Oh, brother.
CHAPTER 4
The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla hangs in the air of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery like the edible Christmas cloud it is.
It’s nearly noon, and the morning rush has finally died down, leaving me to contemplate the frosting patterns on our Christmas cookie display while my mind replays last night’s Santa catastrophe on an endless loop.
I wipe down the white marble counter for the tenth time, surveying our little sugar haven. The bakery is a pastel wonderland with its mix-and-match furniture in shades that would make a unicorn jealous—mint green chairs paired with baby blue tables and a lavender lounger tucked into the corner.
Twinkle lights crisscross the ceiling like a constellation, and Lottie has gone full Christmas elf with the decor this year. Miniature trees sparkle on every table, a life-sized nutcracker guards the door, and enough tinsel dangles from above that I’m pretty sure we’re one small static charge away from a holiday inferno.
Outside, fat snowflakes cartwheel to the ground, adding another inch to the six we already got overnight. But snow and the holidays go hand-in-hand, which would explain whyevery customer who walks in looks as if they’ve been attacked by a craft store’s Christmas clearance section—ugly sweaters in garish reds and greens, adorned with 3D reindeer noses and actual working lights.
It’s as if the town collectively decided fashion takes a mandatory holiday during December. And let’s face it, it sort of does.
“Did you see Mrs. Wilkinson’s sweater this morning?” Lily asks, arranging gingerbread men in the display case. “That thing had actual jingle bells sewn into the reindeer’s collar. She sounded like a one-woman sleigh ride every time she moved.”
“I liked Mr. Peterson’s better,” Suze counters, refilling the napkin dispensers. “Nothing says festive like a sweater that proclaims, ‘Santa Saw Your Facebook Posts’ in blinking LED letters.”
Now that would be a nightmare.
“Speaking of Santa”—Lily turns to me with a smirk— “I hear you and Lottie are taking turns finding the bodies now. What does the schedule look like? Does she get New Year’s and you take Valentine’s Day?”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan, flicking a dish towel in her direction. “For your information, I did not find Santa’s body. I was merely adjacent to it when his soul decided to vacate the premises.”
Lottie emerges from the kitchen, balancing a tray of fresh candy cane brownies. “At least I find my bodies in respectable locations, not sprawled across my lap in the middle of a children’s event,” she says with a wink.
“He wasn’t sprawled across my lap,” I’m quick to defend myself. “He was face-planted in my North Pole twin peaks. There’s a difference.”
“And what a way to go.” Suze nods sagely. “It’s obvious the poor man had a heart attack after you did your best to smother him with your Christmas comfort pillows.”
“My what?” I sputter.
“Your jingle bell jugs,” Lily offers.
“Your mistletoe mountains,” Lottie adds, hardly able to contain her grin.
“Your yuletide—” Suze begins.
“I get it!” I hold up my hands in surrender just as the door chime rings, announcing another round of Christmas-clad customers.
Carlotta and Aunt Cat bustle in along with them, shaking snow from their matching fur-trimmed coats like two festive bears emerging from hibernation. Aunt Cat’s hair is teased higher than usual, maybe to accommodate the Santa hat perched precariously on top.
“Two peppermint mocha lattes with extra whip, a shot of caramel, chocolate sprinkles, and those little candy cane bits,” Carlotta announces without preamble. “And whatever unholy creation you’ve got that packs the most calories into a single serving. If I’m getting too cold, that means I’m getting too skinny.”
“So, basically liquefied diabetes with a side of cardiac arrest.” I laugh as I start preparing their drinks.
“Says the woman who killed Santa with her cleavage,” Aunt Cat quips while settling onto a stool at the counter. “At least our indulgences only harm ourselves.”
“I did not—” I start, but it’s no use. The Santa jokes are clearly going to be my personal holiday soundtrack this year—and maybe every year afterwards, too.
Niki strolls in from the adjoining Honey Pot Diner. Her apron looks dusted with enough powdered sugar to outfit two trays of cookies.
Carlotta lifts a crooked finger my way. “That Lorenzo Bianchi sure didn’t waste any time cozying up to that pretty youngthing looking for an intimate level of comfort after his brother dropped dead.”
“You mean Cooper’s sister?” Niki says, perching on a stool. “Loretta What’s-Her-Face?”
“Salami,” I supply automatically. “Or Surami. Or possibly Tsunami. Something Italian-ish that ironically I can never quite nail down.”
