The Holidays can be Murder
Book Description:
It’s the festive season in Brambleberry Bay, and the town’s elite have decked their halls in anticipation of the grand Christmas party at the secretive Willoughby Hall. However, amidst twinkling lights and carolers, the yuletide cheer gets frosted over by a chilling crime. For one well-heeled guest, their sip of mulled wine will be their last.
I’m Hattie Holiday, and while most are hanging stockings, I’m diving into the minds of Brambleberry's high society. Sure, hearing the occasional stray thought can be a gift or a curse, but it’s always fun to chat with my cute little cat, Cricket, and Rookie, our golden retriever buddy who happens to have a penchant for mystery. And, incidentally, he happens to belong to the ever-so-dashing detective, Killion Maddox—my shiny new boyfriend.
My invitation to Willoughby Hall is more than just a chance to don a festive frock. It turns out, this highbrow holiday bash has more under wraps than just a few presents. And with my quirky little talent, I might just land myself on the naughty list.
Old grudges, family feuds, and secret affairs?
It’s beginning to look a lot like murder.
Chapter 1
The Killer
The glittering chandeliers send prisms of color darting around the dim halls of this haunted castle.
The scent of fresh-cut pines and mulled spices fills the air, mingling with the sickening overpowering aroma of money and privilege. I watch from the shadows as my mark struts around with their larger-than-life personality as if they own every corner of this world.
Their laughter pierces the night, that grating, all-too-familiar sound. They toss their head back, basking in the adulation from the guests in attendance of this opulent gathering.
For a moment, I catch their attention, but they look right through me, dismissing me as if I were insignificant as a speck of dust.
“Enjoy the spotlight,” I muse to myself, taking a sip of my hot cider. The spices burn on the way down as if they were a reminder of the fiery plan that bubbles inside of me. “Soak it all in—for this night, amidst the twinkling fairy lights and festive cheer, will be your grand finale.”
Christmas carols croon in the background, but all I hear is the steady drumming of my own heart, the rhythmic reminder of why I’m here tonight—the backbeat of my hatred.
I stalk their every move, watching every interaction, every false laugh, every condescending remark. And with each passing minute, my resolve grows stronger.
“Have fun while you can,” I muse as my fingers tighten around my glass. “I promise you this. Before the snow settles, you’ll be taking a long winter’s nap. I’ll make sure of it myself.”
Hattie
The present…
An ethereal chorus of “Silent Night” wafts through the icy winter air as Peggy, Clarabelle, Killion, and I make our way toward the grand structure known as Willoughby Hall.
It’s a snowy Saturday night in December, and every last member of the Brambleberry Bay Country Club received an invite to tonight’s swanky—albeit mysterious holiday soirée.
Cricket and Rookie run a circle around Killion and me as we make our way toward the expansive stone steps that lead to this luxurious behemoth that’s seen better days gone by.
Cricket would be my sweet beige tabby, and Rookie is my boyfriend Killion’s golden retriever.
Boyfriend.
I can’t help but swoon for a moment as I glance at the dark-haired looker standing next to me.
Killion Major Maddox is a homicide detective, and since I can’t seem to stop stumbling across bodies as of late, I’m glad I’ve got him on my side. That whole boyfriend thing is relatively new and even though Christmas is on the horizon, I already feel as if Santa delivered in a very big way. I’m just that lucky to have him.
A group of carolers moves into our midst—two men and two women decked out in old Dickens’ garb with glorious red velvet cloaks and rosy cheeks step before us, crooning away.
And just as I’m about to compliment their angelic voices, the carolers up and vanish into thin air.
Poof! Gone. Just like that!
Peggy, Clarabelle, and I belt out a scream that cuts right through the dark and not-so-silent night as Killion chuckles to himself.
Cricket belts out a yowl before scowling at Killion. Look at him laughing like the insolent oaf he is! I told you that you should never have gotten involved with this man. He’s maniacal to the bone.
Rookie gives a few sharp barks. Killion isn’t maniacal. He’s just not afraid of no ghosts! He says before whimpering and whining and cowering behind Killion’s legs. Killion is always the brave one.
Unlike you, Cricket mewls.
I’m brave, too, Rookie protests. It’s just that someone has to hold up the rear.
“What in the name of Kris Kringle just happened?” Peggy snaps, demanding an explanation while splitting her words into fifty-two syllables like only a Georgia peach can.
“It was an alien abduction,” Clarabelle shouts while wagging a finger at the sky.
Peggy and Clarabelle are both somewhere in their eighties. They were the first friends I made when I took over the position of event planner at the country club last fall.
Peggy Ebersol is a redheaded Southern belle who has a constant hankering for both men and money. And Clarabelle Harper is a frazzled gray-haired granny who has no problem telling everyone she knows the fact she’s new money from Yonkers. In fact, she wears it like a badge with pride.
Stepping out of our vehicles this evening, we were immediately greeted by a festive spectacle that rivals just about any winter wonderland. Willoughby Hall, in all its historic grandeur, stands proudly adorned in a cloak of Christmas magic the likes of which I’ve never witnessed before.
White twinkle lights cascade down the vast stone walls, giving the illusion of shooting stars that dance and twirl in their descent. Every window that faces us has its own unique silhouette that darkens it, such as reindeer prancing, snowmen waving, and even a few mysterious figures holding candles. And even the rooftop of this massive structure is in the holiday spirit as it boasts of an ornate sleigh with reindeer at the helm that are actively dancing and prancing as if they can’t wait to take flight.
“I can assure you, ladies,” Killion sighs, “that was no alien abduction.”
