Sneak Peek!
Christmas Party Murder
Book Description:
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
Chapter 1
“Come on, Bizzy,” Georgie shouts from the back of an out-of-control conga line. “Don’t be an elf on the shelf! Be an elf on the dance floor!”
“Don’t do it, Bizzy,” Mom calls out next as Georgie holds her hostage in that dancing, prancing line of people all wearing their very best ugly Christmas sweaters—and with all the flashing lights and glitter, it’s more like obnoxious Christmas sweaters. “I’ve already thrown my back out in three places,” she shouts. “At least one of us should be able-bodied to cook Christmas dinner. Besides, you have the baby to think about!”
They sail off toward the other end of the ballroom with about forty people in tow and I make a face at the entire lot of them.
My mother knows I’m a disaster in the kitchen. She must be desperate if she’s relegating Christmas dinner to me. And if it was relegated to me, we’d be forced to start a new Chinese takeout tradition. Not a bad idea, now that I think about it.
Speaking of thinking about things… There is one thing that I can’t seem to get off my mind.
The baby.
I place my hand instinctively over my nearly flat belly. I just found out the good news a couple of weeks ago and I’m still floating above the ground just thinking about it. Although at the rate I’ve been using this as an excuse to eat any and everything, I’ll be anchored to earth soon enough—and the size of the inn to boot.
I can’t help it. I’ve always been a foodie, and what better time to enjoy a meal or two than when you’re eating for two. Okay, so my meal portions have been more apt to feed twenty-two, but I’m new at this.
It’s about a week before the big day and the Cider Cove Cookie Company is hosting its annual office Christmas party right here in the ballroom of the Country Cottage Inn.
I’ve been the manager of the inn for almost ten years now—and the owner for about half that time. This isn’t the first Christmas office party we’ve hosted, but I’ll admit, this is the first time ever that my staff and I have been asked to dress up like elves.
Yes. Elves—as in a pointed hat, pointed ears, and a ridiculously short green dress paired with lime green tights. All of the above are happening, and I’m not proud of a single one. The pointed ears happen to be gifted to me by nature, but it’s times like these that I’m glad I can make them work.
“Jingle Bells” blares over the speakers as a giant Christmas tree sits at the front of the room, bejeweled with shiny red ornaments and red bows to match. That glorious evergreen is strung with about a million white twinkle lights, making it look like a giant star bursting to life, and underneath it are dozens of presents just waiting to be opened.
The owners of the cookie company had the gifts delivered for their employees, and each one is wrapped in red paper with a shiny silver bow. Next to the tree sits an ornate red velvet, gold-trimmed throne where the jolliest elf of them all will preside at some point this evening. But at the moment, good old St. Nick is leading that infamous conga line and grabbing every woman in his line of vision to play along with his holiday shenanigans.
An older woman—blonde, plain but pretty—stands nearby, no ugly knitwear for her. She’s opted for a green and white fair isle sweater with a matching forest green skirt. She’s standing next to the elongated dessert table that I had my staff line with a pressed red tablecloth and bushels of fresh poinsettias.
In hindsight, there’s not a lot of contrast in my decorating. And I think I may have gone overboard with the sanguine hue.
Is there such a thing as too much red at Christmas? Not to mention how easy it will be to parlay those tablecloths into my Valentine’s Day décor. I may not be big on saving calories these days, but I can still pinch a penny with the best of them.
Regardless, there are dozens of shiny red tins filled with yummy cookies from the Cider Cove Cookie Company spread all along the dessert buffet. And the banner on the wall above bears their logo, Merry Christmas from the Cider Cove Cookie Company! Made in Maine with cookie pride!
When I was growing up, it was all the rage to have a membership to the cookie-of-the-month club. On the first Monday of every month, another shiny red tin would magically appear on your doorstep. And it’s still all the rage to this day. To say they’re doing well would be an understatement. Word on the street is, they distribute more packages during the holiday season than Santa himself.
The older blonde sips her eggnog while taking a moment to glower at the growing boisterous line of holiday cheer that seems to have absorbed half the room.
