“And here I thought finding the perfect Christmas gift was stressful,” Georgie adds, picking up a quilt featuring reindeer that appear to be experiencing some sort of antler crisis. “Turns out, it’s nothing compared to public confessions and cat-related breakdowns.”
“Should we follow her?” Mom asks. “Because that seemed like important information for the investigation.”
“Or call the sheriff’s department?” Georgie suggests. “Because I’m pretty sure threatening to hang people by their toes is frowned upon by law enforcement.”
“I am the sheriff’s department,” Jasper says with a frown while relinquishing the stroller to me. “And speaking of which, duty calls. I have to run.” He dots both Ella and me with a quick kiss. “I’ll see what I can do as far as Jellybean goes. But it sounds like Matilda and Hammie Mae are off to a good start.” He locks his gray eyes to mine. “Do me a favor and stay out of trouble.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I say, trying my hardest to believe it myself. “I have a little time, so I think I’ll swing by the Decks the Halls Home Tour and check out some clever Christmas décor ideas for the inn.”
“Sounds innocent enough,” Jasper frowns as he says it.Why do I get the feeling it’s not?He lands another kiss on my lips, this time lingering, and every bit of me demands to erase everything on my schedule today and take this man back to our cottage and have my way with him. Plus, I could probably convince Mom to watch Ella in the steamy interim.
Ella gives a little laugh as we pull away. Our little audience has put a damper on our good time more than once.
Jasper says goodbye to one and all before dashing through the door just as Juniper floats over from the register during a brieflull in customers, her antler headband bobbing with holiday authority.
“The universe has a way of revealing truth through chaos,” she says with the kind of zen wisdom that only comes from years of retail experience. “That woman’s aura is practically screaming guilt. And not just about the cat,” she adds meaningfully, “if you catch my cosmic drift.”
“Oh, we’re catching it,” I say, looking around the Christmas chaos of the shop, then out at the snowy street where Matilda’s footprints are already being covered by fresh snowfall. Baby Ella makes a happy noise at the twinkle lights, completely oblivious to the fact that we’ve just witnessed what might have been a confession to murder disguised as a missing pet crisis.
“You know what?” I say, adjusting Ella’s blanket. “I think it’s time we took that holiday home tour. For investigative purposes, of course.”
“Of course,” Mom says with a grin. “Nothing suspicious about three women with a baby showing up to look at Christmas decorations while conducting interrogations and accidentally solving crimes.”
“It’s our specialty,” Georgie adds. “Christmas chaos and criminal investigation—we should put it on our business cards.”
We really should.
Experience has taught me the hard way that when it comes to murder and mayhem in Cider Cove, the truth usually hides behind the most festively decorated doors, and the best confessions happen when people think they’re simply having an emotional breakdown about their pets.
“Well, ladies,” I announce, pushing the stroller toward the door where fresh snow continues to fall like nature’s own Christmas confetti. “I guess we’re off to the Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour.”
After all, what could possibly go wrong with a group of amateur detectives, a three-month-old baby, and a tour of homesbelonging to people who may or may not have committed murder?
In Cider Cove, that’s practically considered a peaceful family outing.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this town, it’s that murder and mistletoe are often found in the same zip code.
And in Cider Cove, the real holiday tradition?
Trouble wrapped in tinsel.
CHAPTER 7
“Ican’t feel my toes,” Mom announces, wobbling through the snow like a Christmas ornament with balance issues.
“Fashion over function,” Georgie declares as the rhinestone reindeer on her hot pink coat catches the streetlights. “Besides, Red, frostbite builds character. And you never know when you might meet a hot doctor who specializes in toe reattachment.”
Someone special who appreciates frostbite?Fish chitters from inside my coat, where she’s taken up residence like a judgmental fur stole while sitting in a baby carrier strapped to my chest.These hoomans have lost their minds.
That’s why I wear these do-hickeys on my feet,Sherlock says, holding up one of his paws to show off his bright orange snow shoes.
And it’s true. I call them do-hickeys, and thus so does Sherlock. I can’t help it. They don’t look like shoes. More like rubber mittens.
“Georgie,” I say, pushing baby Ella’s stroller through snow that’s deeper than my common sense, “we’re investigating a murder, not shopping for medical professionals.”
“Why can’t I do both? I’m excellent at multitasking.”
Mom looks like she stepped out of a vintage Christmas card in her classic red wool coat with fur trim, while Georgie has managed to turn winter outerwear into a rhinestone-studded spectacle in hot pink that can probably be seen from the North Pole.
