I recount the whole thing—the swaying, the slurring, the face-dive into my festive chest decor—while Cooper takes notes with an intensity that suggests he’s either documenting a crime scene or planning to write a strongly worded letter to the North Pole about workplace safety.
When I finish, Cooper pulls me into his arms—with his wavy dark hair slightly mussed and those marbled blue-green eyes boring into mine with an intensity that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.
Cooper also has that whole you’re-never-going-to-get-a-smile-out-of-me thing going for him. Have I mentioned he’s Italian? He checks all the boxes. All of them. Even the ones I didn’t know existed until I met the guy.
“What is it with you and dead bodies?” Cooper asks with his voice a mix of exasperation and concern.
“I don’t know,” I say, jostling Watson who gives a little yip of protest. “They just keep dropping around me. Maybe I’m cursed. Or blessed, depending on how you look at it.”
“Blessed?” One of his eyebrows shoots up.
“Well, I’m never bored at parties.”
“But did you have to off Santa?” he says. “And so late in the holiday season?”
“I didn’t—wait, are you accusing me of murdering Santa Claus?” I pull back, genuinely offended. “My work may land me on the naughty list, but I draw the line at taking out the big man himself.”
Cooper’s lips twitch in what might almost become a smile before he remembers he’s a detective at a potential crime scene. “Force of habit.”
Before I can respond, Holly and Stella rush onto the stage, wailing like professional mourners at a funeral where the inheritance is substantial.
“Oh, Nicholas!” Holly sobs, though I notice her mascara remains perfectly intact. “His sponsorship was the heart and soul of this festival!”
Stella clutches her chest dramatically. “Such a tragedy! Who could have done such a thing?”
I narrow my eyes. Done such a thing? That’s an interesting assumption that Santa didn’t just have a holiday heart attack. From the corner of my eye, I notice the older man who was arguing with Nicholas earlier. He stands at the edge of the crowd, frowning as if he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult crossword puzzle, not watching a holiday disaster unfold.
Cooper squeezes my shoulder before being pulled away by Noah to secure the scene. Watson whines and snuggles closer to my neck as if he senses the tension crackling through the air like static electricity.
No sooner has Cooper stepped away than Carlotta and Aunt Cat pounce and scoot me to the darkened area of the stage while flanking me like tinsel-covered bodyguards.
“Uncle Jimmy left one of his special notes for you,” Aunt Cat whispers, her breath a potent mixture of eggnog and what I suspect is pure grain alcohol.
My eyes bulge. Those notes are delivered via carrier pigeon—Aunt Cat—and are to be burned after reading. Uncle Jimmy doesn’t believe in sending his hit list via text message or even a phone call. Nope. He likes to do things the old-fashioned way—via the town gossip.
“Not here, not now,” I practically scream at the two of them. They’ve clearly lost their minds. “Half the Ashford Sheriff’s Department just entered the building. I can practically hear the handcuffs jingling from here.”
Aunt Cat nods as if she heard. “I took a peek at the note, sweetie. There’s just one name on it.”
“It’s not mine, is it?” I’m only half teasing and they shake their heads. “It’s not one of yours, is it?” I ask and they both glare at me on cue.
Didn’t think so. I’m not that lucky.
“You ready to hear it?” Aunt Cat asks and it’s my turn to nod, albeit a heck of a lot slower. Watson’s ears perk up as if he’s waiting for the answer, too.
“It’s Lorenzo ‘Enzo’ Bianchi.”
“What?” I gasp once again. “You mean the dead old coot’s, old coot of a brother?”
They both nod in unison again and I look up to see the old coot in question not more than twenty feet away, holding his granddaughter—oops, I mean Loretta Saliva, his shiny new girlfriend. Her arm is wrapped around his slumped shoulders like a boa constrictor guarding its next meal.
Just wait until Coop hears the news. She’ll be dead meat. And once I introduce Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi to the working end of my sweet gun, Buttercup, so will he.
Watson squirms in my arms, perhaps sensing that his mama’s mind has just shifted from holiday cheer to holidayfear.
One thing’s for certain—this Christmas season, someone is getting more than coal in their stocking. They’re getting a one-way ticket to the afterlife, courtesy of yours truly.
The Jingle Bell Jubilee has just become a deadly silent night, and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion the body count has only just begun.