Look at him. She shakes her head. Not only doesn’t he have any common sense, but he doesn’t have any shame. But I already knew that.
I tip my head her way. I don’t make it a point to pry into people’s gray matter, but then again, I can’t seem to find the shut-off valve either.
Bizzy! My sweet cat, Fish, traipses over and jumps right in front of me. Fish is a long-haired black and white tabby that I’ve had for years. She’s not only sweet as Christmas fudge, but she’s sharp as an icicle. There’s another pooch on the loose. Isn’t it bad enough we’ve got Sherlock to contend with? Do something about this, Bizzy, or mark my meow, Christmas will be ruined.
Sherlock Bones would be my husband’s sweet pup, a red and white freckled mutt who stole my heart long before his daddy did.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds—not every mind, not every time, but it happens, and believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. And yes, I can read the minds of animals, too. And almost always they have far better things to say than most people.
Sherlock bounds this way, and on his heels is a furry dog with long reddish-brown hair and dark button eyes. He looks like a purebred Havanese, one of the most adorable breeds known to man.
I made a friend, Bizzy. Sherlock jumps and barks with excitement. His name is Jingle, and you’ll never guess who he belongs to!
Fish swats a paw his way. He belongs to Santa. And I think it’s high time they both hitch a ride on a herd of reindeer and fly back to the North Pole.
“Judging by the size of this crowd, I don’t think anyone is flying anywhere any time soon.”
I’m not sure how it works, but the animals always seem to know what one another is saying.
I glance over at the conga line as it grows ten times more boisterous, with the man dressed as head elf howling and stomping like mad. The entire room is shaking with their less-than-rhythmic gyrations and I have half a mind to switch the music to something less jovial—like a Gregorian chant—before the walls collapse around us. Although I have a feeling they’d find a way to get their groove on to it. There’s clearly no stopping this sugar-fueled good time.
A pair of arms wrap themselves around me from behind before I can ruin anyone’s good mood or good time, and I turn to see the most handsome man in the room, Detective Jasper Wilder, the man who not only stole my heart, but locked it up in his own beating heart and threw away the key.
Jasper is tall, dark, and classically handsome with black hair and light gray eyes, and he happens to be wearing a red pointed hat with a jingle bell attached, which only adds to his sharp good looks.
“Here’s the Santa I’m interested in,” I say, spinning in his arms. “How about we sneak a kiss under the mistletoe before my husband gets back? He’s a detective with the Seaview Sheriff’s Department and he happens to be packing some serious heat.”
Jasper waggles his brows. “I say we work quickly. If Mrs. Claus finds out, it will be a frosty night for both of us.”
“Very funny,” I say as he lands a kiss on my lips.
A sudden wave of queasiness rolls through me, and I pull back, trying to keep my stomach in check. Thankfully, I haven’t had too much of a battle with nausea, but it turns out, that whole morning sickness thing is a total lie from the pit of the hot place. Come to find out, “morning sickness” can strike at any time—and often does just that.
“Love the costume,” he says, pulling back to get a look at me in full elf regalia. “Keep that on when you head back to the cottage later. I think I can work with this.”
“Careful what you wish for, Detective. I’ve been known to be a naughty elf.”
“Don’t worry. I know just what to do with those on my naughty list.”
“Don’t write checks you can’t cash,” I tease and we share a dark laugh.
Sherlock gives another bark and we look down as that hairy cutie, Jingle, sits by his side.
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing around,” I say, quickly giving the cute pup a pat between the ears. “My name is Bizzy, and this is my husband Jasper.”
Sherlock gives a soft bark at the pooch. Bizzy can hear our thoughts. She can hear almost everybody’s thoughts. But it’s our little secret. Only a few people know, like Jasper, Georgie, and Emmie and Leo—those are Bizzy and Jasper’s besties. How about we head over to the cookie table? I bet if we moan and whimper they’ll toss us the good stuff.
They take off with tails a wagging.
“No chocolate,” I call out after them.
