Hey? Maybe it’s Regina I saw lying facedown in that vision I had earlier.
I glance back at the cocoa booth and note that ornery Mrs. Claus having it out with the woman with the fabulous cape we just met, Carol, and I can’t help but shake my head. Some people are simply mean drunks. And yet, others simply can’t get along with anybody. I have a feeling the mayor’s ex falls into both of those categories.
An hour drifts by with Shep and me doing our best to steal kisses, and before we know it, the entire town has gathered around that massive tree as we count backward from ten.
“Three, two, one,” Shep and I shout with the crowd just as a blaze of colorful lights ignites as tall as a skyscraper.
No sooner does the crowd gasp and applaud the evergreen’s glory than it blinks and winks in long, uneven spurts—going off and on in a way that ensures us an electrical issue is afoot.
I spot a glob of lights scattered on the ground behind the tree, a good distance away, and I take up Shep’s hand.
“I think I see the problem,” I say as we head in that direction.
“Bowie, stay back.” Shep stops me cold as he takes a few steps toward the lights and I traipse over to catch up with him.
It’s the naughty Mrs. Claus lying facedown with a string of lit Christmas lights wrapped around her neck like a scarf, and clutched in her hand is a fistful of candy canes.
Shep rolls her over and checks her vitals before shaking his head my way.
Holly Wright won’t have to worry about being the only Mrs. Claus at the ceremony anymore. That great big sleigh in the sky has swooped down and carried her home.
Holly Wright is dead.
Chapter 3
Another death.
Another murder.
A sharp cry emits from behind and both Shep and I turn to find Kaila standing there with a shocked expression, an entire chorus of screams evicting from her throat. Soon, a thick crowd has amassed around Holly Wright’s body.
It’s safe to say, the tree lighting ceremony hasn’t gone as planned. That overgrown evergreen is dark once again, and the only thing illuminating the night is the dead woman with a string of colorful lights cinched around her neck.
I give a quick glance around the poor woman on the ground and spot an unusually deep well in the planter bed behind her. It looks like a footprint, so I waste no time pulling out my phone and taking a picture. The flash goes off, and ten people gasp my way.
“Whoa.” Shep jumps to my side. “No pictures, Bowie. I don’t want to start a trend.”
“I didn’t take a picture of her, I swear. Look, there’s a footprint right there. That could be the killer’s.”
He bites his lip as he looks over at it. “All right. I’ll take it from here.”
Shep calls for backup, and soon it seems as if the grounds are infiltrated with a small army of sheriff’s deputies.
Stephanie runs over with her hands warming her arms.
“Stella, what the heck happened?” She gives Pixie a quick scratch over the back as I hold her tight.
“It’s Bowie.” I make wild eyes at my sister. “And it looks as if someone killed that drunk woman who was causing a scene.”
Opal crops up in all her finery. The rings jabbed over her gloved fingers glitter in the night like stars.
“Bowie, please tell me another tragedy hasn’t occurred on the grounds of the manor.”
“Honestly?” I glance back where Mayor Wright’s ex lies sprawled partially over the sidewalk and partially over the manor’s border garden. “Her left hand might be on your property.”
Opal grunts. “Another chalk outline for townies and visitors alike to ogle. Thank heavens snow is still in the forecast.” She squints my way. “Didn’t you have a premonition about this one or something? My goodness, what good is this talent of yours? And here I thought it was great.”
I make a face at my sister because we both know it’s not all that great.
“I did,” I’m quick to confess. “But all I saw was a body wrapped in lights. I certainly didn’t know who it was. Or where for that matter.”
Stephanie shakes her head at Opal. “Don’t look at me. My latest vision involved two bare-chested Italian men in Santa hats. And the best part? I’ve already invited them to Sunday dinner.”
Opal offers me a pat on the arm. “Don’t worry, Bowie. There’s always one sister in the bunch that has all the luck. Now that Lola is here, maybe some of her wit and charm will rub off on you.”
My mouth falls open.
Since when have my wit and charm been in question?
