Winnie wanted to use up every last stitch of her autumn décor to make room for all the Christmas decorations begging for shelf space. The country club has essentially turned into the clearance section of her crafts store.
I’m technically finalizing plans for the Gilded Gratitude Gala, scheduled for Thanksgiving Eve, but my mind is about as focused as a puppy in a tennis ball factory. My notepad contains more doodles than actual notes, and two of those doodles involve Venetta Brandt meeting unfortunate ends via a turkey baster and cranberry sauce, respectively.
The gala is shaping up to be the most absurdly opulent event the country club has ever hosted, which is saying something for a place that once flew in snow from the Swiss Alps for a “Winter in July” party.
We’ve got ice sculptures of cornucopias and turkeys that will dispense champagne, a twenty-piece orchestra playing what the conductor insists on calling a harvest-inspired classical fusion, a dance floor constructed of reclaimed barn wood from a farm once owned by aMayflowerdescendant, and table settings that include 24-karat gold-dipped acorns as place card holders.
The guests will dine on a twelve-course meal featuring ingredients sourced from farms within a fifty-mile radius, prepared by a chef we imported from Paris who apparently has never cooked an American Thanksgiving meal in his life but assures us his deconstructed turkey terrine will revolutionize how Americans think about their most sacred bird.
I’ve spent most of the morning nodding at fabric swatches and approving floral arrangements while my brain replayslast night’s dinner with Killion on an endless loop. That, and imagining increasingly elaborate scenarios where Killion and Venetta run off to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator, leaving me behind to collect both cats and dogs and become the crazy spinster of Brambleberry Bay. Honestly, I’m just a few paws away from that being a reality.
After exhausting the elopement scenarios, I moved on to fantasizing about Venetta accidentally falling into a vat of her mother’s overpriced face cream and being preserved for all eternity like a beauty industry insect in amber. Then I had to include one for Killion, too, because it seemed unfair to leave him out of the fun. Perhaps something involving handcuffs and a very aggressive raccoon.
My phone pings, and my heart does a little hopeful jig.
Maybe it’s Killion, texting to explain that last night was all a misunderstanding, he’s not secretly in love with Venetta, and would I mind terribly if we got married this afternoon at the courthouse?
But no. It’s the murder club group chat, which pings about as frequently as Clarabelle complains about her bunions—which is to say, constantly.
Tipper: Murder club emergency meeting TONIGHT! 7pm! Hattie’s place! We have a killer to catch before I have to finalize the Thanksgiving menu for Henry’s family!
Kick: It’s almost Thanksgiving! Who has time for a murder circle? Some of us have actual lives and children and PTAs and husbands who think they’re “helping” by reorganizing the pantry.
Hillary: Count me out too. I have boots to hunt down. Jimmy Choo just released their winter collection, and if I don’t secure those crocodile knee-highs, my life is essentially over. #FirstWorldProblems
Chevy: I’m bringing wine and my latest theory: the killer used toxic plants because they’re a deranged botanist seeking revenge for deforestation. Or they just really hate pumpkin spice. Either way, I’m THERE.
Peggy: I’ll bring my special pumpkin bread! And by special, I mean store-bought with the label removed. See y’all at 7!
Peyton: I can bring my seven-layer fiesta dip. The one that won the county fair three years running.
I stare at my phone. Peyton? When did Peyton get added to the group chat? Was she always lurking there, and I chose to ignore her presence? That would actually make sense. My brain has a convenient Peyton-filtering system that activates automatically.
Peyton: You’re all coming to the Gilded Gratitude Gala, right? Because I need the final headcount by 3pm today. NO EXCEPTIONS.
Hattie: I’ll see everyone at 7. Don’t forget to bring theories AND alibis.
I set my phone down with a sigh. Peyton Blakey is a dip, all right—just not the kind you’d want to bring to a party.
“Earth to Hattie! Are you communing with the linen samples, or just sleeping with your eyes open?”
I look up to find my sister Winnie striding toward me, a vision of autumnal chic in a chunky caramel-colored sweater that perfectly matches her loose waves of caramel hair. Her stylish cognac boots—the kind Hillary would probably commit minor felonies for—click across the marble floor with purpose. She’s carrying a large wicker basket overflowing with what appears to be more decorative gourds, because apparently, we don’t have enough of those already.
“Winnie!” I stand to hug her, inhaling the comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon that seems to follow her everywhere. “What are you doing here?”
“I just dropped off more decorations to the ballroom for the staff,” she says, setting down her basket of seasonal overkill. “Thought I’d pop in and say hello to my favorite sister.”
“Don’t let Neelie hear you say that.”
“Neelie is too busy picking out diamond-encrusted napkin rings to care about sibling rankings.” She glances at my notepad. “Is that Venetta Brandt being attacked by a turkey?”
I flip the notepad over. “Maybe.”
Aunt Winnie!Rookie barks with joy as he bounds over, nearly knocking down a club member in the process.Did you bring treats? You always bring the BEST treats!
Cricket slinks over with marginally more dignity.I suppose I could tolerate some of those salmon nibbles you had last time. If you insist.
“How about we grab some coffee?” Winnie offers, already reaching into her purse to produce two gourmet cat treats and a dog biscuit the size of my palm. “I’ve got about thirty minutes before I need to head back to Willoughby Hall.”
