My name is Eufrasia Canelli but everybody calls me Effie. I come from a big Italian family with big hearts, big appetites, and an even bigger bankroll that’s cleverly hidden from the IRS.
I’m not married to the mob, I was born into it. Just last year, I was laid off from my career at a tech company and in an effort to keep from moving back home—I went crawling to the biggest crime lord I know—my Uncle Jimmy.
He gave me two options: Dance at his strip club—or hunt down his enemies.
Seeing that I’m no fan of public nudity, I opted for murder.
Let’s just say my mortality rate so far is nil.
Okay, so I’m not a straight shot but my Uncle Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind and I’m still raking in enough money to keep a roof over my head.
I also took a part-time job at a local bakery. Not only do I get to satisfy my sweet tooth for free but I get a decent cover when I’m asked about my employment.
But the darndest thing just happened at one of my gigs, someone dropped dead!
And guess who landed at the top of the suspect list?
Me.
Now I’ve got to find the killer before I end up behind bars for committing a homicide that wasn’t even on my radar.
I guess it’s true what they say—living in Honey Hollow can be murder.
Chapter 1
Seven hours from now…
The Killer
There he is.
Well-tailored Italian suit, shoes so shiny you can make out your reflection in them, and a smug expression that only money can buy. Not that money will do him any good where he’s going—where I’m sending him.
I suspect it will be far too hot for a wool suit, far too hot for clothing in general.
And that smug smile? He won’t be wearing it for long. I’ll make sure of that. In fact, that’s the only reason I’m in attendance of this inglorious marital farce.
Sure, I got the invite. It’s the wedding of the century, just about everyone got the invite. That’s what pleased me most about this venue. That’s what made me choose it.
A murder can’t be done in the plain light of day. It should be done in the cover of darkness—or even better, in a crowd of thousands—most of which make ideal suspects when the sheriff’s department comes sniffing. And they will come sniffing. I’ve already arranged for that.
Not a single detail has gone unattended. I’ve left no homicidal stone unturned. They will never be able to pin this on me. Not now, not ever.
The dance floor is alive with bodies. It’s almost time to lure my prey. But for now, I stand in the corner, nursing a glass of Prosecco, watching him from across the room.
The wedding reception is in full swing as laughter echoes throughout the opulent ballroom. The chandeliers above cast a soft, golden glow on the guests, their faces alight with sheer bliss. But there’s only one face I’m interested in—my victim's.
He’s presently grazing his way through the dessert table, lingering over the display of Italian pastries I couldn’t care to pronounce. A hint of a smile plays on his lips, and I’m fairly certain it will be his last.
That thought alone sends a thrill down my spine.
The soothing sound of a slow song starts up and provides the perfect soundtrack for what I’m about to do.
My heart picks up pace as I make my way toward him.
“Excuse me?” I offer an amicable smile. “That looks fantastic,” I say, nodding to the dessert in his hand. “What do they call that again?”
His eyes narrow my way and I can sense the evil pulsing through him.
“Sfogliatelle,” he grunts. “You should enjoy a few.” He offers the small pastry to me with a charming smile and I shake my head.
“Maybe later. I’m sorry things have been rocky for us.”
“Rocky?” He chuckles. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
“I think we should talk.” I nod to a darkened alcove between the kitchen and the ballroom.
“Okay. I’ll hear what you have to say. But you’re not changing my mind.”
Just like that, the hook has been set as he follows me into the shadows, intrigued by my lie and my carefully crafted charm. He is mine through and through.
And now the real work begins.
Effie
Nine months earlier…
To: effmylifecanelli@yoyo.com
From: Byteme@Byteme.com
December 24th
Dear Ms. Canelli,
Thank you for your services at Byte Me Tech Corp, but unfortunately, we must terminate your employment effective immediately. We know this news is harder to swallow than a fruitcake from your great-aunt Mabel, and we apologize for the timing. As you know, Byte Me Tech Corp prides itself on being on the cutting edge of technology, and sometimes that means making difficult decisions.
