Chevy: That’s what they all say... Meeting at 7 PM sharp! We’re putting this case to bed before Santa makes his rounds! Justice waits for no jolly old elf!
Kick: Fine, but I’m bringing my kids. They can practice their Christmas carols while we discuss murder. Multitasking at its finest.
Peggy: Y’all are going to solve this faster than my granny can peel sweet potatoes! See everyone tonight!
Peyton: This is worse than being interrogated by the sheriff’s department. At least they have professional standards!
Bunny: Professional standards are overrated, darling. We have style, grit, and really excellent wine.
Hattie: Tonight’s off. I have a date with a very attractive homicide detective. The murder club can wait until tomorrow.
A flurry of hearts, thumbs up, and what I can only describe as aggressively supportive emojis flood my screen—with the notable exception of two very pointed thumbs down from Peyton, who has apparently decided that my love life is less important than her freedom.
Fair enough.
I shove my phone back into my purse as we reach the lingerie shop. “Well, that was encouraging.”
Peyton’s jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised her teeth don’t crack. “They’ve already got me tried, convicted, and planning my prison wardrobe.”
“On the bright side,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “at least they’re motivated to solve the case quickly.”
“Their motivation is to see me behind bars before Christmas morning!”
Peyton is so dramatic,Cricket says from the tote bag.Although this murder club does seem remarkably efficient at jumping to conclusions.
Maybe they’ll solve it in time for Christmas treats!Rookie adds optimistically.I love holiday meetings. There’s always extra food that gets dropped. Remember that time I ate a plateful of chocolate chip cookies and my rear end exploded all night long?
Both Cricket and I groan in unison at the memory.
But on the bright side, at least he’s finally convinced that chocolate can kill him. Some boys just need to learn the hard way.
“Come on,” I tell Peyton, pulling open the door to Midnight Velour Intimates. “Let’s go find some actual evidence to prove your innocence.”
“At this point,” Peyton mutters, “I’d settle for finding evidence that proves I’m not the devil incarnate.”
Sometimes the real mystery isn’t who committed the murder—it’s how to survive your own defense team.
The shop door chimes with a sound that’s probably supposed to be sultry but comes across as slightly ominous.
We step inside, and it’s like entering an alternate universe where Edison suddenly developed taste and a budget. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over displays of lingerie that wouldn’t look out of place in a Parisian boutique. Plush velvet armchairs are scattered throughout the space, and classical music plays softly in the background—something luxe and European that makes you feel like you should be sipping champagne instead of trying to solve a murder.
The place is busier than I expected. Well-dressed women browse through racks of silk and lace, while others examine displays that I’m pretty sure require age verification to purchase. The whole setup screams expensive sophistication, which makes its location in downtown Edison even more bizarre.
“Well, if that don’t make my pearls sweat,” Peggy breathes, immediately gravitating toward a display of what can questionably be described as educational merchandise. “Would you look at that? They’ve got more gadgets than a NASA launch pad.”
Clarabelle follows her, conducting what I’m sure she thinks is important research. “Well, I’ll be. That one there looks like it could double as a kitchen appliance.”
Oh good grief. I think it is a kitchen appliance—or at least it started as one.
Peyton wanders off toward a rack of velvet robes that looklike they belong in a Victorian brothel—if Victorian brothels had been run by people with excellent taste and unlimited budgets.
I’m scanning the shop for any sign of Vivienne Velour when my eyes land on a couple examining a display near the back of the store, and my heart drops straight through the floor.
It’s Neelie and that old two-timing troublemaker, Stanton Troublefield!
My sister is holding up a corset made entirely of ribbons, while her fiancé examines the price tag like he’s mentally refinancing that mansion of his.
Stanton looks exactly like what central casting would order if they needed a distinguished older man with questionable morals. His remaining hair is carefully styled to disguise the fact that most of it has abandoned ship, and his expensive suit can’t quite hide the fact that he’s a serial cheater who thinks charm can fix everything. His ex-wife was smart enough to hit the high seas and now lives permanently on a cruise ship, which honestly sounds like paradise compared to being married to him.
