And in a plot twist of the century, my father and his wife, Gwyneth—who happens to be Jasper’s mother, have taken up residence in the cottage right next door to ours. Becauseapparently, the universe has a sense of humor about personal space and family boundaries.
The closer we get to the inn, the more I can see the aftermath of last night’s disaster through the floor-to-ceiling bay windows that line the front of the building. The evergreen garlands are still draped elegantly along the window frames, though they look slightly worse for wear after hosting a murder scene. Honestly, everything does.
The twinkle lights that seemed so magical last night now look more than a bit morose in the gray morning light, like party decorations the morning after a celebration that went spectacularly wrong—emphasis onspectacularly,considering it concerned the death of the head elf himself.
The double mahogany doors are festooned with wreaths that are somehow still picture-perfect despite the chaos, and as soon as I push through the entrance, I’m hit with the competing scents of pine garlands, cinnamon rolls, and the faintest hint of crime scene cleaner—a combination that would make an interesting candle if you were marketing to people with very specific interests. I’d probably buy one.
The Country Cottage Inn’s lobby glows with its usual cozy charm, with soft lighting and just enough pine-scented ambiance to make you forget someone may or may not have kicked the bucket here recently. The white marble reception counter gleams like it has something to prove, especially next to the distressed gray wood floors that stretch across the main level—floors that, I should add, have seen more emotional whiplash than a holiday dinner with my entire family. We’re talking proposals, shouting matches, awkward reunions, dramatic fainting spells, and the occasional homicide. Not that anyone’s keeping a tally. Except maybe me.
The wrought iron staircase sweeps up to the second floor on my right, its railings currently adorned with enough Christmas greenery to reforest a small country. Red velvet bows nestleamong the garland like festive little surprises, and crystal ornaments catch the light streaming through those bay windows, creating tiny rainbows that flash across the walls.
The lobby bustles with the usual morning activity—guests heading to breakfast with the contented expressions of people who have no idea they’re staying at what’s apparently becoming Maine’s premier murder destination, staff members moving efficiently between tasks with the kind of ease that comes from working at a place where unexpected drama is basically a job requirement.
And speaking of my staff members...
As soon as I set foot inside the lobby, I spot Grady Pennington and Nessa Crosby locked in what can only be described as a mistletoe-fueled embrace that would make romance novel cover models take notes. They’re positioned perfectly beneath a strategically placed sprig of that kissy weed that hangs from the chandelier like nature’s excuse for workplace inappropriate behavior.
Grady is tall, dark, and handsome in that Irish way that makes sensible women do foolish things—and right this minute, he has his arms foolishly wrapped around Nessa as if her mouth were the portal to all things chocolate. His dark hair is artfully tousled in a way that suggests either expensive styling products or complete indifference to mirrors, and judging by the fact that he’s currently making out with his girlfriend at the front desk, despite the guests roaming freely, I’m guessing it’s the latter.
Nessa, just so happens to be Emmie’s cousin and is in possession of those gorgeous Crosby family genes that apparently come standard issue with the genetic package, with her dark hair twisted into what was probably a neat bun this morning but now looks like it’s been through a minor tornado. Her requisite ugly sweater (we’ve both been donning them faithfully since the calendar switched to December—featuring kissing snowmen that seem oddly appropriate given the circumstances—is slightly rumpled in a way that suggests this particularmistletoe encounter has been going on for more than just a quick peck.
I clear my throat loud enough to make them jump apart like a couple of teenagers, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Really?” I tease. “You do realize we have over seventy rooms in this place. One of them is bound to be empty.” It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve helped themselves to a room or two. “And by the way,” I say as Fish hops up on the counter, “we had a murder here last night, in the event you weren’t aware.”
Oh, they’re plenty aware, Fish mewls.
They’re just used to it by now,Sherlock woofs before trotting over to the Christmas tree near the bay windows and giving it a sniff before lifting a leg.
I clear my throat again and shoot him a look that says,don’t even think about it, Buster,and he’s quick to retreat.
Fish swishes her tail in front of her face.It’s pretty clear murder makes people amorous around here. And apparently, it makes Sherlock’s bladder overreact.
“Good morning, Bizzy,” Grady says with a grin that suggests he’s completely unrepentant about his mistletoe strategy. “We were just, um, just making sure the mistletoe was hung at optimal smooching height. You know, quality control.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” I ask, parking Ella’s stroller beside the reception desk, and she coos up at me. “Because from where I was standing, it looked more like you were trying to set a new record for longest kiss under decorative foliage.”
Some things never change around here,Fish mewls with what sounds like amusement.
At least they’re consistent,Sherlock adds while licking a cookie that looks as if it was stepped on.
“In our defense,” Nessa says, smoothing down her sweater with the dignity of an employee who’s been caught in compromising positions before and has learned to own it, “mistletoe hasa very limited seasonal window. We’re just being efficient with our holiday traditions.”
“Your efficiency is noted,” I say with a laugh. “How about we channel some of that energy into actual work? You know, the kind that involves checking in guests and answering phones instead of checking out each other’s tonsils? Because if you keep that up, you might just end up with one of these.” I bend over and land a kiss on my sweet daughter’s face and she sheds one of her bubbling laughs. Have I mentioned I’m addicted to her laughs? I’m not above tickling her toes at two in the morning because of it, especially since I’m already up changing a diaper. “By the way, she still hasn’t slept through the night once.”
Nessa gasps my way. “Bizzy Baker Wilder, don’t you dare curse us with one of those cuties,” she’s quick to swat me with a loose towel on the counter.
Grady’s face turns interesting shades of red. “I’m not ready to be a dad. I like sleep.”
A laugh gets caught in my throat just as Jordy Crosby comes running through the lobby like his flannel shirt is on fire, his dark hair windblown, and his blue eyes wide with the kind of panic usually reserved for natural disasters and empty coffee pots.
“Bizzy,” he calls out, slightly out of breath. “I just got a message from Emmie. There’s some kind of a Macy emergency in the café.”
“What?” I squawk because aMacy emergencyis the kind of phrase that strikes terror into the hearts of anyone who’s ever had to deal with my sister when she’s in full crisis mode. “What kind of emergency? Did she set something on fire? Did she insult someone’s business model? Did she accidentally show human emotion?” My voice hikes with each passing question as I run to grab the stroller.
“I don’t know,” Jordy says, already heading toward the right side of the inn with the purposeful stride of a man who’s learnednot to question family emergencies and just roll with them. “But Emmie sounded panicked, and you know how much it takes to panic Emmie.”
He’s right about that. Emmie has the kind of unflappable calm that comes from years of running a kitchen and dealing with the general chaos that surrounds this inn on a daily basis. If she’s panicked, then whatever’s happening in the café is probably somewhere between natural disaster and apocalypse on the crisis scale. And truthfully, I’m feeling ambivalent about dragging poor Ella into this by proxy.