“Lola.” She points to my horseshoe of a sister. “I like my men wealthy, rich, and well-to-do, precisely in that order. If you have a vision regarding me in the contrary, I won’t be all that interested.” She begins to take off then backtracks. “Oh, and Bowie? I almost forgot. I ran into Mayor Wright earlier, and he’s reserved the manor ballroom for the town’s official Christmas social later this month.” She tiptoes my way in her sky-high heeled boots. “He’s hosting an ugly sweater party.” Her lips purse as she shudders at the thought. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in an ugly sweater, but it seems the masses have spoken. Ironically, Mayor Wright is often wrong about what his constituents want. Nevertheless, do find a way to monetize this for our benefit.” She takes off with a wink.
Tilly pops up with her eyes wide with fright. “Did you hear the horrible news?”
Stephanie grunts. “You bet we did. If Mayor Wright thinks the Mortimer Manor is going to play nice with his ugly sweater party, he’s got another thing coming.”
“Lola”—I wave my sister off—“she’s talking about the murder.”
Tilly’s brows knot up. “I was talking about the ugly sweater party. But was there another murder?” Her voice hikes with a twinge of excitement at the prospect.
“Yes,” I say, navigating the three of us farther from the crime scene. “It was the mayor’s ex-wife. I can only imagine how devastated he must be.”
Tilly huffs, “No way, no how. He hated that woman. He called her the Wicked Witch of the Wrights.” A tiny giggle escapes her. “Hey? Does this mean we’re investigating? I’ve got my gear ready to go—little black dress, big magnifying glass—emotional support condoms.” She chortles and Steph joins in on the fun. “Kidding,” she shouts. “I don’t have a magnifying glass, I have matching black heels. Just say when and where and I’m there. I really hope those naughty Italian Santas are involved somehow.”
Stephanie broadens her chest. “Step off, Teasdale. Those boys are mine—and Mud on Sundays.” She shrugs off that last fact as if it wasn’t a big deal, and I’m getting the feeling it’s not.
Regina catches my eye as she stands near the cocoa booth with that blonde I saw arguing with the deceased a little earlier. I think Regina mentioned that she used to work for the woman. Or more to the point, the same woman that referred to my boyfriend as Big Boy. Although Shep and I haven’t quite referred to one another as anything but friends just yet, I’m hoping things take a turn for the possessive.
I can’t help but frown over at the two women.
I’d better go over and talk to the blonde before my first suspect flees the scene.
“Yes,” I say to Tilly. “I think we will start investigating. But hold onto your little black dress for now. I think we should talk to a few people here first.”
Tilly shakes her head. “No thanks. I only do field work—bars, strip clubs, bakeries, basically anything that involves hot men and good food. Knock yourself out, Bowie. I’m going to hang out with Lola. She seems to be a good luck charm when it comes to finding hot men.”
I shoot my sister a look. “That does seem to be the consensus. I’ll be back. Try not to bring any mobsters home tonight, will you? I’m instating a good fella moratorium until further notice.”
Stephanie shoots me the stink eye. “You’re no fun.”
“Hey,” Tilly says it sharp. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about. Nobody sa
ys she’s no fun but me.” She gives me the side-eye. “And sometimes little sisters can make a good point. But don’t worry, Lola. She didn’t say anything about not bringing them to my place. Come on. Let’s check out the body.”
The two of them take off, and I roll my eyes.
“I’m plenty fun,” I huff as I take off into the icy night.
The crowd is growing exponentially, and I’ve momentarily lost track of Regina and the blonde. I think her name was Carol.
“Hey, Bowie.” A familiar face pops up on my left, and I do a double take her way. “Did you see that poor woman lying in the snow?”
“Not now, Hazel. I’m looking for—” I jump back a good foot and Pixie lets out a horrific yowl. “Hazel!” My entire body jerks at the sight of her. Truthfully, I’ve only seen her once or twice as of late hovering around the manor, and we haven’t done much more than offer a friendly wave since Halloween. “You picked a fine time to get chatty. Yes, I saw that body,” I whisper. “Aw, it’s so great to see you out and about. You should stop by my cabin sometime. My sister’s been dying to meet you. Pardon the pun.” I grimace.
