Winnie and Fitz make the perfect golden couple, she in a shimmering champagne-colored dress that complements her caramel hair, and he in a tuxedo that was probably tailored while he was still in the womb. They’re deep in conversation with a couple who look important enough to have buildings named after them and probably do.
Neelie and Stanton present a more, well,controversialimage. Neelie looks so young compared to her fiancé Stanton. She looks hardly old enough to legally drink the champagne she’s downing, while Stanton looks old enough to have invented it. His silver hair and distinguished wrinkles might be attractiveon someone who wasn’t dating a woman three decades his junior. The diamond on Neelie’s finger is large enough to sink a cruise ship—such as the one Stanton’s ex-wife happens to live on.
And then there’s Henry, my sweet brother, looking surprisingly comfortable in formal wear as he canoodles with Tipper in a quiet corner. Her brassy blonde hair is piled elegantly on her head, and she’s wearing a dress the color of ripe pumpkins that somehow works perfectly with her complexion. I have to admit, I’m warming up to them as a couple. They have the easy familiarity of two puzzle pieces that unexpectedly fit. So very unexpected.
“Hattie!” My mother’s voice cuts through the noise. “There’s our event coordinator extraordinaire!”
Then just like that, I’m surrounded by Holiday family members, all of whom are talking at once.
“Everything looks magnificent,” my father says, giving me an awkward one-armed hug.
“The ice sculpture is a stroke of genius,” Winnie gushes. “Although I’m still not sure about the champagne dispensing through its... um...”
“Anatomically incorrect beak,” Fitz supplies helpfully.Among other parts. What is this country club thinking?
I give a little shrug his way because sometimes I wonder that myself.
“You’ve really outdone yourself,” Henry adds, giving my shoulder a brotherly squeeze. “And don’t forget we’re all meeting tomorrow at three at the Holiday Lobster House for our Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I assure him. “Although after all this food prep and planning, I may never want to see another turkey again.”
“Speaking of turkeys”—Neelie nods toward a particularly pompous-looking gentleman holding the fort near the bar—“the mayor has already complained about the temperature of the room, the size of the shrimp, and the color of the napkins.”
“I’ll add it to my list of pressing concerns, right after world peace and discovering the scientific mystery of why matching socks disappear in the dryer,” I reply.
They all laugh, and for a moment, I bask in this rare familial harmony. Then they disperse like autumn leaves in a strong wind, drawn back to their respective social circles at all corners of the room.
I’ve barely had time to snag a flute of champagne before I’m flanked by Clarabelle and Peggy, who have interpreted formal attire in their unique way. Clarabelle sports a pantsuit in a shade of metallic copper that makes her look like a particularly festive penny, while Peggy’s dress features enough sequins to be visible from three counties over.
“This shindig puts theswankin swanky,” Clarabelle declares, eyeing the room with approval. “Though I’m not sure about those ice-cold turkeys. They look like they’re judging every single one of us.”
“That’s just your conscience finally catching up with you,” Peggy shoots back, already on her second glass of champagne. “Besides, I think they’re elegant. Nothing says class like frozen poultry with beverage capabilities.”
“If the next body we find has been bludgeoned with a turkey ice sculpture, I’ll know who to question first,” I mutter. I’m thinking Peyton.
Speak of the devil… Peyton materializes beside us like a corporate specter in her sleek black gown, tablet in hand, and expression that looks as if it’s trying hard to conceal her stress.
“Nice job so far, Hattie,” she concedes, and her tone suggests she’s surprised I haven’t burned the place down yet. Honestly?So am I. “I’ll give you your holiday bonus early if you leave the corpses off the menu.”
Before I can formulate a suitable corpse-free response, she strides off, already barking instructions into her headset regarding the auction.
“That woman needs either a vacation or an exorcism,” Clarabelle observes. “Possibly both, and in that order.”
I’m about to agree when I spot Meredith Thorne and Autumn Harrington approaching, each carefully carrying small plates of appetizers as if they’re transporting explosives. The two competitors, both suspects in our ongoing investigation, offer tight smiles as they join our little circle.
“Meredith! Autumn! So glad you could make it,” I say, trying my hardest to channel my inner hostess. “And thank you both for contributing to the food spread. Everything is wonderful.”
Meredith belts out a hearty laugh. “Well, butter my biscuit and call me breakfast. I wouldn’t miss this shindig for all the tea in China,” she drawls the words out and her Southern accent is thick as molasses. She’s dressed in a burgundy gown that complements her auburn curls, her vintage cat-eye glasses replaced with a more formal pair for the evening—black frames lined with rhinestones.
Autumn sheds an easy smile. “Well, at least it’s for a good cause tonight,” Autumn adds, dressed in an elegant champagne-colored sheath that makes her honey-blonde hair glow under the chandeliers. “Although I have to say, your dessert table puts mine to shame.”
“Your breakfast spread puts most dinner parties to shame,” I counter truthfully. “And for the record, I love both of your pumpkin waffles equally.”
We all share a laugh that sounds more genuine than I expected.
“Though if y’all are looking for recommendations”—Peggy jumps in, leaning toward Meredith with her hand next to her mouth—“I’d suggest adding a splash of bourbon to your batter. Works wonders for wafflesandfirst dates.”
“And cardiac arrests,” Clarabelle adds.
