Worse yet, we need to find her before she accidentally solves this murder without us,Fish cries out with a swish of her tail.Come on, team. Operation Find the Furry Cookie Gobbling Detective is officially a go.
I watch as the four of them take off for the ballroom and shudder as I turn back to the scene of the crime, where the coroner’s office is snapping pictures of the poor man as he stares vacantly at the ceiling. Jasper is snapping a few pictures of his own, and I know for a fact he’s hoping to find a clue or two.
I may not have any clues at the moment, but one thing is absolutely certain—the person who killed Santa is standing somewhere right here.
And I’m the only one who knows it.
The Christmas carols are still playing in the background, Jasper is coordinating with Leo to secure the scene, and somewhere in this festive crowd of holiday revelers lurks a killer who is already planning their newfound freedom from Balthasar Thornfield.
This Christmas is shaping up to be one for the record books—the kind that would make even the Grinch himself take detailed notes and possibly ask for the recipe.
CHAPTER 4
Well, that Christmas party last night was more eventful than usual,Fish mewls as we make our way toward the inn along the cobbled path that’s currently dusted with enough fresh snow to look like someone attacked it with powdered sugar.
I knew something was wrong when Jellybean said those candy cane cookies tasted funny,Sherlock adds with the kind of worried tone usually reserved for natural disasters and empty treat jars.
Speaking of Christmas... do you think the real Santa will still slide down our chimney even though that fake Santa is dead?Fish asks, and I can practically hear the concern in her meow.
Oh no!Sherlock whimpers with genuine panic.What if Santa thinks our inn is cursed? What if he skips us this year? What if baby Ella doesn’t get any presents for her first Christmas? What if we’re all automatically added to the naughty list?
Don’t be ridiculous,Fish mewls with the patience of a cat explaining basic physics to a goldfish.Everyone knows the real Santa is safe at the North Pole. Isn’t that right, Bizzy?
“That’s absolutely right,” I say aloud, adjusting Ella’s blankets as she gurgles with what sounds suspiciously like laughter fromher stroller. My three-month-old daughter has inherited Jasper’s dark hair and light gray eyes, plus dimples that match my own—though hers are considerably cuter. She’s also been blessed with the uncanny ability to never need a wink of sleep, which would be charming if it weren’t for the fact that her lung power could probably be registered as a weapon of mass destruction with the proper authorities. When she cries, windows rattle, pets hide, and I’m pretty sure the neighbors three cottages over start checking new places to live. “The real Santa is probably sipping hot cocoa and checking his list twice, completely unaware that his Cider Cove impersonator met an untimely demise at our Christmas gala.”
See? Bizzy knows about these things,Fish says smugly.She’s an expert on dead people and holiday logistics.
Well, that’s one way to describe my skill set.
The December morning air carries the scent of pine needles, ocean salt, and the faintest hint of wood smoke from someone’s fireplace, creating the kind of quintessentially Maine winter atmosphere that would be absolutely perfect if not for the whole murder situation we’re currently dealing with.
Light snow continues to fall in lazy flakes that look like nature’s confetti, coating the rolling grounds of the Country Cottage Inn in pristine white that the entire scene looks as if it belongs in a snow globe—if that snow globe were showcasing an inn that has seen far more than its fair share of homicides. And don’t think for a minute there aren’t dark souls out there who would love to get their hands on a snow globe like that.
Look at all the white fluff falling from the sky!Sherlock barks excitedly.Do you think we can build a snowman later?
Only if you promise not to knock it over five minutes after we build it,Fish replies dryly.
That was ONE TIME! And it was an accident!
Three times. And they were all “accidents,”Fish corrects with a growl.
The inn rises before us like something straight out of a holiday movie—all white with bright blue shutters that I insisted on keeping when I took over this place. With seventy rooms in the main building and over thirty charming cottages dotted across the property like an adorable Dickens village, we’re basically our own little version of a Christmas wonderland.
I still don’t understand why hoomans need so many rooms,Sherlock muses as we approach the main building.Wouldn’t it be easier to just have one big room where everyone sleeps together in a pile?
Because hoomans are weird about personal space,Fish explains patiently.They don’t appreciate the warmth and comfort of sleeping in a furry pile.
Their loss,Sherlock concludes with a woof.
I still say it’s a Christmas wonderland—one that occasionally doubles as a crime scene, but still.
Those cottages happen to house quite the collection of characters these days—myself included. Jasper and I call the main cottage home, while Emmie and Leo live just down the winding path in what used to be the groundskeeper’s cottage but now serves as headquarters for Emmie’s culinary empire. Georgie has claimed the cottage that sits west of the inn and has turned it into what can only be described as a shrine to romance novels and seasonal decorating.
Georgie’s cottage smells like lavender and insanity,Fish yowls with typical feline bluntness.
That’s not very nice,Sherlock chides with a woof.Her cottage smells like bacon!
I said what I said,Fish replies without remorse.But she’s still my favorite kaftan-loving granny. The bacon part doesn’t hurt either.
