We fall into a rhythmic back-and-forth, the tension between us temporarily suspended as we do what we do best together—work through a case. For a few precious minutes, it feels like normal. Like us.
But all too soon, the professional discussion winds down. The awkwardness creeps back in like a fog, chilling the brief warmth we’d generated.
“I should get going,” Hattie says, gathering her things. “I’ve got to finalize some details for the gala tomorrow.”
I nod, trying not to show my disappointment. “I’ll walk you to your truck.”
We step outside into the crisp afternoon air, Cricket nestled in Hattie’s arms and Rookie trotting faithfully at my side. Ginger, Hattie’s beloved 1953 Ford F-100, sits at the curb like a faded red sentinel. The truck once belonged to her grandfather, and despite—or perhaps because of—its rust spots and temperamental engine, she loves it fiercely. So do I.
I help Cricket and Rookie into the passenger seat, making sure Mr. Jolly Beary is securely positioned between them to prevent the ongoing custody battle that seems to have no end in sight.
When I turn back to Hattie, she’s watching me with an unreadable expression. I move in for a kiss, but she turns her head at the last second, and I land it on her cheek instead. The gesture is like a knife between my ribs—subtle but devastatingly effective.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night at the Gilded Gratitude Gala,” she says, her voice softer than it’s been all afternoon. She looks up at me, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. “You will be there, right?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assure her, meaning every word.
She nods, climbs into Ginger and drives away with a backfire that sounds oddly like the truck is commenting on our strained interaction.
I stand on the sidewalk long after her taillights disappear around the corner, trying to make sense of what’s happening between us. How can someone I was so connected to suddenly feel like a stranger? How can the woman who reads minds not see what’s in my heart?
And more importantly, how did I end up in this situation where it feels like I’m losing her?
Hattie Holiday is the great love of my life—the only woman who’s ever seen past my defenses, who makes me laugh when I want to scowl, who challenges me to be better while accepting my flaws. Letting her slip away isn’t an option.
But first, I need to figure out what went wrong. Because solving this mystery might be the most important case of my life.
HATTIE
Istill don’t understand human formal events,Cricket muses from her hiding spot under one of the elaborately draped tables.They dress in uncomfortable clothes, make small talk they hate, and then brag about how much fun they had.
But the food!Rookie counters, his little nose peeking out beside her.They drop so much food! It’s like living in a magical land where treats rain from the sky.
Cricket grunts.You have the culinary standards of a garbage disposal.
And you’re just grumpy because Mr. Jolly Beary is getting more attention than you from that little girl in the green dress.
He’s an inanimate object!Cricket’s mental voice rises to a shriek.He doesn’t even appreciate it!
The Gilded Gratitude Gala has transformed the Brambleberry Bay Country Club’s grand ballroom into what can only be described as Thanksgiving’s fever dream—and to Peyton’s chagrin, maybe new money. Every surface gleams with either gold leaf or candlelight, reflecting off crystal chandeliers that hang from the vaulted ceiling like frozen waterfalls. Spraysof autumn flowers—rust-colored chrysanthemums, golden sunflowers, and deep burgundy dahlias—burst from towering arrangements on gilded pedestals.
In the centerpiece of the room, commanding attention is a magnificent ice sculpture of a turkey carved with such precision that each feather seems to shimmer with glacial life as champagne flows from its beak. Its proud, frosty head surveys the gathering of New England’s elite as they circle the appetizer buffet like expensively dressed vultures. And, well, it may have sprung a leak from its behind because it is most definitely an ice-carved defecating turkey.
I try not to focus on the fact there are actually two of them in the room. It’s bad enough I’ve inspected one of them.
That buffet, I have to admit, is a masterpiece of culinary artistry. Tables draped in cream and gold linens stretch the length of one wall, laden with bite-sized morsels designed to impress rather than satisfy—tiny lobster rolls topped with edible gold flakes, shot glasses of pumpkin bisque with foamed maple cream, miniature Yorkshire puddings filled with rare beef and cranberry compote. At the far end, the dessert table practically buckles under the weight of pumpkin-spiced everything, from macarons to crème brûlée to chocolate truffles dusted with cinnamon.
Along the opposite wall, silent auction items gleam under strategic lighting—weekend getaways to Martha’s Vineyard, custom jewelry from Boston’s finest artisans, a private yacht cruise, and even a dinner prepared by a celebrity chef who apparently has a summer home nearby. Wealthy patrons drift between the displays, sipping champagne and casually adding zeros to bid sheets like they’re jotting down grocery lists.
A string quartet sits in one corner producing elegant background music that nobody seems to be listening to, while waitstaff in crisp white shirts and gold vests weave through thecrowd with trays of champagne flutes so full they defy the laws of physics.
And the guests.Half the Northeast’s elite have turned out in their finest plumage. Women in gowns that cost more than some cars glide across the marble floor, dripping with jewelry that could fund a small country’s infrastructure. Men in tuxedos cluster in groups, discussing stock portfolios and yacht maintenance with the serious expressions of surgeons discussing complicated procedures.
My own ruby-colored gown—a floor-length number with a modest slit and just enough sparkle to suggest I put in effort without looking like I’m trying too hard—feels suddenly understated among the peacocking wealth. But I didn’t have time to shop between solving murders and questioning suspects, so it’ll have to do.
My entire family has turned out in force tonight and I couldn’t be happier. My mother looks resplendent in a midnight blue gown while holding court near the champagne fountain, already three glasses in if her laugh is any indication.
My father hovers nearby where he tugs uncomfortably at his bow tie as if it’s slowly strangling him, which, knowing my mother’s propensity for overly tight knots, it just might be.
