A Candy Cane Cat-astrophe

by Addison Moore

  Lucky lets out a hair-raising meow and hops right out of Stephanie’s arms, mostly because my sister nearly just squeezed the life out of him.

  Stephanie coughs and sputters. “What in the name of all things unholy just happened?”

  Hazel winces. “I think I sort of just happened. According to the ghosts I met, they think I may have been a touch transmundane myself. Something called telesensual.”

  My mouth falls open. “Mind reading?”

  She nods. “Only I’ve never been able to read minds, nor can I now. But when I touched one of the pets in Honey Hollow, it spoke perfect English. They couldn’t explain it, but I thought the two of you might get a kick out of it.”

  Stephanie moans. “No offense, Hazel, but I’m starting to get a little woozy from all the supernatural surprises. I think I need to find the whiskey and chug straight from the bottle. She takes off just as a man dressed as a termite inspector with a jug strapped to his back and some sort of wand-like apparatus in his hand heads this way. Opal is right there next to him, leading the way with her ear as if she could hear something luring her forward.

  “That’s him,” Hazel hisses. “I’m not sticking around for this ridiculous show, Bowie.” She hands Pixie back to me and disappears in a puff of pink smoke.

  I kiss poor Pixie before looking to the man in question.

  “What’s going on?” I try to sound both cheery and a touch concerned.

  Opal hushes me before bringing her finger to her lips. “He’s a ghost hunter, Bowie. Apparently, the manor is rife with supernatural activity.”

  The older man with a potbelly and mustache grunts. “We were off to a good start, ladies, and just like that, the paranormal activity level up and left.”

  How about that? It really does sound as if he knows his supernatural stuff.

  “It’s just me here,” I tell him. “And my cat, of course. We don’t really need your services. I’m sorry, Opal.” I look her way. “But I’m going to have to ask him to leave. If the townspeople get wind of ghostly activity here, we’re bound to lose all of our Stitch Witchery income.”

  “Get, get, get!” Opal doesn’t waste a moment in swatting him and his soul-suctioning equipment all the way to the door. And good thing. Now that I have a portal into understanding these cats, the party has just started with Hazel Newton.

  I’m about to make my rounds when I spot Carol Bransford standing on the periphery of the room, sipping her comfort, looking a tad bit lost in the melee. A common affliction among first-timers.

  Her blonde curls look freshly coiffed, and she’s wearing a red cable knit sweater paired with velvet pants of the same cheery hue and it looks striking on her. If I were wearing that, I may as well plop on pointy ears and a tail to finish off the look. Or at least that’s the zinger I could hear coming a mile away from my sister.

  “Carol,” I say. “It’s nice to see you here.”

  “Thank you, Bowie.” She holds up a teacup with gold trim and a reflective gold tree on the front. “Regina invited me. But then she had to run out the door.”

  “Sounds like she spotted her ex.” Who just so happens to be my shiny new plus one, but I leave that detail out.

  “Unless your ex is a certified ghostbuster, I highly doubt it.”

  “Oh right. That whole ghost thing is sort of a silly rumor. I’d ignore it.”

  She shakes her head. “It is odd considering Halloween is far behind us. But then, sharing ghost stories by the fire is embedded in a Christmas song somewhere, so live and let live. Or more to the point, live and let die.”

  “That’s a good one.”

  “Speaking of dying,” she lowers her chin, “Regina mentioned the mayor is pointing fingers every which way but at himself and his brother, of course.”

  “How would Regina know that?”

  A breath hitches in my throat. Oh my word, is Shep sharing info with Regina? If he is, that might just give credence to the horrible theory that Shep is playing me for a soon-to-be imprisoned fool.

  I don’t know, though. Shep seems so genuine. If he is acting, I say give that man an Oscar.

  Carol shrugs. “Rumors, I guess. Nonetheless, I heard the mayor whispered my name. I’m no killer, but I will say it takes one to know one.”

  “I heard him mention something about Holly’s social media posts.”

