Mission accomplished,Sherlock announces with a triumphant woof.We protected the hoomans and caught the bad guy. Best Christmas takedown everaccomplished by professional crime-fighting pets!
It’s nice to know they’ve gone pro. Oh heck, I always knew they would. They practically have to with me around.
As we finally prepare to head back to the inn for what will hopefully be a quieter Christmas morning, I look around at the chocolate-covered marble floors, the destroyed ornament displays, and my family posing for one last photo with SantaJasper while Jennilee gets loaded into a patrol car just outside the door.
Sometimes the best Christmas miracles don’t come wrapped in bows—they arrive courtesy of a gun-toting Santa, a killer who cracks under pressure, and three sisters who couldn’t agree on an investigation plan until one of them ditched diplomacy and went straight for the confession.
Turns out, the only thing better than Christmas magic is Christmasjustice, especially when it’s delivered by a guy in a red suit with a badge.
And lucky me—I get to take Santa home and unwrap him.
CHAPTER 23
Christmas Day at the Country Cottage Inn feels like someone bottled holiday magic and uncorked it directly into our grand room.
Snow falls outside the bay windows, while the scents of pine garland, cinnamon candles, and the lingering aroma of Emmie’s spectacular Christmas dinner create an atmosphere so perfectly cozy it should be illegal.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticks steadily, marking time in a room filled with the satisfied murmur of well-fed family members and the soft rustle of wrapping paper being folded for next year’s use. As if that will ever happen.
I’m settled in my favorite armchair with Ella drowsing contentedly in my arms, her tiny fist wrapped around my finger like she’s afraid I might escape if she doesn’t maintain physical contact.
Across from me, Emmie cradles Elliot with the same expression of maternal bliss, both of us basking in that post-Christmas dinner glow that comes from surviving another family and friends gathering without anyone getting arrested or starting a food fight.
The last few days feel like a particularly vivid dream involving murder, exploding chocolate fountains, and Santa Claus making an arrest, but right now, surrounded by loved ones and the gentle crackle of logs in the fireplace, everything feels perfectly, blissfullynormal.
The lingering aromas of our spectacular early Christmas dinner still perfume the air—honey-glazed spiral ham with bourbon reduction, garlic and herb prime rib with horseradish cream, truffle mac and cheese that redefined comfort food, roasted vegetables with balsamic glaze, and Emmie’s famous maple bourbon sweet potato casserole that had everyone asking for seconds.
“I have to say,” Emmie announces, surveying the aftermath of dessert plates scattered around like evidence of a sugar massacre orchestrated by a family with a serious commitment to gluttony, “I outdid myself with that peppermint bark cheesecake. It was basically edible perfection disguised as a holiday dessert.”
“You outdid yourself with everything,” Mom says from her spot next to Ben, who’s looking slightly shell-shocked by the sheer volume of Baker family Christmas traditions he’s been exposed to in the past twenty-four hours like a combat veteran processing psychological warfare. “That chocolate yule log was pure edible art that belonged in a museum instead of our stomachs.”
I still don’t understand why hoomans insist on making food look like trees,Fish meows contentedly from her spot near the Christmas tree.But I have to admit, the food was delicious. And before you start, Bizzy, I avoided the chocolate.
I nod her way because we both know I like her alive. Chocolate isn’t exactly animal friendly.
The ham, the mac and cheese, the roast beast—everything was delicious,Sherlock adds with the satisfaction of a puppy who’s successfully charmed multiple family members into sharing their Christmas dinner.This was the best Christmas feast ever!
Now that I can agree with.
Huxley shifts baby Mack to his other arm and grins at his wife, who’s finally looking relaxed for the first time since the gala disaster. “Mackenzie, you can stop planning damage control strategies. The town survived having a killer arrested at our premier Christmas event. If anything, it’s probably going toincreasetourism.”
“Murdertourism,” Mackenzie growls the words my way. “That’s what Cider Cove is becoming famous for. Murder tourism and holiday homicides. We should probably update our Chamber of Commerce brochures to includeCome for the scenery, stay for the body count.”
“At least it’s seasonal,” Macy says, making what looks like an actual effort to include Buffy in her monologue about luxury holiday shopping like she’s hosting a segment on diva-approved gift-giving. “You know, Buffy, you’re not completely hopeless at this whole family thing. That sweater you picked for Huxley was shockingly on-trend. I mean, it didn’t come from a boutique in Milan, but still—respectable.”
“I aim for respectable with a side of cozy,” Buffy quips, popping a peppermint truffle into her mouth like she’s not at all fazed by Macy’s backhanded holiday cheer.
I shoot Macy a look that says,dial it back, Glamour Girl, before someone jams a candy cane in your designer clutch.
But hey, this counts as progress. Or at least a ceasefire with sequins.
“You know what?” Emmie says, gazing down at Elliot with the kind of peaceful expression that suggests she’s had some sort of maternal epiphany. “I’ve been thinking about all that baby genius anxiety we had going on, and I’ve come to a conclusion.”
“Which is?” I ask because Emmie’s conclusions usually involve either food that could end world hunger or wisdom that could solve international conflicts through proper seasoning. Her use of basil is never wrong.
“Elliot is exactly who he’s supposed to be,” she says with conviction that could move mountains or at least convince people to stop obsessing over intelligence enrichment kits for infants. “He doesn’t need flashcards designed by child psychologists, classical music composed specifically for developing brains, or advanced puzzles that would challenge NASA scientists. He needs love and laughter and maybe the occasional peek at a cooking show so he can learn about the family business of making people stuffed and happy.”
I look down at Ella, who’s making content baby noises that suggest she’s perfectly happy being a normal, non-genius infant who’s more interested in drooling on my shirt than discussing architectural theory or solving world peace through superior intellect.
