Unfortunately, she’s absolutely right.
A few wrong moves, and that’s how we got permanently banned from high society—one chocolate truffle at a time.
And somewhere out there a killer is planning their next move, too.
CHAPTER 14
“This afternoon was a complete disaster,” I announce as we escape into the Country Cottage Inn’s café, which feels like a warm hug compared to Matilda’s marble mausoleum where we just survived the Great White Elephant Catastrophe of the century, and I’m grateful to be back in familiar territory where the decorations don’t require their own insurance policies.
It’s just Emmie, Jordy, Macy, and me as we settle in for some well-deserved comfort food and strategy planning for the days leading up to the big Christmas Eve shindig, which will be held right here at the inn. And I’ve just summed up every expensive detail that this afternoon offered.
Baby Ella is safely tucked away with Dad and Gwyn for a well-deserved nap, which means I can actually focus on the thousand and one details that go into throwing the Christmas Eve Gala without worrying about whether someone is going to accidentally wake the baby with their event-planning enthusiasm.
“Define disaster,” Emmie says, settling at our usual table with her laptop open. “Because on a scale of one to Georgie-chasing-Macy-with-chocolate-while-people-dangle-from-chandeliers, I’d say that was more like a solid eight.”
“At least nobody called the fire department this time,” Jordy adds, pulling out his phone and scrolling through what I assume are decorating notes for the Starlight Christmas Eve Gala.
The glass patio offers a perfect view of the darkening sky and the ocean beyond, where waves are breaking over the shore with the kind of rhythmic consistency that should be relaxing but somehow isn’t, given that we’re expecting more snow and trying to plan an event where people have to trek into the elements to make it to the inn.
Evening is falling fast, and the Christmas lights strung around the inn are starting to twinkle like tiny beacons of hope against the gathering darkness.
Santa is coming! Santa is coming on Christmas Eve!Sherlock announces with pure puppy joy as our furry crew races toward the patio door.Do you think he’ll bring me that squeaky bone I’ve been dreaming about?
The physics of Santa’s operation is highly questionable,Fish shoots back with her typical feline skepticism.One man covering the entire planet in a single night? Please. That’s almost as far-fetched as hoomans sticking to their New Year’s resolution.
Maybe he has helpers,Candy suggests hopefully.
Or maybe it’s a massive conspiracy involving parents and credit cards,Cinnamon adds with the cynicism of a cute pooch who’s figured out where the treats really come from.
You’re all missing the point,Gatsby interjects.Santa represents the magic of possibility! The belief that good things can happen to those who’ve been nice!
Define nice,Fish mutters.Because my definition probably differs significantly from the traditional Christmas standards.
Can we go play on the beach?Sherlock asks, practically bouncing with excitement.I want to look for Santa’s sleigh tracks in the sand!
“Go ahead,” I tell them, opening the patio door to let themenagerie escape into the evening air. “Just don’t chase any seagulls into the ocean.”
No promises,Fish calls back as they race toward the sandy cove with the enthusiasm of inmates escaping a minimum security prison.
Now that we’re pet-free, I turn my attention to the planning committee currently spread around the patio table like generals preparing for battle. Jordy sits across from me, looking like a Christmas catalog model despite having spent the day hauling decorations,
Emmie has her laptop open with what appears to be seventeen different spreadsheets devoted to menu planning, and Macy... well, Macy looks like someone who’s just endured a root canal disguised as a gift exchange.
“So,” Emmie says, pulling up her latest culinary masterpiece on screen, “I’m thinking we start with the honey-glazed ham with brown sugar and cloves, add the herb-crusted prime rib for variety, and include my famous cranberry-orange stuffing that’s been known to start holiday feuds in three counties. And I’ve got an entire sheet of side dishes to go with it.”
“Sounds perfect,” I agree, though I’m mostly just grateful that Emmie’s the kind of person who can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich taste like it should win awards.
“For the desserts,” she continues with growing enthusiasm, “we’ve got the traditional Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, chocolate Yule log cake, and my grandmother’s secret recipe sugar cookies that are basically edible Christmas magic. Plus, about a dozen more yummy delights that are sure to be crowd pleasers.”
Jordy nods approvingly. “And I’ve got the final decorating details sorted. String lights around the perimeter, centerpieces for each table, and a dance floor that won’t collapse under the weight of enthusiastic Christmas celebrating.”
“You’re a miracle worker,” I tell him, and I mean it. The mancan apparently build anything and make it look effortless, which is a skill I deeply admire and completely lack.
I turn back to find Macy staring out at the ocean with a pensive expression as if contemplating either her mortality or the meaning of fruitcake—it’s hard to tell which is more unsettling.
“You were pretty cold to Buffy today,” I say gently, because apparently, I’m in the mood to experience my sister’s wrath.
Macy’s spine stiffens like someone’s just inserted a steel rod. “I was perfectly polite.”