  “Oh yes.” A dark laugh pumps through her. “Holly was hitting her social media hard while on a bender, I’m assuming.” She shakes her head with a look of disbelief in her eyes. “The odd thing is, Holly has been plenty drunk on numerous occasions, and not once has she embarrassed herself that way on social media. I guess she felt the need to express herself in the most unfortunate way. Of course, she took them all down. You know you can delete things all you want, but people take screenshots as soon as something dicey shows up. As the mayor’s ex-wife, you’d think she would have known better.”

  “That’s too bad.” I make a mental note to check out those inebriated posts asap.

  She nods my way. “It is too bad. We might not have been close toward the end, but even I felt bad about the way she was coming across in the court of public opinion. Holly had control issues, which resulted in almost all of her ill actions. It cost her more friends than it was worth. And at the end of the day, she would have been alive if she never had them to begin with.” She starts to take off then backtracks and gives Pixie a tiny pat to the head. “Come to think of it, when that whole social media nightmare broke out last month, she was insistent that she didn’t post any of those remarks.”

  “Who did she say did it?”

  Carol tosses her hand up. “She said she was hacked. But even if she was, that was no random hacking. Whoever did it, knew exactly what they were doing.” Her lips flicker. “You have to admit, it’s a good diversion from the killer. Don’t you think?”

  “Not if the killer and the hacker are one and the same.”

  She gives a few rapid blinks. “I suppose you’re right. In that case, I hope they catch that hacker sooner than later. It sounds like a very scary individual.” She gives a little wink. “But I think we all know it’s not looking too good for Beauford Wright. The mayor must feel pretty desperate to start spreading rumors. It’s highly unprofessional. I guess what they say is true. People will go to any length to protect their family, no matter what they’ve done to them. Blood is blood.” Her attention is hijacked by something near the door. “There’s Regina. I’d better see how that ghost hunting excavation went.”

  Carol takes off, and I quickly find a quiet corner and pull up all of Holly Wright’s social media accounts in one quick search. Kaila mentioned it was Insta Pictures, so I head there first. Sure enough, it’s blocked to new subscribers. It looks as if not only did Holly go on a social media rampage, but once the dirty deeds caught up with her, she deleted the incriminating posts and made her account private.

  Carol’s avatar catches my eye. It is a red and white mug, and for some reason, it looks more than vaguely familiar.

  Pixie looks up at me and sheds a soft mewl.

  “It looks familiar to you, too, huh?” I give her a quick squeeze.

  “Don’t worry, Pix. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, and I have a feeling we’re going to do it before Christmas."

  Holly Wright’s killer better watch their back because Santa Claus isn’t the only one looking to hunt them down, but the only gift I’ll be giving them is a shiny new pair of silver bracelets.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday dinner.

  I’ve seen Stephanie kick into gear and do her fair share before, but never like she is now. It’s the big S—Sunday. And any Italian worth their Mediterranean Sea salt knows the intrinsic importance of this sacred day.

  Stephanie and I have been joining Shep at the local church on Sundays, but since my sister thought we should start cooking dinner at seven in the morning, we opted to have a TV preacher on in the background instead. Dinner isn’t until three, but she’s right, we�
��ve got to get a move on.

  We started the mangia madness with stockpots covered with olive oil before we sweated the holy grail of Italian ingredients: chopped onion, celery, and carrots. By the time those were lucent and ready to go, the cabin already smelled glorious.

  On the menu for today is spaghetti and meatballs—the meatballs of which are simmering in our Nana Rose’s meat sauce knockoff, a pretty good second if you ask me. Stephanie and I also made the spaghetti from scratch because Sunday dinner is no joke.

  We found a great stainless steel pasta press at the restaurant supply store, and we’ve made yards of golden heaven with it. Pasta isn’t all that hard to make, and once you have a taste of the fresh stuff, you’ll never go back.

