Sneak Peek!
Drama in the Bahamas Cruise
Book Description:
When Santa drops dead, I’m making a list and checking it twice… for suspects.
Chapter 1
Effie
The scent of cinnamon, pine, and most likely desperation fills the air of Honey Hollow’s newly refurbished community center.
It’s a week until Christmas and it looks as if all of Vermont has filed into the community center for the Jingle Bell Jubilee, a holiday extravaganza open to both people and pets that showcases the town’s shop vendors.
Christmas carols blare from speakers that make Mariah Carey’s high notes feel as if they’re drilling directly into my skull. Crowds of holiday-crazed townsfolk shuffle between craft booths while their pets sniff each other in that awkward getting-to-know-you dance that thankfully only animals can get away with. Dogs of all sizes strain at their leashes, and more than one person has decided that stuffing their cat into a bubble backpack is somehow less traumatic than leaving the poor creature at home.
“I look like a Christmas stripper,” I mutter to my sister while tugging at the see-through green bodysuit that barely covers the essentials. “I’m pretty sure these outfits violate some kind of public decency law.”
The Honey Hollow Community Center has recently undergone a renovation and its transformation is almost as shocking as our elf costumes. Gone is the musty, dated meeting hall, replaced by what looks like a ritzy country club that Santa himself might frequent if he won the lottery. Crystal chandeliers—dozens of them—cast a warm glow over the dark wood floors. And at the front of the room, lush red velvet curtains frame the stage where an ornate gold throne sits, just waiting for the big man in red to park his jolly behind.
Of course, Santa is here, too, which only partially explains why my sister Niki and our coworkers Suze and Lily were coerced into wearing glorified lingerie to pretend we’re elves—naughty elves at that. Although with the four of us, the naughty part isn’t such a stretch.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” Niki gives a little shimmy that makes her strategically placed peppermint pinwheels spin.
Both Niki and I have dark hair, coffee-colored eyes, and the inability to keep our mouths shut when we want to let a sarcastic zinger fly.
We can’t help it. We come from a large Italian family where sarcasm and food are basically our love languages.
“I think Mayor Nash has excellent taste,” she goes on. “These outfits are going to put Honey Hollow on the map.”
“As what? The Christmas Gentlemen’s Club?” I adjust my outfit for the fiftieth time, trying to pull fabric out of places fabric should never venture. The giant peppermint pinwheels covering my chest are as subtle as a gun in a convent.
Suze scowls, yanking at her bodysuit. “We look like floozies. Christmas floozies. I’m sixty-two years old. The only spinning pinwheels I should be looking at are in a retirement brochure.” Suze has short blonde hair—more gray than blonde, but don’t tell her I said that—and a stocky frame that she maintains through a steady diet of cupcakes.
“Well, I’m keeping my outfit on later for Alex.” Lily winks, referring to her boyfriend—who also happens to be Suze’s son. “He’s always had a thing for Christmas candy.”
“That’s my baby boy you’re talking about,” Suze groans, covering her ears. “I didn’t need that mental image. I’m going to need therapy. Or whiskey. Preferably both.”
Lily Swanson is a brunette looker who works alongside us at the bakery, too. She’s not-so-sweet, overly sassy, and can appreciate a good zinger like nobody’s business.
I crane my neck, scanning the crowd for any sign of Cooper. Cupertino Lazzari, aka Homicide Detective Cooper Knox, would be my official plus-one. He’s hot, he’s armed, and he’s mine.
He’s also supposed to be bringing Watson tonight, our shared custody oh-so-adorable golden shepherd mix. I hope Coop put the red ribbon on his leash that I gave him this morning.
Watson is going to look so stinking cute. I have no doubt he’s going to steal the show from Santa himself. Every single child in this room will beg to find Watson in their stocking come Christmas morning.
And, well, Coop is so hot that every single woman in this room will beg to find Cooper Knox in their stocking come Christmas morning, too.
“Looking for Detective Hot Stuff?” Niki nudges me with her pointy elf shoe. “If he sees you in that getup, he might forget all about your little career hiccup.”
By career hiccup, she means the tiny fact that I happen to moonlight as an assassin for our Uncle Jimmy, head of the Canelli crime family, while Cooper works as the aforementioned homicide detective. And have I mentioned that his real last name is Lazzari? As in the Lazzari crime family—number one enemies to the Canellis? Talk about relationship complications.
My name, however, is Eufrasia Margarita Canelli, but people just call me Effie. I’m five feet five inches of fun, have dark, medium-length hair, dark eyes, and a knack for landing myself in the deadliest and some might say dumbest of situations—aka that whole hitwoman for the mob thing. Oh, have I not mentioned it? After I lost my job in big tech, I ran to my Uncle Jimmy for a job. He gave me two choices: either dance at his strip club or pump a few bullets into his enemies. I chose the latter since I’m not so big on public nudity. Oddly enough, I don’t have a problem with bullets or bloodshed.
