ONE
SATURDAY
9 p.m.
If the newly fallen snow wasn’t enough to put me into the holiday spirit, then a dead body in the holly bushes at the base of the Rose Palace certainly wouldn’t help.
It was two days after Christmas, and I didn’t know it yet, but with every mile Savilla drove us toward our now-shared ancestral estate, I was headed straight for my third investigation of the year, one that would fall squarely on my shoulders this time.
“You cold?” my half-sister asked, handing me a scarf that she tugged from around her own neck. “It’s fracialish out here tonight.”
By this, I assumed she meant some combination of “frosty” and “glacial”, but I was too angsty to ask and took the scarf without protest. I’d grown accustomed to Savilla’s unique merging of the English language, so much so that it had now become a kind of personal game for me to figure out which words my half-sister was pushing together.
It was only my second Christmas and New Year’s without Momma, and for whatever reason, the week sandwiched between the two holidays was particularly daunting. I wasn’t a crier, but I’d cried at least three times in the past forty-eight hours: on theairplane as I touched down in Richmond; as soon as I stepped foot into Momma’s house with my weekend suitcase in hand; and a few minutes ago in the bathroom at the Pheasant Inn, the swankiest restaurant in town that happened to be hosting the classiest rehearsal dinner in Aubergine history.
Lacy and Savilla had truly outdone themselves with this weekend’s planning, and in spite of Anton’s family and friends trying to ruin it every step of the way, in less than twenty-four hours, Lacy would wed her intended.
Savilla had found me in the bathroom between the third course and dessert. She’d caught me crying, despite my best attempts to appear like a normal, happy maid of honor.
“Aw, sis, what’s the matter?”
“Missing Momma.” A few minutes earlier I’d happened to look out the restaurant window to see that the first snow of the season had begun to fall in a thick blanket. Like Lorelai Gilmore in Stars Hollow, my mother always loved the first snow. She would pull me out of bed in the middle of the night to catch flakes on my tongue, keeping me wrapped in my purple comforter—covered in a design of cowgirl hats and lassos—as she carried me from the warmth of our generations-old house to the back garden, where she’d point out the camellias, hellebores, and snowdrops covered in a downy white. The look of wonder on her face never changed from year to year no matter how many times she’d seen the white landscape. Years later, when I was away at college, she called me at 2 a.m. to announce the first Aubergine snowfall of the year.
In the bathroom, I sniffled and rubbed at the mascara that was surely lining my eyes. I caught Savilla’s expression and remembered that she too had people to miss this year, but instead of reminding me of the fact, she leaned her head toward mine and touched my chin gently.
“Have I messed up my face?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Savilla wrinkled her nose even as her eyes pitied me. “You’re just a bit Rudolph-ish.” She pulled a compact of powder and amakeup brush from her purse as she led me to the mirror and sat me in front of her. Her touch was comforting, and I felt the crease in my forehead relax as she worked her magic.
“Better,” she said after standing back to study me. Then she thought of something. “I was actually looking for you because I need to pick up another case of wine from the house. Anton’s family can pour it back.” Because our county was dry, the restaurant wasn’t allowed to serve wine, but we could bring our own. Her eyes narrowed as if she was thinking of something in particular, but then she shook it off. “Why don’t you tag along?”
That would give me a few more minutes to process without having to put on a smile, so I agreed, grabbed my winter coat, and hurried toward her car.
The pre-wedding festivities, along with the town of Aubergine—backlit by the moon and the Blue Ridge Mountains—were putting forth their best efforts at driving the Scrooge-ness from my personality. My favorite decorations—the greenery molded into the shapes of candles, candy canes, and wreaths—lined every light pole on Main Street, and a forty-foot-high evergreen with gold and silver orbs of every size sprouted from the gazebo in the town square.
“Have you noticed anything strange about Anton’s family?” Savilla asked after we were settled inside the car, the heater blowing against our hands. She glanced at me quickly before turning back to the road.
“I think the word ‘strange’ is embroidered on their family crest,” I said. Anton’s mother and her much-younger boyfriend, as well as an MIA father, were enough to give any wedding attendee pause, but the array of extended family who hadn’t actually been invited but showed up anyway topped it all. “Lacy says that after this weekend, she understands why he was so willing to leave Texas without looking back.”
“All families have their things, I suppose,” Savilla mused, likely thinking of our surprising reveal this past year. My down-to-earth Momma and Savilla’s self-absorbed, multi-millionaire father having a one-night stand nearly thirty years ago had been a shock to both of us, but we were making the best of it. Having a sister was even starting to grow on me. “But as a whole, the Swansons seem…” Savilla hesitated, not being one to speak ill of most people, probably because she’d learned what it was like being the target of speculation and gossip by growing up in the sprawling Rose Palace. “They seem like dysfunctionaires.”
While my sister certainly had her own way with words, I’d learned to understand her most of the time.
“Dysfunctional millionaires?” I queried.
“Exactly.” Savilla nodded eagerly as we drove down a country road that wound toward the estate. There were no lights lining the road, and the darkness, broken only by the headlights, fell thick around us.
Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” sounded over the radio’s airwaves, and I sniffled back a fresh set of tears. This tune just happened to be one of Momma’s favorite Christmas songs, and as I wiped at my eyes, I blamed the moisture on the ridiculous cold rather than sentimentality. Without a word, Savilla put a hand atop mine as we rounded the long drive to the main entrance of the estate. Say what you want about my newly discovered sister—and I had—but when she attached herself to you, she wouldn’t let go, come hell or high water.
We pulled up in the grand drive in front of the house, and I prepared myself for the brisk air before opening the door. “It’s freezing. You keep the car running, and I’ll grab the wine,” I said. “Remind me the fastest way to get to the wine cellar?” I tried to envision the blueprints that I’d finally taken time to study. At least I knew it was in the basement—not the sub-basement, where the Vampire Room had stood untouched since the fake séance we’d hosted there to uncover a killer in October.
“Take the first set of stairs past the vestibule, and when you reach the landing, take a sharp right down the long hall,” Savilla answered. “Do you have your key card?”
I patted at the pockets of my coat and realized they were empty. “I left it in the room.”
Savilla gave me a motherly smile. “You know, this place is half yours now. You should probably keep a key to it on you.”
I knew the words were true even though I still didn’t feel like an heiress. Her father’s will had guaranteed that I owned half of the sprawling and impressive estate, which would soon be struggling to maintain itself unless it became a profitable venue. Still, I hadn’t really accepted my right to The Rose yet.
