Sneak Peek!
Decorated to Death
Book Description:
Deck the halls with boughs of… murder? This Christmas, someone's sleighing more than just the competition. Let’s hope I can crack this case before Christmas morning—because in Cider Cove, ‘tis the season to be wary, and someone is definitely not making it onto Santa’s nice list.
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
Chapter 1
“Bizzy!” Georgie’s voice cuts through the ballroom like a candy cane machete. “Have you spotted any hot elves yet? Please tell me Santa brought reinforcements, because this crowd needs some serious peppermint-scented eye candy, stat.” Although I’d take cinnamon-spiced, vanilla-infused, or even pine-fresh at this point as long as they could get the naughty job done.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but most of the time, and believe me when I say, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be—especially when you’re hosting Cider Cove’s most pretentious holiday event of the season and everyone’s thoughts are more tangled than last year’s Christmas lights.
I glance up from the refreshment table where I’m strategically positioning Emmie’s latest sugar masterpieces. “Georgie, we’ve been open for exactly twenty minutes. Give the eligible bachelors time to arrive before you start hunting them down like a Christmas cougar.”
By open, I mean for the Cider Cove Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour. The inn is officially kicking off the event tonight, and all of the holiday looky-loos will be congregating right here in my ballroom.
And as far as Georgie goes—well, Christmas cougar would be an accurate description of Georgie Conner year-round.
“Christmas cougar!” Mom’s laughter rings out as she joins our conversation. “My goodness, Georgie, you never change—if there’s mistletoe and testosterone, you’re in your element.” And she’s more like a year-round predator anyway.
Great minds think alike. But then, anyone who’s ever met Georgie is onto her cougar-like ways.
“I prefer to think of myself as a festive opportunist,” Georgie says, fluffing the gray pouf that sits on her head like it’s her signature weapon.
She’s wearing a Christmas sweater loud enough to redirect aircraft, and her tights look like they were stolen off a candy cane during a North Pole heist. If this party were judged solely on sparkle per square inch, she’d be the winner, hands down.
“Besides,” she gives an unrepentant grin, “if some handsome stranger escaped from the North Pole and landed in Cider Cove, I want first dibs. It’s the holiday season—a girl can dream about finding her own personal Santa under the tree. And by under the tree, I mean under my tree, if you catch my drift. In this snazzy place, it looks as if anything can happen here tonight—even a Christmas miracle.” Here’s hoping that miracle lands an elf for two or even Santa himself in my bedroom. She winks my way.
Georgie knows all about my little mind-reading quirk. My mother ironically does not know which is probably for the best considering some of the thoughts I pick up from family gatherings.
Christmas is still a week away, but I have to admit, the Country Cottage Inn does look pretty spectacular tonight. We’ve got thick, luscious evergreen garland draped over every conceivable surface, a glorious Christmas tree in the lobby that’s roughly the size of a small building, and enough twinkle lights to power a small city.
The ballroom itself has been transformed into a winter wonderland with rich red and gold linens, crystal chandeliers wrapped in enough greenery to reforest Maine, and refreshment tables that are currently groaning under the weight of Emmie’s holiday confections. The inn is gorgeous this time of year. But then, as the owner, I might be a little biased—and with Emmie’s desserts, we’re unstoppable.
Speaking of Emmie, where is my partner in culinary crime?
“Incoming!” Emmie’s voice rings out from the kitchen doorway, and I turn to see my best friend balancing what appears to be the Leaning Tower of Peppermint Bark.
Emmie is petite with the same long dark hair and denim blue eyes as me—we could pass for sisters if it weren’t for the fact that we actually share the same formal name, Elizabeth.
We’ve been besties since preschool, when our mothers thought matching overalls were the height of toddler fashion. Her dark curls are pinned up with holly clips, and there’s enough flour dusting her festive apron to suggest she’s been wrestling with pastry dough all afternoon. The cranberry red dress peeking out beneath the apron coordinates perfectly with her Christmas cookie earrings—because apparently everyone got the memo about going full-throttle festive except me.