My job at the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery is mostly a front, though my boss, Lottie Lemon, is sweeter than her desserts. The gig at the bakery could realistically fund the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed—having a roof over my head and enough dough to spring for pizza every other night.
“Where is Lottie, anyway?” I ask, still scanning the crowd. “I still don’t know how she convinced us to dress like Christmas streetwalkers while she escaped the humiliation.”
“She’s running her booth.” Lily points toward the far corner where a line stretches halfway across the room—as it should. Lottie’s desserts really are that good.
The Cutie Pie booth is decked out with enough twinkle lights and candy canes to be seen from the space station, while Lottie presides like the queen of Christmas confections that she is.
Her platters are packed with holiday treats—snowman cake pops with tiny scarves, reindeer brownies with pretzel antlers, gingerbread cookies that look suspiciously like certain town residents, and her famous peppermint hot chocolate cupcakes topped with miniature marshmallows. There’s also a mountain of Christmas tree Rice Krispies treats covered in green frosting and decorated with tiny candy ornaments. Those last treats are heavily addictive. I should know, I ate two dozen myself before leaving the shop.
“Of course, she’s running her booth.” I sigh. “She gets to look professional while we’re out here auditioning for Santa’s Naughty Helpers—The North Pole After Dark edition.”
“Oh my goodness.” Suze’s jaw drops as she points to the stage. “Speaking of naughty helpers…”
A commotion erupts at Santa’s throne where my Aunt Cat and her BFF Carlotta Sawyer are decked out in Mrs. Claus outfits that seem to be missing about seventy percent of their fabric.
Carlotta is busy straddling Santa’s lap while Aunt Cat appears to be trying to swallow his face whole.
Mothers gasp in horror, covering their children’s eyes while making a beeline for either the exit—or more to the point, Lottie’s cookie display—because let’s face it, nothing soothes trauma like a good dose of sugar.
“Is that your aunt?” Lily asks with her eyes wide.
“No relation,” I say, though we both know that’s a lie.
Aunt Cat takes that moment to adjust her position, and Santa lets out a jolly “Ho, ho, whoa!” that echoes through the community center.
“Should we…?” Lily gestures vaguely toward the Christmas catastrophe unfolding on stage.
“Extract my aunt and Carlotta from Santa before they scar these children for life?” I finish for her. “Probably.”
Suze groans. “Effie, I think we should go collect those two now before they give Santa a heart attack,” she suggests, just as I spot Aunt Cat adjusting her costume in a way that makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a candy cane.
“Wait just a ho, ho, ho minute.” Niki grabs my arm, pointing toward the entrance. “Who are those guys?”
Two elderly men shuffle through the door, both dressed in partial Santa costumes minus their beards and hats—not that they need fake facial hair. They’re sporting the real deal—gray, scraggly beards that could house small woodland creatures. Both are bald, wrinkled, and moving with the speed of molasses in January.
One of them happens to have a pretty young thing attached to his side. Obviously, those two old men aren’t the only ones confused. Either that or they’re loaded.
“Why are they dressed that way? They look like a couple of derelict Santas. I’m pretty sure they’re going to scar a few kids for life,” Lily says, tilting her head like a confused puppy.
“They’re old,” Suze says with a shrug. “At that age, half the time you put on whatever’s at the front of the closet. My father once wore my mother’s blouse to work for a month.”
I’m about to laugh when Niki leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Why does that young slut hanging off the old coot’s arm look familiar?”
I squint to get a better look at the woman and my stomach drops like an elevator that just had its cables sliced clean.
Christmas just got a whole lot deadlier.
Chapter 2
Effie
I clamp my mouth closed to keep from screaming.
The two geriatric Santas hobble closer, but it’s the woman between them who makes my blood pressure spike.
Loretta Salami—or whatever her full name is, I can never keep it straight—is Cooper’s younger sister. She’s got dark auburn hair teased and piled high enough to require its own zip code, big brown eyes rimmed with enough eyeliner to supply a makeup counter at a department store, and has a dress on that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She’s also been married more times than I can count, and by the looks of it, she’s interested in upping that number by one, or maybe two old coots.
I close the gap between us in seconds.
“Loretta Salmonella.” I plaster on a smile faker than the plastic icicles dangling from the ceiling. “What a… surprise to see you here.” I was tempted to say terror.