She lets out a ghostly cackle that echoes through the night like a haunted dream, and I do my best to calm my sweet pink kitty down. Pixie’s eyes are ten times their natural size as she looks to the pretty poltergeist. And I’d bet cash money she could see right through to the other side, too, which confirms my theory: cats really are better than people.
Hazel’s ghostly frame is nearly invisible, but she looks as if someone stuck a flashlight inside of her, and judging by the brightness of that unearthly glow, she could double as a floodlight. Hazel has long, gorgeous, red hair that at the moment is glittering with what looks to be supernatural fairy dust, clear green eyes, and a bright white toothy smile. She’s still wearing that unfortunate black velvet gown and cape she had on the night she was murdered, right here on the front lawn of the Mortimer Manor. It was the big debut of the Haunted Hallow-whiskers Ball, and she was dressed as a witch, as a play on her name. Witch Hazel. But as fate would unfortunately have it, she never left the party—at least not in the manner she intended.
“All puns aside.” She floats in a notch. “I think I know that woman. It’s Holly Wright, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say with marked enthusiasm. “What do you know about her?”
“Bowie?” a familiar deep voice calls from behind, and I freeze solid.
Hazel’s mouth rounds out as she looks over my shoulder. “We’ll talk later.”
And just like that, she zips toward the crime scene like a bolt of lightning.
Shep moves into my line of vision. The level of concern on his face is truly frightening.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” His brows pinch in the middle, and darn it, he looks that much comelier. “Is everything okay with Pixie?” He ticks his head to the side as he entertains the possibility of why I seemed to be having a lively conversation with myself.
“Oh, she’s fine,” I say, and Pixie lets out a yowl as if to protest the idea of using her as a cover. “I mean, I think she’s cold. I was just asking if she wanted to head back to the cabin.” I give a little shrug. “Any idea of who might have done this to that poor woman?”
Shep lets out a sigh. “Not yet. And after speaking with a few people, I get the feeling she wasn’t too well liked. But I don’t want you to worry about it.” He offers a stern look, and I’m tempted to sigh myself. I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for an alpha male. “I mean it, Bowie. Whoever did this most likely didn’t plan on it. They’re probably shaken and scared. Leave this one to the pros. I have a feeling it’s going to wrap up pretty quickly.”
“What makes you think so? Did you find any evidence near the body? Something other than that footprint?”
His lips knot up. Shep has eyes that remind me of a classic Siberian Husky’s, light blue rimmed with navy, and it’s entirely unfair to the female population that he looks so vexingly delicious.
He takes a step in close, and his thick, woodsy cologne engulfs me. “We’ll talk later.” He lands a kiss to my lips, and I can’t help but swoon.
We’ll talk later seems to be the buzzwords of the house, but I like the spin Shep’s lips put on it.
“Correction,” I say, giving the lapel of his coat a slight tug. “We’ll do more of that later.”
His lids hood low, and the beginnings of a dangerous smile flickers on his lips.
“I like how you think.” He takes off, and I spot Regina and her brand new blonde bestie again.
I do a little fox trot on the way over—slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, as I try not to slip in the snow and land myself in the morgue right alongside Holly.
The blonde is currently hugging herself, a lock of hair hangs over one eye, but that other eye looks to be displaying genuine fear.
“Regina,” I say as I come upon them. “I just wanted to see who was manning the booth.” I glance past her. “Ah, yes, Thea and Flo.” Thea and Flo are my best two waitresses at the Manor Café. I could have done the good waitress, bad waitress math and come up with the right answer without looking, but I needed something to say. Not that Tilly and Stephanie are bad waitresses—they just have an affinity for the more testosterone-laden aspects of life, and well, that has led to all sorts of levels of distractions. And Regina thinks she’s above all the waitressing noise because she once held the managerial position.
Regina smirks as she looks to Carol. “Didn’t I tell you, she’d come sniffing around soon enough?”