Fish groans. I’ll keep an eye on them. I’ve already eaten two snowball cookies. I don’t see why I shouldn’t go for three.
I make a face. Snowball cookies aren’t exactly a part of her regular diet.
They’re not a part of mine either, but that hasn’t stopped me from polishing off ten—or fifteen. I can’t help it, the Cider Cove Cookie Company knows what they’re doing in the kitchen. Those cookies should come with an addiction warning label.
Speaking of my newfound addiction, I’ll have to secure myself a stash that can last all nine months. I’d hate to run out and have to break into the factory. Although I’m not above petty theft when it comes to meeting the needs of my child.
See that? I’m already a gold-star mother.
“What’s on your mind?” Jasper asks as we begin to sway to the cheery holiday music.
“Cookies,” I say, just as a craving for a peppermint bark brownie hits me like a freight train.
“I’ll steal a tin. You bring the costume.” A sly smile glides up his cheek. Our cottage is a quick walk and I can land us in front of the fireplace within three minutes.
“I’d ask what was on your mind, but I already know,” I say with a laugh trapped in my throat. I’m about to agree to his terms when I pick up on an errant internal voice nearby.
Laugh all you want. You won’t be laughing when I’m through with you. Santa might be here now, but another guest will be here soon enough—the Grim Reaper.
Chapter 2
The Grim Reaper?
I scan the crowd as if looking for a lost child, but as it stands, I might be looking for a killer as the Christmas party rages all around us.
Unless the person whose thoughts I’m reading are standing relatively close to me, their internal voice can sound a little androgynous, so I can’t tell if I should be on the lookout for a man or a woman. And I certainly can’t give Jasper the heads-up on who to arrest for premeditated murder.
Although it was just a thought. I know better than to give too much credence to it. Heaven knows I’ve wanted to summon the Grim Reaper a time or two myself. And heaven knows if I don’t get my fill of these scrumptious cookies, I might just mow down the entire North Pole.
I sigh at the thought just as the conga line disbands and Georgie and my mother head this way looking slightly worse for wear.
Georgie Conner is a robust eighty-something-year-old woman who lives here on the grounds, and she just so happens to be one of the only people who knows about my supernatural quirk. Since her daughter was once married to my father, I like to joke that I got Georgie in the divorce.
Georgie has a penchant for kaftans no matter what time of year it is, thus the red kaftan she’s wearing printed with white reindeer. Her hair sits on her head like a gray storm cloud and her sparkling blue eyes are laced with more than their fair share of mischief.
My mother is the opposite of Georgie in almost every way. Ree Baker is petite, has red feathered hair, and both her clothes and cherry mane are still stuck in her favorite decade, the eighties. She’s donned a red sweater with a tree knitted on the front and has a white crisp shirt underneath with the collar popped up around her ears. She’s paired the look with dark slacks and gold ballet slippers and looks like the most put-together person in the room.
My mother has been the most put-together person in every room for as long as I can remember.
“Do not try that at home,” Mom grunts, holding her back with one hand.
“Quit your complaining,” Georgie grouses. “We had more action on that dance floor in the last ten minutes than we’ve had in the last ten months.”
Mom gives a weak chuckle. “Try ten years.”
“When it comes to you, try twenty,” Georgie says before winking my way. Don’t worry about me, Bizzy. I’ve given my number to six different men. Let’s just say I’ve got high hopes of getting my stocking filled before midnight.
I can’t help but frown at her. I’ll station extra security around Georgie’s cottage in an effort to deflect any potential perpetrators—even if she would rather call them guests.
Mom chuckles and nudges Georgie. “Now, Georgie, be careful. Bizzy’s got enough to worry about with a baby on the way. She doesn’t need to be stressing over your holiday hijinks. And speaking of which, could you please manage to keep your clothes on this time? Not only was last year’s spectacle a nude eyesore, but you almost froze solid from the waist down.”
Georgie rolls her eyes. “You’re just jealous that the hot hunks from the fire department were taking their time to warm me up, one inch at a time. How about you get me one of those tins of cookies and I’ll let you in on the fun.”