  We’re also serving braciole, sirloin pounded out thin as a wafer and filled with parsley, breadcrumbs, and pecorino cheese. And if you think finding cheese made from sheep’s milk in Starry Falls is tough, you’d be right. Stephanie and I had to venture out to some frou-frou market in Sterling Lake yesterday to procure that dairy-riddled miracle. I told Steph we could have substituted it with Parmesan and Romano, but she said we had to pull out the big guns because the men were coming. And I’m guessing Shep wasn’t included in that testosterone-based equation. Stephanie is moving heaven, earth, Italy, and Starry Falls to make sure everything is just right for the two mobsters on their way to break bread with us.

  Shep helped us haul in the elongated picnic table from outside, and we moved our sofas out of the way, transforming our living room into a veritable Italian eatery. We threw a red and green quilt over it in lieu of a tablecloth and set down red placemats and gold charges we picked up on the cheap at the thrift store last week. Steph also set out our best dishes and the cranberry glass goblets Opal let us borrow for the occasion.

  And what Italian meal would be complete without Sinatra playing in the background? We’ve got him, too.

  It’s almost two-thirty—T-minus thirty minutes until go-time, and just as I’m about to create an antipasto platter that will put every other antipasto platter I’ve ever created to shame, Shep asks if I could help him outside for a minute.

  “Anything for you, Stud Muffin.”

  “Thanks, Kitten.” He gives a sly wink.

  Shep has on a forest green flannel paired with jeans. That dark scruff peppered over his cheeks gives him that outdoorsy appeal, and I’d like nothing more than to pull him into his cabin and help him right out of that flannel and jeans.

  Shepherd Wexler might just be the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on, and I’m not talking in any sort of pretty boy way. He’s a man’s man, and he’s got the gun strapped to his muscular side to prove it.

  “What’s up? If you want to put up the Christmas lights, I think maybe we should wait until tomorrow. I’m already feeling as if I should be horizontal. I’m pretty sure I’d be bad luck on a ladder,” I say, pulling on my peacoat. Another layer of snow fell last night, and all of Starry Falls looks downy to the icy touch. “Let me guess, you’ve strung up some mistletoe to the pergola and you want to test it out?”

  “I like how you think. But it’ll have to wait. Beauford Wright is out front unloading a half a cord of firewood onto the log rack on the side of the cabin.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s nice. But I’ve got enough wood in the cabin. In fact, thanks for having the plumber out yesterday. My heater has once again unlocked fire-breathing dragon status. Hurry back in, you’ve got to try the prosciutto. The guy at the deli sliced it so thin it tastes like butter. And the soppressata has just the right spice and tang. I’m telling you I never thought I’d get decent Italian deli meats outside of New Jersey, at least not in Vermont, but boy, am I glad I was wrong about that.”

  Shep takes a breath as those dark brows of his swoop in vexingly low and turn my hormones into a fire-breathing dragon as well.

  “Beauford Wright is offloading some firewood,” he says it a little slower this time. “He owns the local wood mill. Are you sure you don’t want to say hello?”

  I squint over at him. “Why would I want to say hello to Beauford—Ford! As in Mayor Wright’s brother?” I quickly traipse down the snowy steps and lead Shep out front where a familiar looking man stands holding onto his truck while a couple of younger, far more stronger men shuttle the wood to the side of Shep’s cabin.

  “Beauford,” Shep calls out. “I’d love for you to meet my girlfriend, Bowie Binx. She’s the one that had the heating problem I was telling you about.”

  Girlfriend. It never gets old.

  “Well hey there, pretty lady.” He sheds an easy grin while holding out a hand, and I’m quick to shake it. Beauford is taller than he seemed that night of the murder, and in the light I can see the resemblance between him and his brother. He has a halo’s worth of graying blond hair, white stubble on his cheeks, and pale eyes that have a naughty gleam in them. “You can call me Ford.”

  “Bowie,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you. So how do you know Shep?”

  “Small town. Small minds for the most part, with the exception of this one. He’s our local brainiac. My brother is a big fan of his work. I’m not much of a reader, but if I were, I’m sure I would be a big fan, too. I guess that circles right back to small minds.” He gives a jolly laugh while patting his belly. If Mayor Wright ever retires the red suit, I’m sure his brother would be willing to fill it—just like he filled his position with the mayor’s ex-wife.

