“All right, Bizzy,” Jasper exhales hard. “I need to call this in,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone like he’s ordering takeout but for crime. And believe me, we’ve ordered from this menu one too many times before. One fleet of sheriff’s deputies and one coroner to go.
“I’m already securing the scene,” Leo confirms, producing crime scene tape with the kind of speed that suggests he keeps it handy for everyday occasions—which, sadly, is probably accurate.
I’m about to say something when Mom and Georgie speed this way like two Christmas-themed tornadoes wearing enough holiday sparkle to be visible from low-flying aircraft.
“Another body?” Mom gasps, her red curls pulsing with pure horror. “Bizzy, we really should just add a murder mystery dinner to the inn’s website at this point.”She’s missing out on some serious revenue. And oddly enough, Bizzy herself could probably provide the corpse. Not that she’s a killer. I hope.
My eyes widen in her direction, but before I can protest her inner musings, Georgie staggers forward another notch.
“Oh my word!” Georgie exclaims, clutching her sequined reindeer sweater like she’s having heart palpitations from excitement. “This is the most thrilling Christmas party we’ve had since the Great Figgy Pudding Explosion of 2019! Although I have to say, this particular Christmas corpse has significantly better fashion sense than some of our recent victims. Way to go, Biz. If you’re going to slay at the holidays, you may as well go big or go home. Santa was the only right choice.”
“Georgie,” Mom hisses, but she’s fighting back what looks suspiciously like amusement, because apparently, even death can’t kill any trace of inappropriate humor.
“What?” Georgie feigns innocence. Come to think of it, that’sbasically her natural state at this point. “I’m just making an observation about quality tailoring! Look at that burgundy velvet—it’s clearly custom work. If you’re going to expire during the holidays, you might as well look fabulous doing it.”
“Oh, Bizzy, I’m so sorry.” Buffy heads my way and winces, and I’m struck again by how much she looks like me—but with better core strength and significantly less corpse exposure. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks sweetly.
“Yes, you can stay exactly where you are,” comes a voice sharp enough to slice fruitcake, and we turn to see Mayor Mackenzie Woods bearing down on us in a power suit that somehow manages to be both festive and terrifying—like a Christmas tree designed by corporate lawyers. That’s Mackenzie’s entire wardrobe in a nutshell.
“Another murder, Bizzy? Really?” Mackenzie’s voice could freeze hot cocoa mid-sip. “The Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour kickoff is off to a deadly start, no thanks to your Grim Reaper shenanigans! Do you have any idea what this is going to do to our town’s reputation? Our tourism revenue? Our standing in the New England Christmas Village rankings?”
“I hardly think this is Bizzy’s fault,” Emmie says, appearing beside Mackenzie like a level-headed guardian angel sent to prevent mayoral meltdowns. “She didn’t exactly send out invitations that said ‘Check in for a cozy escape. Check out courtesy of the Grim Reaper.’”
“Didn’t she?” Mackenzie snaps with the intensity of a mayor whose carefully planned municipal events keep getting derailed by homicide. “Because from where I’m standing, dead bodies follow your best friend around like tourists following GPS directions to scenic overlooks of doom!”
Emmie places a firm hand on Mackenzie’s arm and starts steering her away from what’s clearly about to become a very public political crisis that could end up on the evening news. Okay, so we will definitely land on every newscast everywhere inMaine for the next two days at least. “Let’s give the investigators some space to work,” Emmie suggests, which is Emmie-speak forlet’s get you out of here before you end up as a viral video titledMayor Loses Mind at Murder Scene.
It’s happened before. And now Mackenzie’s sanity is questionable at best, according to recent opinion polls.
Before I can take two steps from the crime scene, Macy materializes like a blonde shark who’s caught the scent of blood in perfectly heated water and decided to investigate with predatory enthusiasm. Her red dress remains flawless despite the surrounding chaos, and her expression is sharp enough to cut both ribbon and arteries with equal efficiency.
“Well, well, well,” she says, fixing her laser-beam gaze on Buffy with the kind of predatory focus she usually reserves for clearance sales at high-end boutiques. “Isn’t it interesting how the first murder in months happens right after our little family reunion gets a shiny new addition?”
“Macy,” I warn, recognizing the tone that typically precedes someone getting verbally dismembered in public. “Donotstart.” Although we all know that train has already left the station.
“What?” She bats her lashes innocently my way. “I’m just making an observation.” Macy continues, circling Buffy like a cat who’s spotted a particularly interesting canary. “The new girl shows up, and suddenly we’ve got another fresh corpse. Maybe we should be asking where exactly Miss Butterwick was when Santa decided to take his final sleigh ride to the great North Pole in the sky.”
“The new girl?” I growl her way, deciding to omit the fact that Buffy was right here with me when Santa landed his face in my bra.
But before I can jump to Buffy’s defense, Jordy Crosby appears behind Macy like a flannel-wearing superhero swooping in to save my spicy sister from herself and possibly a lawsuit.
Jordy would be Emmie’s brother and the handyman here atthe inn. He looks like he stepped off the cover of some outdoorsman magazine that specializes in ruggedly handsome men who know how to wield a hammer—dark hair, blue eyes, and the kind of easy confidence that comes from being able to repair anything with the right tools and enough determination.
He’s wearing his usual uniform of well-fitted jeans and a red flannel shirt that somehow makes him look both capable and approachable, like the kind of guy you’d want around during both natural disasters and awkward family gatherings—sort of like this one.
“Easy there, killer,” he says to Macy with an easy laugh—more like a nervous laugh. “Let’s save the accusations for after we figure out what actually happened, okay?”
He shoots me an apologetic look that manages to convey bothsorry about your murderandsorry about your sisterin a single glance—which is actually quite impressive when you think about it, like emotional multitasking for people with difficult relatives.
“Jordy, can you help move people away from the area?” I ask, grateful for someone who understands crowd control. “We need to keep the scene clear for the professionals. And I really don’t want the guests to get an eyeful either.”
“You got it, boss,” he says, already moving to gently shepherd curious attendees toward the ballroom with the smooth efficiency of a handyman who’s clearly dealt with crowds before and lived to tell the tale—unlike poor Santa here. “Come on, folks. Let’s give the detectives some room to work. There’s plenty of party left in the other room—and significantly fewer corpses.”
“Oh my word.” I cringe. “Did he really just say that out loud?”
Buffy gives a mournful smile. “At this point, I think we needed the levity.”
I’ve always liked Jordy,Fish mewls from the registration counter.He’s got good sense and reasonable priorities. You should have stayed hitched to him. And now Aunt Macy gets to have all the fun.