Carol gives a tight smile my way, and those marionette lines around her mouth press in deep. My guess is she’s somewhere in her fifties. But you can tell she takes excellent care of herself, and if I look like that in my fifties, I’ll be counting my lucky supernatural stars.
Carol nods. “Regina mentioned that you tried to pin the last few homicides on her.” She shudders as she looks to the crowd gathered behind the shadowed evergreen. “I just can’t believe this.”
“Did you know the deceased?” I ask while giving Regina the stink eye for trying to ruin my investigative mojo.
Pixie mewls up at me as if agreeing.
“Oh God, yes.” Carol glances to the sky. “Holly and I go way back. She and my brother had a fling for a while. But then, who didn’t Holly have a fling with?”
Regina nods. “There’s a reason she’s the ex-Mrs. Wright.”
“Wow, I guess so,” I say. “The mayor didn’t seem too thrilled to see her here tonight.”
Carol gasps. “That’s right! I saw them arguing earlier.”
Regina chuckles. “I think we all saw that.”
“No.” Carol shakes her head. “I distinctly saw them arguing behind the tree.” She clutches at her neck with a gloved hand. “In fact, it was right there where she’s lying now.”
I note a scratch on the woman’s forearm just above her glove where her skin glows pale.
“Are you okay?” I ask, pointing over to the red welt that looks to be rising.
“Oh, that?” She pulls up her sleeve and blows on it.
“Cat scratched her.” Regina makes a face. “That’s why we’re next to the booth. Come on, Carol. Let’s get something for that before Bowie shoves us both under the homicidal bus.” They take off, and I turn back toward the crowd just as the coroner’s van pulls up.
It’s certainly possible that a cat scratched her. The Mortimer Manor has more than its fair share of feline guests that love to linger around the periphery. And despite their cute furry faces, they tend to have an ornery disposition.
I head over toward the homicidal hub and spot Kaila, the official, far less inebriated Mrs. Claus of the evening.
“Are you okay?” I ask as she stares blankly in the direction Holly is sprawled out in the snow.
“You know, I don’t think I am.” A tiny laugh bucks from her. “I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet. A part of me still expects to see the sourpuss tomorrow at work. It’s hard to believe she’s really out of
my life,” she says those last few words under her breath. “It was nice meeting you, Bowie.”
“Likewise,” I say as she steps away. “I guess I’ll see you again at the library with Shep.”
She looks momentarily confused before squeezing her eyes shut. “That’s right. I’ll see you then.” She takes off, but her head is still turned toward the deceased, and I can’t help but note that cold look in her eyes.
I’m about to make my way back to the booth when I spot Santa, aka Mayor Wright, and the man in the dark wool coat in an alcove next to the bank across the street, having what looks to be a heated conversation. And as much as I want to scout the scene of the crime for evidence, my feet work quickly to land me within earshot of those two squabbling men.
“Next time you feel the need to make things better for me, try disappearing instead.” The mayor gives the man a hard shove. “Don’t call me. I’m not your fixer.”
Not his fixer?
He stalks past me like the angry Santa he is, and I jump back just in time to see the mud caked on his right boot.
The footprint! Not to mention the fact Carol said she saw the mayor and his ex feuding in the exact spot where she lies. I’m afraid this isn’t going to be such a jolly holiday season for the head elf after all.
Pixie squirms, and I grip her a little tighter as we come upon the man in the dark coat.
“Forgive me in advance,” I whisper into my sweet cat’s ear. “Whoa! Pixie, no!” I shout as I all but toss the poor kitty at the man. “I’m so sorry. She’s been grumpy all night,” I say, patting the imaginary fur off his lapel. “I take it you know Santa?” I nod back in the direction the mayor took off in.
The man steps back, glancing from his coat to me again. He’s older, maybe sixty. His hair is shorn to stubble. He has a broad forehead, heavyset dimples that seem to have created permanent fissures in his cheeks with age, and an otherwise grumpy disposition himself.
“I should say I do.” He sighs. “He’s my brother.”
A Candy Cane Cat-astrophe Page 3