“Please tell me you didn’t just refer to your desserts like they’re incoming fire about to take us all down,” I say, diving in to help stabilize what looks like a sugar-themed game of Jenga. I take a bite out of her famous peppermint bark and moan. “On second thought, these are so going to take us down in the very best way.”
She giggles. “Next time I’ll say incoming deliciousness.” She grins, setting down the platter like it’s a Fabergé egg. “Wait until you see what else I’ve got. Gingerbread macarons with royal icing snowflakes, eggnog crème brûlée, and Christmas tree pull-apart bread that’s going to make people beg to be on the naughty list—calorically speaking of course.”
I’m already begging, Sherlock woofs from somewhere near my boots. But it’s because Fish won’t let me have the good spot by the window.
That’s because last time you drooled on the glass, Fish sniffs from her perch. You brought this shame upon yourself. I shoot her a look, and she sighs hard. Fine. I’ll share the space with you, big oaf, Fish mewls once again, though her tone is gentler than usual. Just don’t drool a puddle. Some of us have standards.
Thanks, Fish! You’re the best! Sherlock barks with the kind of enthusiastic gratitude that makes me smile despite myself.
Both pets are currently engaged in what appears to be a relatively peaceful territorial negotiation over prime scrap-catching real estate, while Skittles—Buffy’s adorable ginger labradoodle—sits nearby looking like the well-behaved child in a room full of heathens. She’s wearing a festive bow that somehow makes her look even more dignified, which is frankly insulting to the rest of us.
Buffy would be my shiny new sister—a full-blooded sister at that. We only just learned about her last Halloween, but it’s been a fun ride ever since. I couldn’t love her more if I tried.
Macy, my far more spicier sister, hasn’t quite taken to Buffy like the rest of us have, but my brother Huxley and I have all but grafted her into the fold.
Now that the conversation has moved beyond Georgie’s quest for holiday romance, I can properly take in the scene.
Georgie looks like Christmas had a party and invited every sparkly thing in the northern hemisphere. Her gray pouf is extra poufy today—styled into what can only be described as a holiday haystack—and she’s wearing the aforementioned Christmas sweater so aggressively festive it could double as a warning beacon for incoming aircraft. Sequined reindeer gallop across her chest while candy cane striped tights peek out beneath a red velvet blazer that’s seen better decades.
Mom, on the other hand, is the picture of elegant Christmas sophistication. Her red curls are perfectly styled with the precision of a woman who has a standing appointment at the salon, her emerald green silk blouse coordinates beautifully with the festive reading glasses that have tiny jingle bells dangling from the frames, and everything about her screams I know how to dress for a holiday party without looking like a clearance rack explosion.
“Okay, enough about eligible bachelors and mistletoe emergencies,” Mom says, scanning the room like she’s on security detail, “where are my grandbabies? They should be here by now. You know how I worry when my grandbabies are out of eyeshot for more than thirty seconds.”
Hand to heaven, this is the truth—for her and me both.
“Ella is with Gwyneth and Dad,” I explain, automatically checking my phone for the fifteenth time in ten minutes because apparently new motherhood comes with a built-in paranoia setting that makes secret service agents look relaxed. Ella would be my precious three-month-old angel who I can’t get enough of—even at three in the morning, apparently. “They were just finishing up her feeding, but they should be here any moment. And Elliot might be making an appearance, too.”
Elliot would be Emmie’s sweet little boy. He’s seven months old already a heartbreaking charmer. Emmie and I are already planning the wedding.
“I can’t wait to see little Ella and Elliot experience their first Christmas,” Georgie says with a contented sigh that suggests she’s temporarily suspended her elf-hunting activities. “Though let’s just hope Ella doesn’t inherit your talent for finding dead bodies at large gatherings.”
“That would be inconvenient,” I mutter, because that’s exactly the kind of superpower I’d like to skip a generation—or twelve.