We regret to inform you that the algorithmic overlords have determined that your contributions to Byte Me no longer meet their exacting standards. They assure us that it’s not personal, just business. In other words, it’s not you, it’s the code. We tried to appeal their decision, but apparently, they have the emotional range of a toaster.
We appreciate your hard work and dedication to Byte Me Tech Corp, and we wish you all the best in your future endeavors. We hope that you will find a new role where your talents can be fully appreciated, and where you will not be subjected to the whims of an unfeeling algorithm.
Sincerely,
The Byte Me Tech Corp Team
P.S. We hope you can still find some joy in the holiday season, even though our automated HR system has apparently not been programmed to take that into account. On the bright side, you won’t have to deal with the annual Secret Santa debacle anymore. Although, rest assured, the restraining order against St. Nick is still in effect.
Present
My name is Eufrasia Margarita Canelli—yes, it’s a name that could choke a horse—but everyone calls me Effie or Eff, the latter of which has sometimes doubled as an expletive amongst my family.
About nine months ago, my life flipped like a pancake, batter side down. And since then, well, it’s pretty much turned inside out, too.
Back then, I was living a pretty cushy life living in Ashford County working as a hotshot techie, making enough dough to dine on fancy meals that wiggled and jiggled and cost more than my first clunker.
Then bam!
A single email unraveled all of my caviar dreams and I was out on my keister. So I packed up my office, my rental house, and my dignity, all in the scope of one week’s time. Suffice it to say, moving back in with my folks sent my bucket list into retrograde.
Desperate for work, I swallowed my pride and crawled to my Uncle Jimmy’s strip joint, Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club, and groveled for a paycheck.
The long and short of it?
Uncle Jimmy gave me two choices.
Shake it on stage or help out with the “family business” and hunt down his enemies.
Seeing that I’m not a fan of public nudity, I opted for murder.
But at this exact moment, my killer instincts aren’t trained on any one of Uncle Jimmy’s foes—they’re one hundred percent honed on an errant shopping cart barreling my way.
It’s mid-September and the wind is blowing at full gale force, letting every soul in the great state of Vermont know that the summer sun has clocked out for the year and autumn’s pumpkin spice invasion is gearing up to take over, one latte at a time.
The renegade cart hurls my way, so I do the only thing I can think of. I grab onto the handlebar, hop up on the undercarriage, give it a shove in the opposite direction with my foot, and let inertia do the rest.
I’ll admit, there’s something freeing sailing at top speed with the wind in my hair.
Hey? Maybe I should have been a stunt gal in Hollywood? Boy, did I ever miss my calling.
The rogue cart in question happens to belong to the Country Pantry, a brand new boutique grocery store that opened up next to the bakery in which I’m currently employed.
Truth be told, I needed a job to cover for the work I’m doing for my uncle. You just can’t go shooting up a bunch of bad guys, move into a new rental in a cozy town like Honey Hollow, and purport to be unemployed. I’d raise more than an eyebrow, especially within my own family. And believe me, in my family, that’s next to impossible to do.
Outside of my Uncle Jimmy, a rogue aunt, and my pesky little sister Niki, no one else knows that I’ve taken up arms in an effort to help my uncle right a few wrongs.
Confession? I’m not all that good at this whole “taking care of business” thing, and I’m not sure this is one area I want to excel at either. Growing up, I had dreams of changing the world, initiating world peace, and curing horrific diseases.
Okay, fine. Growing up, I envisioned myself poolside with my future children—two boys, two girls—as they splashed and screamed to my neighbors’ chagrin while I sipped on mimosas. But since Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now hasn’t quite materialized, I’m going gangster on loan defaulters instead. Let’s just say my newfound connection to bullets has changed things in my life, as bullets often do.
Why might you ask am I not such a great assassin and probably never will be?
Short story long, it’s that whole thou shalt not murder rule written in stone that makes me think twice about evicting someone off the planet. Although, let’s face it, I’ve stolen, lied, and coveted more than a few of my neighbors’ boyfriends, so I’m not exactly doing so hot on the other ten rules either.