“No thanks,” Mom says flatly. “I don’t need a bunch of hot hunks to keep things heated. I’ve got your little brother to do it for me.”
It’s true. My mother has been seeing Benedict Arnold, aka Ben, for a while now and they’re not just some fly-by-night couple. They’re the real deal.
Ben is pretty much the opposite of Georgie in every way. She’s a happy-go-lucky hippie and he’s a happy-go-lucky retired businessman who prefers suits to sweats. And the best part is that he treats my mother like gold, which is more than I can say for my father—even though I love him dearly.
And terrifyingly enough, my father has managed to hitch himself to Jasper’s mother. Suffice it to say, things had better not go south for them, because that, in turn, might cause things to go south for Jasper and me. Not that I believe for a second they would. I’ve already decided that I’d forgive Jasper if he felt the need to fire a bullet in my father’s direction. Granted, if he does, I’m rooting for him to miss—or graze lightly. Either or.
Georgie gives my stomach a soft pat. “Don’t worry, kiddo. Your granny might be a dud, but your bonus granny here is a handful of fun just waiting to happen.”
Mom grunts, “More like a handful of arrest warrants.” She glances to her left and straightens. “Virginia?” she cries out with a touch of glee at a couple of women about to pass us by. “It’s me, Ree Baker.”
The older blonde, the one in the fair isle sweater whose thoughts I was inadvertently picking up on earlier, gasps at my mother.
“Oh, my dear friend,” she says as they exchange a quick embrace. “What a surprise to see you here!”
“My daughter owns the inn,” Mom says, holding a hand my way. “Virginia, this is my younger daughter, Bizzy. This is my good friend, Georgie Conner, and this is Bizzy’s husband, Detective Jasper Wilder.”
Both Virginia and the redhead next to her inch back with a mixture of surprise and delight on their faces.
“So nice to meet you all,” Virginia says. “This is my old stepdaughter, Noel Brighton.” She wraps an arm around the redhead by her side. She’s younger, about my age, late twenties, has clear green eyes, a button nose, and thin frosted pink lips. She’s donned the requisite ugly sweater, and it just so happens to have reindeer with a blinking red nose. “We own and run the Cider Cove Cookie Company together.”
“Wow, that’s so nice,” I say to them both.
I had no idea Mom knew the owner, but then again, apparently, Mom wasn’t aware of that either.
“And what a delicious business to get your grubby little cookie-loving hands on,” Georgie says, rubbing her belly.
The redhead laughs. Not as delicious as this detective. She takes a moment to sigh. Why are all the good ones taken?
She’s not wrong on either of those accounts.
I’ve long since determined not to hold anyone’s thoughts against them. It’s not their fault I’m listening in. And most people think things that they would never dare say out loud. Although the people with no filter almost always do.
“A detective, huh?” Virginia lifts a brow. “Let’s hope we won’t be needing your services tonight.”
A light scream goes off near the front as the Christmas tree almost gets knocked over by a crowd reveling a little too close to the stately evergreen, and Santa himself just so happens to be a part of that crowd.
Speaking of Santa, women are climbing all over him in an effort to take a picture with the man as the crowd grows that much more rambunctious.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing my services.” Jasper grimaces. “I think Santa has tonight under control.” Not that I believe it for a minute. The guy has obviously been hitting the eggnog a little too hard. Here’s hoping he has a ride home. Having a deputy escort wouldn’t be a good look for him.
I nod his way without meaning to because I so agree.
“The night is young yet,” Virginia says, shaking her head at the debauchery taking place. “It’s nice meeting you all.”
Noel nods our way. “Careful under the mistletoe.” She looks right at Jasper. “You never know whose lips you might meet there.” If I’m lucky, they’ll be mine.
I growl as they take off. That’s one thought that I can’t let slide.
“The night is young yet, indeed,” I parrot. Another errant scream goes off followed by an explosion of laughter. “Let’s just hope this night doesn’t end in murder.”
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****