That might be inconvenient, Fish agrees from her perch on the windowsill, where she’s maintaining surveillance over the parking lot with the intensity of a Secret Service agent. But she might be better at it than you are, Bizzy. You have a tendency to trip over the dead accidentally—at regular intervals. It’s really quite alarming.
Gee thanks. I give a wry smile to my furry critic for her vote of confidence.
Before I can defend my sleuthing credentials, I spot Macy at the ballroom entrance looking like hell on heels—red dress that looks painted on, blonde bob sharper than her attitude, and her red lipstick is the exact shade of freshly spilled blood. Even her silver jewelry looks lethally intimidating, which is quite a feat for accessories.
Macy’s outlook on life has been colder than a snowman in a meat locker as of late. And that wicked glint in her eye that says someone is about to get professionally shredded.
She’s standing nose-to-nose with someone, and it appears the target of her wrath is Buffy—the aforementioned newly discovered sister who’s been nothing but delightful since she arrived in Cider Cove with her labradoodle and her infectious smile.
Unlike Macy’s dance club attire, Buffy is wearing a cozy Christmas sweater with dancing reindeer and has the kind of relaxed, approachable vibe that makes you want to invite her over for hot chocolate and gossip sessions that last until dawn.
Buffy looks just like me—same medium-length dark hair, same denim blue eyes, and same knack for inadvertently prying into gray matter. Only her extraterrestrial skills seem to be limited to the furry among us—a blessing in disguise if you ask me. They always seem to have better things to say than humans. But much like me, she keeps her talents under wraps.
Only a few people know that I can read minds—Buffy, Emmie, her husband Leo who also shares the gift or curse as it were (depending on the day and what people are thinking), Georgie, and of course my handsome hubby Jasper—who happens to be on his way here and I can hardly wait to see him.
“I need to go shut this down before Macy goes full Frosty with a vengeance,” I say, power-walking toward the escalating drama, and what looks like the opening scene of a holiday horror movie.
As I get closer, I catch fragments of their conversation, and surprise, surprise—the tussle seems to be about business. Because everything with Macy eventually comes back to dollars and more often than not, no sense.
“It’s a completely inappropriate holiday display strategy—” Macy says with a smile so tight it could crack a candy cane—and probably a few teeth.
“I was just trying to create a welcoming atmosphere,” Buffy replies sweetly, like she hasn’t just been verbally mauled by someone in designer clothing.
“Macy!” I call out with a voice so chipper that I deserve a medal. “Enjoying the festivities?”
“Bizzy,” she snips. “Perfect. I was just explaining to Buffy here about proper business protocol during the holiday season.” I’d like to push her into that punch bowl and watch her perfect hair get soaked and maybe fall out—that would really teach her a lesson, Macy thinks to herself as she broadens her smile in Buffy’s direction.
Oh wow, I’d better stage an intervention.
“I’m sure Buffy is thrilled by the unsolicited mentorship,” I say with a sugary smile.
Buffy shoots me a grateful look that suggests she’s been wanting an escape route for the past ten minutes. Her denim blue eyes—so remarkably similar to my own that it still catches me off guard—sparkle with relief.
“You would take her side,” Macy huffs my way like a dragon with indigestion. “But I’ll have you both know, some of us care about maintaining standards in this town,” she snaps, then stalks off in the direction of the exit, her heels clicking against the floor with the staccato rhythm of an angry woodpecker with a serious attitude problem.
Buffy exhales. “Well, that was about as fun as hugging a cactus in a snowstorm.”
“Sorry about her,” I say with a painful smile. “Macy’s got all the Christmas spirit of the Grinch with a hangover. I keep hoping she’ll come around, but so far, she’s been about as welcoming as a blizzard in July. And like I said, I’m sorry about it too.”
“It’s not your fault,” Buffy says, reaching down to give Skittles a gentle pat. “Honestly,” Buffy says, stroking Skittles’ ears, “Huxley’s been so warm and welcoming. It’s nice to have at least one sibling who’s not plotting my social demise. Well, two counting you.”