Her gaze travels down my skimpy elf costume with those giant peppermint pinwheels, and her lip curls like she’s just smelled something particularly unpleasant.
“Effie,” she grunts. “Working as an elf now? How appropriate.”
“This old thing?” I pinch at one of the pinwheels covering my chest and send it spinning. “My boss at the bakery asked me to moonlight. I’m just spreading a little holiday cheer,” I say through gritted teeth. “Speaking of which, who are your friends?”
The old, decrepit Santa-wannabes can hardly focus on me with their eyes. Obviously, their vision is going. And come to think of it, hers must be, too.
Loretta tightens her arm around one of the ancient Santas that she’s claimed as her own. “Mind your own beeswax,” she snaps with a huff that makes her look like a pouty teenager rather than a grown woman—which really explains a lot.
They take off just as Niki, Suze, and Lily sidle up beside me.
“Well, that’s settled, Effie.” My sister laughs. “She’s told you off. Let’s go eat cookies. Lottie brought along some of her Italian specials—pignoli, struffoli, and those amazing cuccidati with the fig filling.”
“No way.” I shake my head, watching Loretta parade her elderly companion through the crowd with her arm wrapped possessively around him. “That’s Cooper’s sister. I have a quasi-familial duty to get to the bottom of this.”
“Your quasi-familial duty is going to get us kicked out of this place for disorderly conduct,” Suze grumbles. “And that’s tantamount to being banned from free cookies.”
“Besides”—Lily adds— “these giant peppermint pinwheels covering our bare essentials aren’t exactly covert operation attire. We’re basically wearing Christmas-themed pasties and a prayer.”
She’s got a point. These outfits make us about as inconspicuous as a neon sign in a monastery. We’re one strong breeze away from giving everyone a very merry Christmas. The last thing I need to end up with tonight is a rap sheet.
Before I can respond, a woman in a proper Mrs. Claus outfit—someone who actually understood the assignment—trots our way. Her costume is demure, with a modest red dress and a lace-trimmed cap covering tufts of hair from what looks like a gray wig. She’s holding a tray of eggnog in cute little mugs in the shape of Rudolph’s head as her bright red glossy lips stretch into a smile.
“Ladies, would you care for some eggnog? Compliments of the Honey Hollow’s very own Jolly Holly Tree Lot.” She looks somewhere in her forties, and I can see hints of dark auburn hair peeking out from under her wig.
“Bless you and your dairy-based kindness,” Niki says, snatching up a glass.
“You’re quite welcome.” The woman chortles before moving on to the geriatric Santas and Loretta. “And here’s a lactose-free version for you, kind sir,” she says, offering a glass to the man fortunate enough not to be Loretta’s mark.
“Holly Bellini? Is that you?” Suze squints at the Mrs. Claus.
The woman turns, and her red lips part in recognition. “Suze! How wonderful to see you.”
They exchange pleasantries while I down half my eggnog. Not bad—cinnamon, nutmeg, and enough bourbon to make this elf costume seem like a better idea.
“Let me introduce my friends,” Suze says, gesturing to us. “This is Effie, Niki, and Lily. We all work at the Cutie Pie Bakery with Lottie the Tyrant.”
Suze’s lack of affection for our sweet boss has more to do with the fact Lottie has Suze’s older son on a string than it does with Lottie’s ability to boss us around. Sure, she can be bossy, but that’s because she’s the boss.
“Lovely to meet you all.” Holly offers up a smile as warm as Christmas itself. “Have you met the Bianchi brothers? They own one of the biggest toy manufacturing companies in the world. They’re a couple of real St. Nicks.” She giggles as she says it. “This is Nicholas and Lorenzo Bianchi.” She points to them respectively. “And I believe this is Lorenzo’s girlfriend, Loretta Surami.”
Ha! I nearly choke on my eggnog. She can’t get her name right either.
Wait a minute—did she say girlfriend?
I’m about to interject when Nicholas “St. Nick” Bianchi clears his throat and narrows his eyes on Holly. “Still trying to run this town into the ground with your overpriced events, Bellini? I remember when festivals were actually affordable for families.”
Everyone laughs except Holly, whose smile freezes as if doing her best rendition of Frosty the Snowman.
He was joking, right? But then again, he’s old. And old people just say whatever it is they’re thinking. Case in my point, my Nona Jo.
“Nicholas.” Holly smears his name as if it were an expletive. “It’s good to see you still have your sense of humor.” She cranes her neck into the crowd. “Stella, careful with that tray!”
She gestures to another older woman who’s navigating through the crowd with a second tray of eggnog, teetering dangerously close to spilling it on Nicholas’ Santa suit.
“And this is Stella Martinelli,” Holly says to us all as the older woman steadies herself. “She runs our caroling group.”
