“You have handcuffs?”
“Not the official kind,” she says darkly, “but they’ll work in a pinch.”
Before I can process that disturbing revelation, Diva begins moving toward a more secluded area of the salon, near a display of items that would make a Renaissance artist blush. Several customers follow her, creating the perfect opportunity for some casual interrogation.
“Come on,” Peyton grabs my arm with surprising strength. “Time to get some answers before she disappears into the crowd.”
We begin making our way through the throng of shoppers, past my mother, who’s now debating the merits of various seasonal accessories with Mrs. Pemberton, past Clarabelle, who’s taking detailed notes in her Christmas-themed investigation notebook, and past the dessert table where Cricket and Rookie have positioned themselves like furry security officers, guarding against dropped confections.
Diva Divine Temptation, murder suspect and purveyor of educational materials, is about to get the interrogation of her very colorful career.
CHAPTER 8
The Grand Salon at half past two on this snowy December afternoon continues to buzz with chaotic energy that follows both spectacular murder revelations and bulk lingerie purchasing.
The scent of vanilla candles from the dessert table mingles with imported perfume, champagne bubbles, and what I’m pretty sure is the distinct aroma of my remaining dignity slowly evaporating.
Christmas jazz plays softly through hidden speakers, occasionally harmonizing with the phantom orchestra that seems to approve of the afternoon’s educational proceedings, while the gentle clink of champagne flutes provides percussion to conversations about well-placed cutouts and seasonal enhancement.
The chandeliers sway overhead while the women below clutch their shopping bags with the quiet determination of people who have made their questionable choices and are at peace with them.
Diva Divine Temptation kneels beside a large shipping boxnear the display case, pulling out tissue-wrapped packages one by one with an expression that suggests each one is exactly as scandalous as the last.
“Ladies,” she announces, her voice carrying across the salon like silk wrapped around a megaphone, “I’m absolutely thrilled to present our newest arrivals from the Christmas Confessions Collection!”
She unwraps the first item—something in midnight blue that sparkles with strategically placed crystals and contains what I can only describe as a deeply optimistic amount of fabric.
“This little treasure is called Silent Night Secrets,” Diva purrs, holding it up for inspection. “Perfect for those moments when you want to be anything but silent.”
I don’t understand why hoomans need costumes for mating rituals,Rookie barks from beneath the dessert table, his golden head tilted in confusion.Why don’t they just sniff each other and get it over with? It’s much more efficient.
Because hoomans complicate everything,Cricket replies from her surveillance post near a tower of macarons that’s swaying slightly in the mansion’s mysterious breezes.They can’t even eat properly without using seventeen different utensils.Of course, their romance requires specialized equipment.
Diva continues her unveiling with something forest green, adorned with actual holly leaves made from silk. “And this beauty is Deck the Halls and Everything Else—because why stop at halls?”
The crowd murmurs appreciatively, though Mrs. Pemberton looks like she’s taking mental notes for her church auxiliary meeting. I have no doubt the entire club will be hearing about this. She’s our most notorious gossip.
“But my personal favorite,” Diva says, producing an item wrapped in red ribbon, “is Christmas Morning Surprises. It comes with its own gift bow, because presentation is everything.”
Peyton makes a sound like she’s choking on her own professional standards.
“This is what my career has come to,” she mutters. “Standing in a haunted mansion listening to lingerie described like holiday decorations.”
“Look on the bright side,” I whisper. “At least the ghosts seem to approve. That Victorian gentleman in the corner mirror just applauded.”
Before Peyton can respond to that dubious comfort, Diva’s attention focuses directly on us as if she were programmed to locate embarrassment.
“Oh, you two!” she exclaims, gliding toward us with her arms full of educational materials. “Perfect timing! I have exactly the right pieces for both of you.”
My fight-or-flight response kicks in, but Peyton grabs my arm with the grip of someone drowning in professional desperation.
“You,” Diva points at Peyton with something black and sparkly, “strike me as a Boss Lady Bells woman. It’s from our Power and Pleasure line—perfect for someone who likes to take charge.”
Peyton’s face runs through more shades of red than the supernaturally shifting Christmas lights overhead.
“I don’t... that is... I’m here on business...,” she finally stammers.
“And for you, dear,” Diva turns to me with an item in deep red that appears to feature actual mistletoe as part of thedesign, “I’m thinking Mistletoe Mischief. Perfect for surprising that handsome detective of yours.”
