“Try me.”
“Two Old Broads.”
Of course. Two Old Broads is the boutique that Mom and Georgie own and operate just a hop and a skip down MainStreet. Where fashion meets gossip, and absolutely no one leaves without giving up their deepest secrets. The shop that specializes mostly in wonky quilts but also in what they call age-appropriate fashion for women of distinction—which really means clothes for women who refuse to dress like their grandmothers just because they qualify for senior discounts.
“Perfect,” I say. “Let’s go interrogate her over seasonal scarves and candy cane accessories. We’ll chat about chocolate candy canes, business rivalries, and whatever else she might know about our dearly departed Santa.”
Let’s just say one thing is painfully clear from previous murder investigations— the best way to get information out of someone is to corner them while they’re distracted by shopping for age-appropriate fashion and last-minute Christmas gifts.
And if there’s one thing I know about Two Old Broads, it’s that absolutely nobody leaves that shop without being thoroughly interrogated about every aspect of their personal life.
Because nothing says cozy Christmas murder investigation like grilling your prime suspect between racks of glittery holiday ugly sweaters.
This should be interesting.
And it might just get ugly indeed.
CHAPTER 6
The snow is falling as if Mother Nature decided to dump a giant bag of powdered sugar all over Cider Cove, and here I am pushing baby Ella’s stroller down Main Street like some sort of deranged Christmas parade float that missed the memo about staying indoors during weather events.
“This is insane,” Jasper mutters for the third time in two blocks, his breath forming little puffs of disapproval in the frigid air that could probably be used as evidence in court. “Taking a three-month-old out in a snowstorm to go shopping.”
After driving all the way to the station in Seaview, Jasper had to come back to the inn this morning to inspect the scene of the crime, and afterward decided he had a little time to go on an outing with Ella and me—and my mother and Georgie.
I told him we were just about to do a little Christmas shopping—and may have left out the part about tracking down a suspect.
Jasper isn’t the biggest fan of me sticking my nose into his investigations. Although once I’ve solved them, he does offer up a decent massage—so there’s that.
“It’s not a snowstorm,” I counter, though I’m pretty sure myeyebrows are currently sporting tiny icicles that could qualify as Christmas decorations. “It’s a light dusting of festive precipitation. Very atmospheric. Very holiday-movie-esque.”
More like a festive blizzard,Fish grumbles from inside my coat where she’s taken up residence like a furry, judgmental scarf.I can’t feel my whiskers.
I have her strapped to the baby carrier sitting on my chest like a kitten-shaped bomb, and right about now, she feels like a fifty-pound lead weight.
Sherlock bounds ahead through the snow, his tail wagging and the freckles on his nose glowing red as if he’s auditioning for the role of Rudolph’s understudy, while Georgie trudges beside me in spiked heel boots that are absolutely not designed for anything more challenging than sitting at a sidewalk café.
“I can’t believe we’re walking in this weather,” Mom says, even though she’s smiling as she watches Ella’s eyes go wide at the sight of snowflakes landing on her stroller’s clear rain cover. “The baby is going to catch pneumonia, we’re all going to slip and break our hips, and this is going to end up being one of those stories they tell at family gatherings for the next thirty years.”If we live past New Year’s.
Oh, good grief.
“Don’t you dare put a pox on us, Red,” Georgie howls at her. “You take that spell back.” She leans my way. “Have I ever told you that your mother is a powerful witch?”
I’d roll my eyes if I weren’t in fear they would freeze that way—literally.
“The baby is toasty,” I say, nodding at the stroller where Ella is bundled up like a tiny Christmas burrito— with a fleece hat, fleece mittens, fleece everything, and seems absolutely delighted by the winter wonderland passing by. She keeps reaching her mittened hands toward the snow, making little cooing sounds that suggest she’s plotting to eat it at the first opportunity. “Andwe’re not going to break our hips because we’re young and spry.” Most of us, anyway.
“Speak for yourself,” Georgie huffs, grabbing my arm for support as her designer boots encounter what might charitably be called a sidewalk but looks more like an ice-skating rink. “I’m one slip away from looking like a Christmas decoration myself—flat on my back with my legs in the air wide open.”
“That’s a lovely image, thanks for sharing,” I say, steering us around a particularly treacherous patch of ice while trying not to make Georgie’s words manifest themselves into a situation that requires stitches.
The Christmas lights strung between the lampposts cast a magical glow over the white-dusted street, and despite Jasper’s doom-and-gloom weather predictions and my mother’s injury forecasts, I have to admit, Cider Cove looks like it belongs on a postcard. The kind where happy families frolic in the snow instead of discovering dead bodies at my inn or getting into candle-related business disputes.
“There it is,” Georgie announces, pointing toward the converted Victorian storefront that houses Two Old Broads. The sign swings gently in the snowy breeze, and warm golden light spills from the windows onto the sidewalk. “Home sweet home. And not a moment too soon. I think nine of my toes have already fallen off, but I still got the one.”
The door chimes jingle merrily as we pile inside, bringing half the snowstorm with us like we’re some sort of weather delivery service. The sudden warmth hits my face like a Christmas miracle wrapped in central heating, and I can finally feel my nose again.
“Oh sweet mother of Christmas,” I breathe, taking in the sight before me while trying to stomp the snow off my boots without looking like I’m performing some sort of interpretive dance.