Clarabelle’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “So they were ghosts!”
“Oh, good gravy,” Peggy shrieks, nearly jumping out of her shoes. “Of course, they were ghosts. Because what’s a holiday party at a haunted mansion without some high-end specters? It’s only the best of the best for the rich and infamous.”
“More like the best of the dead,” I say. “Those ghosts really knew how to carry a tune.”
Killion shakes his head. “There’s no way those were ghosts. The Willoughby family is known for their love of showmanship and magic stunts.” He nods up at the monolithic estate. “And with a one hundred and eleven room mansion that sits nestled on thirty-three acres, they’ve got plenty of space for all the dramatic hijinks they want.”
“Magic stunts?” I choke on the word. “Well, that’s one way to kick off a party.” Although, my money is still on ghosts.
Peggy tosses a hand my way. “Oh, honey, they’re not kicking anything off. We’re almost an hour late. We’d best get on inside before all the good caviar and champagne has done a disappearing act itself.”
“And here I was simply hoping for sugar cookies and eggnog,” I say as we make our way toward the grand double-door entry that sits closed and tight-lipped, not affording a single glimpse of the glory inside.
In truth, Willoughby Hall looks as if Buckingham Palace and the White House had a baby—and that baby ate the Taj Mahal and a few dozen haunted houses as well. From the outside, it’s nothing but a sprawl of white stone and glowing windows, and the entire place—all bazillion miles of it—reeks of old money.
The woods to the left of the estate are illuminated in shades of red, green, and silver, and that only adds to the otherworldly appeal of the place. Not to mention the fact the evergreens are heavy with glistening snow, making it appear as if Mother Nature herself iced each and every branch.
To our right is a courtyard where a grand fountain three-tiered stone takes center stage, and on either side of it are ten-foot statues of angels, each holding a trumpet. They look both noble and eerie under the moonlit night, and I have a feeling that will be the theme of the evening.
Clarabelle nudges me. “I’ve heard some wild rumors about this place. They say the original Willoughbys were magicians. And not just the card trick kind. I’m talking dark, mysterious, make people disappear for real kind of magicians.”
“They sound more like mobsters,” I muse.
“Mobsters with a heck of a lot of money,” Peggy adds.
Rookie barks at something to our right just as a reindeer darts in front of us and promptly takes flight before disappearing into a spray of miniature sparkling stars.
“Another ghost!” Clarabelle howls.
“Oh, for frisky Santa’s sake,” Peggy snips, clutching her pricey handbag with a death grip. “Haunted holiday parties—why did I bother to wear heels?” I should have worn sneakers—all that much easier to make a run for it. Now all I have to do is nab me a handsome man or two and we can do our own disappearing act—into one of these haunted bedrooms.
That sounds par for the course as far as Peggy is concerned.
Another reindeer darts past us before vanishing in a vat of stars and Killion reaches for his gun like a reflex before he takes another step forward, leading the way toward the entry.
This place is sending a shiver up my spine, he muses to himself. But there’s no way I’m letting on. Besides, this night had better go off without a hitch. The last thing I want on my desk before Christmas is another homicide investigation. But then again, Hattie Holiday is on the invite list.
“Hey.” I swat him on the arm as if he said those words out loud. “I mean, ghosts in general sort of freak me out,” I say, dusting off the spot on his jacket where I just swatted him.
Ghosts and holiday parties? Cricket mewls as she hops into my arms. At the end of the day, I just want some tuna.
Ooh, a snowman! Rookie runs ahead and barks up at the frozen figurine erected just shy of the fountain. Maybe he has treats?
Cricket swipes her paw in Rookie’s direction. The only treat would be if you disappeared next.
“Play nice,” I whisper into her cute little ear. I did a little digging and, sure enough, pets are welcome at tonight’s holiday party. And good thing, too, because if the wealthy patrons of the Brambleberry Bay Country Club love anything, it’s bringing their furry friends along wherever they go. “And behave,” I tell her. “This place puts the ritz in ritzy.”
Clarabelle huffs, “This place is so ritzy even the chandeliers have chandeliers.”
“I bet the dust bunnies wear top hats,” Peggy adds.
Killion nods. “Back in the day, Willoughby Hall had seen more parties, rendezvous, and mysteries than any of us could imagine. But from what little research I did, it seems to have sat virtually empty for who knows how long.”
Clarabelle shivers as she looks up at the stone façade, and I doubt she’s shivering from the cold. “I’ve heard there are rooms that haven’t been opened in decades—they have passageways that lead to nowhere, and even a room that’s entirely upside down!”
“Sounds like my life,” I muse as we step closer to the mansion’s entrance and I can’t help but wonder what other spectacles and secrets Willoughby Hall holds for us tonight.
The front doors tower nearly twenty feet in height and they happen to be framed by two life-sized nutcracker soldiers, standing guard each with a candy-cane-striped staff by their sides. Above the doors sits a giant wreath, twinkling with hundreds of tiny lights that offer the place a hint of cozy warmth. But from what I can tell, we’re in for anything but a cozy, warm night.
The doors creak slowly open on their own and we dare step inside, but instead of anything cozy and warm, we’re greeted with icy darkness as the doors slam shut behind us.
A glowing figure slowly materializes and we each breathe a sigh of relief once we see a smiling Santa Claus all decked out in his red velvet finery, big black boots, and belly like a bowl full of jelly.
He gives a hearty chuckle and we all chuckle right along with him.
He places his hands on his glowing cheeks and the most frightening sight of all takes shape—prompting every last one of us to scream.