessert debris.
“I am now,” I say, suddenly aware of the crowd watching us. I glance up and just my luck, spot a sprig of mistletoe dangling from the doorframe above. “Don’t look so puzzled,” I tell him, nodding upward. “You’re the detective around here. I’m sure you can figure it out.”
Cooper gives a wicked grin that makes my knees weaker than snow. “I believe I can,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his lips against mine in a kiss that tastes like sugar, spice, and the sweet victory of solving a double homicide without becoming the third victim.
As we break apart to applause from the onlookers, Watson trots up with what appears to be a gingerbread man’s leg in his mouth. He drops it at our feet like an offering and manages to look enormously pleased with himself in the process.
“Good boy, Watson.” Cooper gives him a quick scratch behind his ears. “I think you’ve earned yourself an extra Christmas treat this year.”
“We all have,” I agree, eyeing the remains of the gingerbread house scattered across the floor. “Although I think Lottie might ban me from the bakery for life after what I just did to her masterpiece.”
The crowd begins to disperse, returning to their champagne and auction bidding now that the excitement is over. Cooper’s phone rings—no doubt the station calling about their high-profile Christmas killer.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I came to this party worried about having to kill someone and instead, ended up stopping a killer. Uncle Jimmy won’t be all that thrilled that Loretta is still breathing, but that’s a problem for another day—preferably one that doesn’t involve any more homicidal medical professionals or death by dessert.
Maybe there’s hope for a merry Christmas after all, assuming I can survive the holiday season without finding any more bodies under the tree.
CHAPTER 21
“Pass the baccalà before Aunt Cat mistakes it for a weapon,” Niki calls from across the table, eyeing our aunt who’s gesturing so wildly with her fork that the poor cod might get airborne.
“If she keeps waving that thing around, someone’s going to lose an eye,” I mutter, sliding the platter of fish safely out of her trajectory. “And I’m pretty sure the emergency room has a no Canelli Family on Christmas Eve policy after what happened with the deep-fried calamari incident of 2018.”
“That was a simple misunderstanding,” Aunt Cat protests, finally setting down her fork. “How was I supposed to know Carlotta’s hairspray was flammable?”
“Everything about Carlotta is flammable,” Uncle Jimmy drawls, raising his wine glass in a mock toast to Carlotta, who responds with a gesture that definitely doesn’t belong at a Christmas dinner table.
My mother’s house in Grimstone Heights looks like Christmas and Italy had a collision at approximately ninety miles per hour, with no survivors. Every surface is covered with either doilies, Capodimonte figurines of shepherds in various poses of ceramic surprise, and a whole lot of Christmasdecorations that have been in the family since before electricity was invented.
