Romantic entanglement?
“Killion and I have been together for over a year and we’re still going strong.”
“I’m not interested in your future romantic failures.” She flips open a leather-bound planner. “I need the final headcount by five, the floral arrangements need to be autumn-themed but not”—she makes air quotes with French-manicured nails—“basic pumpkin, and if I see a single candy corn anywhere near the décor, someone is getting fired, and that someone is you.”
“Duly noted,” I say.
I suppose this would be a bad time to sing the praises of that orange and white striped candy that I love so much.
“And Hattie?” She leans closer, and her sugary perfume engulfs me—the only sweet thing about her. “There had better not be a single dead body at the event. I don’t care if the governor himself keels over from too much champagne—you prop him upWeekend at Bernie’s-style until the last guest leaves. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I mutter.
“Good.” She straightens, scanning the festive decorations with a critical eye. “And tell whoever did these arrangements that the gourds look anemic. We’re going for abundant harvest, not the survived the famine look.”
With that parting shot, she clip-clops away, leaving a trail of intimidation and the gunshot sound of those red-bottomed heels in her wake.
Cricket’s tail twitches as she watches Peyton take off.That woman’s soul is as empty as my food bowl at six a.m.
For once, I can’t disagree with my cat’s assessment.
I flip my phone over once again and am about to type a snarky reply about eloping being an underrated option when the glass doors swoosh open, letting in a blast of crisp November air and two of the most eager-for-a-corpse members of our little murder club.
It’s a book club really, but let’s just say things went incredibly awry.
Chevy Von Champs strides in as if she’s walking a Milan runway with her blonde hair perfectly styled and her designer boots clicking against the marble floor with military precision.
Behind her, Tipper Luxemburg follows in a cloud of expensive perfume, her brassy blonde hair tousled in thatI paid $300 to look like I just rolled out of bedway. Which she probably did—on both counts.
“Well, well, well,” Chevy announces with her manicured hands planted firmly on her hips. “If it isn’t Brambleberry Bay’s own Jessica Fletcher.”
“Please don’t start,” I groan.
“Start what?” Tipper asks innocently, her blue eyes wide. “Congratulating you on supplying our murder club with a fresh mystery? That was very considerate of you.”
“It wasn’t considerate, it was traumatizing,” I counter. “And it’s a book club, thank you very much.”
“A book club that solves murders,” Chevy points out, examining her perfect French manicure. “Which makes it a murder club.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “And speaking of books, that cozy mystery of yours is about to hit shelves come Christmas, so you’d better clear your schedule to do a book signing or two.”
“You bet I will.” I bite down on a smile. Chevy’s publishing company picked up my little cozy mystery, and I couldn’t be more grateful to her for making all of my literary dreams come true.
“Murder club, book club—call it what you want,” Tipper says, waving her hand dismissively. “We need to schedule an emergency meeting ASAP. We’ve got to crack this case before Thanksgiving.”
“Which is in one week,” I remind her.
“Exactly! I need to focus on finding the perfect outfit for my first Holiday family Thanksgiving.” Her eyes light up. “Don’t forget, Henry and I are hosting at the Holiday Lobster House.”
“How can I forget?” Not only have they both reminded us a thousand times in the last week alone, in and out of our familygroup chat—and yes, Henry added her as a member—but I’ve actually been mourning the fact we won’t be at my mother’s for our traditional feast.
There are some things you should never mess with, and Thanksgiving is one of them.
Tipper leans her ear my way. “Do you think Henry prefers traditional autumn colors, or should I go with something more unexpected?”
“I’m sure Henry will be thrilled no matter what you wear,” I manage, picturing my formerly serious-to-the-bone attorney brother now making googly eyes at Tipper over lobster rolls. “As long as you’re not naked.”
Oh, I will be,she thinks to herself with a villainous smile.Of course, that will be much later, for dessert at Henry’s place.
Ugh. Where is the white noise when you need it?