Nonetheless, I haven’t mustered up the courage to aim for the head or chest. If I’m lucky, I get an arm or a leg. Most of the time I miss, and somehow that still seems to drive the point home to the goofballs who thought it best to take a loan from my Uncle Jimmy. He says his payback rate is one hundred percent since I’ve taken the bullet-riddled reins, so he’s not complaining.
Uncle Jimmy is happy with the cash flow, and he seems more than satisfied with the fact I “maim to please” as well.
A gust of wind with all the charm of a cat 5 hurricane sends my newfound shopping cart and me rushing toward a brand new white truck with a set of paper plates that assures me it’s fresh off the lot.
“Incoming,” I shout as the rickety cart sashays from one side of Main Street to the other—directly aimed at that shiny new ride. So I do the only thing I can do. I scream at the top of my lungs and hope for the best.
The owner exits the vehicle just as I slam into the side of it.
The impact is swift and violent, ricocheting me into the poor guy and we both end up in a heap on the cobbled sidewalk with my body landing right over his, face-to-face, lip-to-lip.
He pulls away a notch, only to have his eyes double in size as he looks past me.
“Watch out,” he shouts as he grabs the back of my head and presses our lips together once again, hard and fast.
Mom always did say the boys couldn’t get enough of me. I guess it still holds true.
A loud crash envelops us just as something thumps hard over my rear end. I lift my head up an inch to see the shopping cart has collapsed over us like a cage.
“Geez,” he says, tossing the steel prison off of us, and I do an inadvertent push-up on his chest to assess the damage.
“I’m so sorry,” I pant, trying my best to lift myself off of his rock-hard body.
Have I mentioned his rock-hard body?
“I didn’t mean to hit your truck,” I sputter. “It looks brand new. Please tell me it’s not brand new.”
“Forget the truck,” he mutters as he squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “It’s the concussion that has me concerned.”
“Oh no!” I grab him by the chest and give him a little rattle. “Tell me you’re not concussed.”
“I’m not concussed,” he groans, struggling for a moment to break free from my grip.
“That’s good news,” I pant right over his lips. He’s probably lying about it just like he’s lying about the fact he’s not that concerned about his truck.
And, of course, it’s a new truck.
Every idiot on the street knows it’s brand new, including me.
He frowns and I pause from extracting myself from his person.
He’s a looker—wavy brown hair, marbled blue eyes, and have I mentioned that rock-hard body? Believe me, I can testify firsthand that he’s made of steel.
He appears to be somewhere about my age, late twenties, early thirties max. He seems sane, for the most part. Sanity plus good looks almost always means they’re taken.
“Are you hurt?” he growls, helping me to my feet.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, slapping the dust off my jeans. “I come from a hearty stock. But your truck…” I glance over at it and gasp.
Truth be told, I think he just gasped twice as loud.
“Holy moly,” I groan. “You could fit all of Honey Hollow in that dent.”
He nods. “And Ashford, and Leeds.”
A nervous giggle works its way up my throat. “Well, at least now it has… personality?”
“That's exactly what I wanted,” he muses as he stares down that dent in disbelief. “A dented truck with tons of personality.”
“You know what they say, dents are like battle scars. Your truck just survived its first skirmish.”
Fun side note: I talk way too much when I’m in trouble.
He frowns my way. “If I’d known parking lots were warzones, I would’ve come prepared. Or parked elsewhere.”
“Let me offer to pay for it,” I say, without having a single dollar to back that up. Sure, I’m making more than a little spare change, but all that money is swallowed by my never-ending bills. Okay, fine. I’m a shoe addict, boots specifically. But you can’t exactly live in Vermont and not keep your toes nice and toasty. Not only is it criminal, but you won’t get far with a couple of frozen feet.
His eyes sweep over me for a minute. “You don’t have to pay for a thing. Just have a good day.” He stalks off for the grocery store and I stand there with my mouth hanging open feeling more than a little insulted.
I’m not sure why, but his well-wishing felt more like a slight than it did a polite sentiment. Had the roles been reversed, I might have peppered my parting shot with a choice finger or two.
Here’s hoping the rest of my day goes a heck of a lot better.
But with me in the mix, that seems like a long shot.