Stella is the picture of a warm grandmother, with silver-streaked dark hair and a festive sweater under her volunteer apron. Her sweet smile only seems to expand as she nods at Nicholas.
“Nice to see you again, Nick,” she says it with a tone that implies otherwise before nodding at his brother as well.
Before I can process the tension bubbling before us, a series of screams erupt from the stage, followed by what sounds like the mayor pleading for mercy. I whip around to see Aunt Cat and Carlotta doing their best to smother Mayor Nash with what my mother would delicately call two of their best “assets.” Or in this case, four.
“Duty calls,” I mutter, thrusting my empty glass at Niki. “Save me a struffoli.”
I dash toward the stage with my elf shoes jingling with each step. By the time I reach them, Mayor Nash looks like a man who’s seen both heaven and hell in the span of five minutes.
His Santa hat is askew, lipstick marks cover his face, and he’s clutching the armrests of his throne as if they’re the only thing anchoring him to reality.
“Ladies,” I say, inserting myself between Aunt Cat, Carlotta, and our traumatized mayor. “I think Santa needs a cookie break.”
“He can have a cookie,” Aunt Cat purrs, “but what he really wants is—”
“Nothing that should be said out loud at a family friendly event,” I interrupt, shooting her a look.
It takes a full minute for me to wrestle them both off the poor man, and as I’m escorting them off the stage, I spot Nicholas Bianchi down below having what appears to be a heated argument with Stella Martinelli.
Her grandmotherly demeanor has vanished, replaced by tight lips and flushed cheeks. Before I can get close enough to eavesdrop—a skill my family considers a valuable career asset—an older, dark-haired man plucks Stella away. He turns back to Nicholas, jabs a finger in his chest, and says something that looks pretty threatening before storming off with Stella in tow.
Well, isn’t this interesting? Santa seems to have made someone’s naughty list.
The party atmosphere picks up as “Jingle Bell Rock” blasts over the speakers. Mayor Nash makes a hasty exit, taking his two naughty Mrs. Claus groupies with him.
Nicholas Bianchi climbs the steps to the stage, settling his considerable girth onto the throne. He’s finally attached a fake beard to match his Santa suit—and it’s about time he got with the program.
Suze, Lily, and I take our positions around Santa’s throne, passing out candy canes and plucking crying children from his lap once they inevitably realize this stranger in red isn’t as jolly as advertised.
“That man’s breath could strip paint,” Suze mutters after leaning in to help a toddler go over the finer points of his Christmas list. “I think he raided the eggnog—and the bourbon.”
“Maybe he’s trying to numb himself to all these sticky fingers,” Lily suggests as a particularly enthusiastic child yanks on Nicholas’s beard.
I’m about to respond when I notice Nicholas starting to sway in his seat. His eyelids droop, and he slurs something unintelligible to the child currently perched on his knee.
“Oh my word, he is drunk,” Lily hisses.
“Or maybe he’s just playing sick to get out of kid duty?” Suze wonders.
My guess is the sticky finger fiasco—and the booze.
Before we can solve that mystery, Nicholas lurches forward, almost toppling out of his throne. Without thinking, I jump onto his lap to steady him, blocking the view from the line of children and their smartphone-wielding parents.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I shout to the crowd like a crazed lunatic. “It looks like Santa is tired from all his toy-making!”
The photographer at the front of the stage continues to click his camera my way. “Say cheese!”
No sooner does the flash go off than Nicholas buries his face directly into my peppermint pinwheels with a groan.
“Hey.” I shove him back and slap him silly for the effort. “Drop dead, you old pervert!”
As if on cue, the community center goes silent save for my voice echoing off the walls.
Nicholas’s eyes roll back as he slides from the throne like a melting snowman, grabbing a candy cane on his way to the floor.
“Santa!” a couple of children scream from the line.
Lily rushes forward and presses two fingers to Nicholas’s wrinkled neck before her eyes meet mine and she shakes her head at me.
“Is he okay?” someone calls from the crowd as the room breaks out in murmurs.
“He’s…” I begin, but the words stick in my throat like dry fruitcake.
I look down at the dead man who took his last breath nestled between my festive chest decorations.
“To think the last joy ride he took just happened to be between my peppermint pinwheels,” I mutter. “Talk about going out with a bang.”
The room erupts in gasps and whispers. Some of the parents usher their children toward the exit while others pull out their phones to capture the holiday disaster for posterity—and probably TikTok.
The Jingle Bell Jubilee just became a silent night for Nicholas Bianchi, and I have a feeling the holiday season is only going to get deadlier from here.
Ho, ho, ho—Santa Claus is dead.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****