Hammie Mae hurries after her mother as the Christmascarols seem to get louder and more festive, and several couples have started dancing near the far end of the ballroom. The party is definitely shifting into high holiday gear.
“Well,” Jennilee says with a nervous laugh, “this certainly is a lively crowd! I should probably go mingle. I want to meet everyone before tomorrow’s tour.”
And with that, she flutters off into the crowd like a nervous Southern butterfly, leaving me with Mom, Georgie, and Buffy, plus a few pets who are probably judging my hosting skills.
“That was interesting.” Buffy cringes as she looks my way.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say as the party swirls around us in increasingly boisterous Christmas chaos. “One thing is for sure, it’s never boring in Cider Cove.”
The evening finally hits its stride now—people are singing along to “Jingle Bell Rock,” the eggnog is flowing like water, and the dessert table is being demolished with the efficiency of a locust swarm with a sugar addiction. Everyone seems to be having the kind of magical Christmas evening I was hoping for.
So naturally, my alarm bells start going off like a smoke detector with a four-alarm fire.
“I should check on things,” I say to Buffy, suddenly feeling the need to make sure all the tour preparations are running smoothly. Mom and Georgie are already back at the dessert table claiming three of everything. And believe me, I’m going to be joining them very, very soon. “You know, make sure the displays are holding up and everyone’s having a good time.”
“I’ll come with you,” Buffy offers, and I’m grateful for the company.
We make our way through the increasingly festive crowd, checking on the various displays—the Santa’s village set up near the reception area, the Frosty and friends snow white glittery surprise in the library, and the old-fashioned Christmas-inspired dining room, complete with rows of lit candles and pomegranatesand oranges spiked with cloves hanging on the spruce by the crackling fire.
“Everything seems to be running perfectly,” I say to Buffy. “It’s almost too good to be true.”
We’re about to move to the next room when we spot Balthasar—Santa suit and all—mid-heated argument with an older platinum blonde just outside the ballroom doors, one hand gesturing wildly, the other clutching a glass of eggnog like it’s giving him courage. I can’t help but make a face. If you’re going to dress up as Santa to a Christmas party, the least you could do is be amicable with everyone. Some of us are still clinging to any shred of holiday magic regarding the big man in the fluffy red suit.
You know what they say about things that seem too good to be true,Fish meows sharply from somewhere near my feet.
Sherlock nods and gives a soft woof.They usually end up with someone dead.
Why is it always someone dead?Fudge whimpers, his cute little white ear pointed straight at the ceiling.Can’t it just be that someone is embarrassed for once? Or someone with a little food poisoning?
Buffy and I exchange a look and hold back a smile. A little food poisoning here at the inn would cost me more than a little revenue. I’m not emotionally prepared for a health inspector and a holiday meltdown in the same week.
Because we live in Cider Cove, that’s why,Jellybean says to Fish matter-of-factly.Dead bodies follow Bizzy around like we follow the scent of fresh fish.
We’re making our way through the increasingly festive crowd when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find Balthasar swaying slightly behind me, his face flushed and his steel-blue eyes looking unfocused.
“Mrs. Wilder,” he says, his voice slurring just a bit. “Such a lovely...lovely party.” He stumbles forward, catching himself byspinning me around in what might have been intended as a dance move but feels more like controlled falling.
“Are you all right?” I ask, alarmed by how unsteady he seems.
Instead of answering, he staggers us toward one of the plush burgundy velvet chairs positioned near the inn’s entrance—away from the main crowd but still visible to anyone passing by. He practically collapses into the chair, then with zero warning, he pulls me onto his lap.
“Mr. Thornfield!” I protest, trying to stand up, but his grip is surprisingly strong for someone who seems to be having some kind of medical episode—that or the spiked eggnog is finally taking effect.
He raises one trembling hand as if he’s about to say something important, and his mouth opens to speak, but not a sound comes out. His eyes are wide, almost panicked, as if he’s trying to warn me about something.
But then his hand drops to his side, and his head falls forward, landing squarely right between my boobs.
“Oh my goodness!” I shriek, finally managing to jump up from his lap. “Buffy! Help!”
Buffy rushes over, along with several other guests who heard my scream. Balthasar remains slumped in the velvet chair, his Santa hat askew, his silver beard disheveled, and his eyes now staring vacantly ahead.
He’s definitely not just drunk.
Told you,Fish says with what sounds suspiciously like satisfaction.
Called it!Jellybean adds with feline smugness.Do we get treats for being right about the dead guy?
This is not the time for treats,Sherlock whimpers.
