I hold back a smile—or more to the point, a laugh.
Before I can respond, she unlocks the door and steps inside, flipping on the lights to reveal a cozy interior of exposed beams and wood paneling.
Venetta launches into a speech about the rustic charm of the open floor plan and my attention drifts to the window. Through the pine trees, I spot the glow of headlights—not just one car, but what looks like an entire convoy of them, turning into the gravel driveway that leads straight to Hattie’s cabin.
What the…
Then it hits me like a punch to the gut. Tonight must be one of Hattie’s infamous murder club meet and greets.
Something tells me that the last place I should be right now is in a dark cabin with Venetta Brandt while my girlfriend hosts her amateur detective society less than fifty yards away.
HATTIE
Istill don’t understand why humans insist on seasonal décor,Cricket meows from her perch atop my bookshelf, where she’s been systematically knocking down my collection of miniature pumpkins one by one.It’s like they’re afraid nature won’t notice it’s fall unless they bring the outside in.
I love it!Rookie gives a happy little bark with his tail thumping against the braided rug as he sniffs at a turkey-shaped candle.Everything smells like cinnamon and dead leaves. It’s glorious!
Cricket gives a heavy sigh at the thought.Your standards are depressingly low. You also love the smell of that questionable spot behind the mailbox on Pine Street.
That spot has HISTORY.
Cricket might be right. I do tend to go overboard when it comes to decorating for the holidays.
My tiny A-frame cabin looks like the autumn fairy godmother had a sneezing fit inside it. Every available surface hosts some combination of miniature pumpkins, gourds, or decorative turkeys. Garlands of preserved leaves snake along the ceiling beams, fairy lights shaped like acorns cast a warm glowover everything, and no fewer than three different pumpkin-scented candles battle for olfactory dominance—my favorite is pumpkin and butterscotch.
The black-and-white checkered curtains I installed last spring are now accessorized with burnt orange tie-backs, and the braided rug—which takes up approximately 83% of the available floor space—has been joined by a smaller turkey-shaped accent rug by the door.
Since it’s a studio, the living room is essentially the bedroom. In addition to the trundle bed tucked against the wall, I do have a sofa, albeit the thing is so small it makes a loveseat feel the size of a 747. At this point, I’m convinced the manufacturer designed it specifically for very affectionate Hobbits.
A sharp knock at the door signals the arrival of the evening’s entertainment. I open it to find Peggy and Clarabelle on my doorstep, each balancing foil-covered dishes as if they were walking a tightrope without a safety net.
“We brought sustenance,” Peggy announces, shoving a casserole dish into my hands. “Sweet potato and marshmallow casserole with a bourbon glaze. The bourbon is for flavor, mostly.”
“And this”—Clarabelle says, lifting the foil on her dish to release a cloud of steam—“is my famous corn pudding. The secret ingredient is more corn.”
Before I can thank them, Chevy Von Champs glides up behind them in an outfit that looks ripped off a Parisian runway—because let’s face it—it probably is. Her glossy dark boots click against the wooden steps, and she carries what appears to be a charcuterie board the size of a small coffee table.
“I brought adult Lunchables,” she says, somehow making processed cheese and deli meat sound like a delicacy. “And information on our victim. The woman had more enemies than my second husband had excuses.”
They file in just as Tipper’s Jeep pulls up, followed closely by Bunny’s sleek convertible. Tipper emerges clutching a pie tin, her brassy blonde hair caught in the evening breeze. She’s wearing what appears to be one of my brother Henry’s flannel shirts over skinny jeans and boots, looking impressively put-together for someone whose previous adventures required bail money and a good lawyer. And I’m starting to soften to her being with my brother just because of it.
“Pumpkin cheesecake!” she calls out, hurrying up the steps. “Henry helped, which means he stirred once and then claimed half the credit.”
“That sounds about right,” I tease as she breezes past me.
Bunny sashays up the path in heels that should technically qualify as weapons, a tiny dress that seems to have forgotten it’s November in Maine, and enough perfume to qualify as a chemical weapon in some countries. She’s lugging a bag that clinks ominously with each step.
“I brought the social lubricant,” she announces, extracting three bottles of wine from her bag. “One for every course, including dessert, gossip, and regrettable confessions.”
Just as I’m about to close the door, a final car pulls up—a sleek black SUV that practically screams corporate expense account. And seeing that I know who’s in it, I totally know which expense account it’s coming out of.
Peyton Blakey emerges with her chestnut hair pulled back into a severe ponytail that looks painful just to look at. She’s dressed like she came straight from a board meeting, complete with a blazer and heels that could double as ice picks.
“I brought dip,” she says without preamble, thrusting a container of what looks suspiciously like store-bought hummus into my hands. “And the final headcount for the Gilded Gratitude Gala. Which I still need from you, by the way.”
Within minutes, my tiny cabin transforms from cozy to sardine can as seven women, a dog, a cat, and enough food to sustain a small army occupy every available inch of space. The combined scents of perfume, home cooking, and pumpkin spice create an olfactory experience that could probably be weaponized by the military. And it smells so good it probably should be.
Chevy wastes no time. While the others arrange food on my tiny kitchen table, she heads straight for the trundle bed, pulling it away from the wall to reveal her pride and joy—the murder board. It’s an easel with a large corkboard that she meticulously updates for each case we tackle. Tonight, it features a glamour shot of Vivian Maple that looks like it was taken for a business feature, complete with a power suit and a smile that suggests she eats competitors for breakfast. And from what I’m learning about the woman, she just might have.