  Shep nods my way. “Mayor Wright is his brother.” His left eye comes shy of winking. I know that, but Beauford, or Ford, as it were, doesn’t know that I know. Shep really is a brainiac, keeping one step ahead of the suspect at hand.

  “Sorry to hear about your old sister-in-law.” I blow out a slow breath, and a plume of frosty air lights up in front of me. “Any news on who could have done something like that?”

  He inches back. “You’re dating the lead detective.” He belts out a laugh before sobering right back up. “But then again, I suppose it doesn’t make such good dinner conversation. Heck if I know what happened. Holly was a smooth operator when she wanted to be, but most of the time she was plain old annoying. She thrived off tearing apart other people’s lives. She grew up under a dictatorship in her household, and she spent her adult years taking it out on the rest of the world. She could be a real nice person when things were going her way. But boy, you turn the table and you might as well have a tiger by the tail.” He shoves his fists against his hips. “What have you got, Detective?”

  “Just speaking to friends and family right now. A business across the street had a surveillance camera pointed that way, but the holiday tree blocked the scene of the crime.”

  Ford shakes his head. “What luck for the killer.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Shep fires back.

  “Ford”—I offer the man a sweet smile—“did you happen to see Holly having a disagreement with anyone that night?” I happened to see her having a disagreement with four people that night—and he just so happened to be one of them, but I keep that tidbit to myself.

  He tries his best to poke his tongue through his cheek.

  “My brother.” He shrugs. “That’s no secret.” He slaps the back of his neck. “Carol Bransford, too. I guess that’s not a secret either. They’ve been bickering for years now.”

  “About what?” I know what Carol told me, but I’m curious as to what he might have to offer.

  His gaze shifts to the evergreen branches weighed down with snow.

  “They both worked down at that distillery together all those years ago.” He sucks in a quick breath. “Never saw two women bicker like that. I guess some grudges die hard. Holly brought Carol on board, and when she left she wanted Carol to leave, but Carol wouldn’t have it.”

  Well, there’s that. I already knew as much, and I’ve got an antipasto to get back to.

  Shep nods to the man. “What was the deal with that? Why take Carol away from her job if Holly was the one who was unhappy?”

 
Ford ticks his head to the side. “Holly thought she owned people. Apparently, she didn’t own her uncle. He gave her the boot from the distillery.”

  “Holly’s uncle worked there?” I ask.

  Ford nods. “He owns the place. Holly was taking advantage of the fact, too, bullying people around, trying to control people, making changes that weren’t approved by the board simply because she was family. Carol wouldn’t leave, though. She was good at her job. Still is. Holly saw it as a personal slight that Carol was staying put. Holly told me, if she couldn’t make her leave, she’d make the woman’s life miserable. When Carol chose gainful employment over their friendship, she locked herself in a war with Holly she couldn’t get out of.”

  “And what about you?” I ask with a slight shrug. “You mentioned she liked to control people. Did she ever try that with you?”

  A dull chuckle emits from him. “Darlin’, you really are new around here, aren’t you? She controlled my every move right into the bedroom. Cost me just about everyone in my family. I let Holly work for me at the mill. She was stealing from me, too. Just found out last week.”

  Shep tips his ear toward the man. “You didn’t mention that when I questioned you.”

  Ford’s lips twist as he glares at the ground a moment. “Let’s just say it slipped my mind a moment.”

  He nods to the two of us as his co-workers pile back into the truck.

  “Enjoy the rest of your weekend. Nice meeting you, Bowie.”

  They take off, and Shep and I stare at one another for a moment too long.

  “I bet he was confronting her about the money she stole the night of the tree lighting ceremony,” I say.

  “Maybe.” Shep nods. “That’s a motive for sure.”

  “And we got a little more detail on why Holly worked at the distillery and left it. I’d imagine it would be pretty embarrassing to be fired by your own family.”

  “Judging by how hard she was to get along with, they just might have done the right thing.”

  We head back inside my warm and toasty cabin, and the tangy scent of the meat sauce hits us as soon as we walk through the door.