“I am officially forever on your side. Just don’t tell Macy,” I say, and we share a quick laugh.
This is exactly why I adore Buffy and exactly why Macy’s behavior makes me want to shake her until her perfectly styled hair falls out. Our brother Huxley embraced our newfound sister with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever meeting a new playmate,
while Macy’s been acting like there’s a limited number of sibling spots open and she’s not about to give up hers without a fight.
“I’ll figure out a way to bring her around,” I promise, although honestly, I have about as much chance of changing Macy’s mind as I do of teaching Fish to play fetch.
Bizzy!
I turn toward the familiar voice and spot two adorable furballs racing in my direction. Jellybean—Matilda Westoff’s black and white spotted cat—launches herself into my arms with her perpetually cheerful expression, while Fudge, a West Highland White Terrier, follows close behind with enough energy to power Santa’s sleigh.
“Well, hello there, beautiful,” I coo to Jellybean, giving her the kind of scratch behind the ears that makes her purr like a tiny motor. “And you too, handsome,” I add, bending down to give Fudge his required pat before he starts plotting his furry little revenge.
“There you are, my darlings.” The voice behind me sounds like silk-wrapped steel with a sprinkle of frostbite.
I look up to see Matilda Westoff approaching with the kind of presence that makes rooms fall silent and lesser mortals check their posture. She’s tall, statuesque, and radiating the kind of executive-level poise that suggests she could run a Fortune 500 company before breakfast and still have energy left over to conquer a small country. Her auburn hair has a distinguished silver streak that she wears like a crown, and her burgundy velvet dress coordinates perfectly with pearl accessories that probably have their own insurance policy.” And she happens to be sporting a glare that could defrost a turkey.
Not only does she own and run a successful blueberry farm that happens to have a chocolate factory on the grounds but the woman is a legend in the lifestyle world—she’s been on every major network dispensing wisdom about everything from holiday entertaining to home organization with the kind of authority that makes Martha Stewart look like an amateur who’s just figuring out how to boil water.
In her arms is her granddaughter, baby Matilda—Hammie Mae’s six-month-old daughter, who apparently inherited the family genius genes and is already making the rest of us look intellectually challenged.
Rumor has it little Matilda hasn’t been leapfrogging over her growth milestones, she’s been pole-vaulting over them and into the next galaxy.
“They’re right here causing no trouble, as usual,” I tease the woman, gently setting Jellybean down while giving Fudge one last scratch.
But Matilda isn’t looking at me or her pets. Her attention is focused on something—or someone—behind me, and her expression has shifted from politely social to the kind of dangerous that usually precedes either a boardroom takeover or a declaration of war. Possibly both.
“Balthasar Thornfield? What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps, and the venom in her voice could melt the snow outside.
I turn to see who’s captured her attention and spot a man dressed as Santa Claus—though this is no jolly old elf from the North Pole. He’s tall, distinguished, with silver hair and a beard that look natural rather than fake.
The red velvet Santa suit is clearly custom-tailored, and he’s carrying a large gift bag that looks stuffed with presents. But there’s something about his steel-blue eyes that makes me pause. They look sharp enough to cut steel and filled with the kind of condescending arrogance that makes you want to check your wallet and your dignity. This guy looks like he was hired to scare elves straight.
Matilda growls out a laugh in the man’s direction. “Calling you Santa is like calling a shark a goldfish—technically accurate in the most ironic way possible.”
A round of gasps circles the vicinity as the crowd grows by the second.
“Matilda,” he says with the kind of oily charm that makes my skin crawl. “How delightful to see you at this… quaint little gathering.”
The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees, and I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the December weather outside.
This is about to get interesting, Fish observes from her window perch.
Define interesting, Sherlock barks back nervously.
The kind of interesting where Bizzy finds another body, Fish says with what sounds suspiciously like anticipation. Here we go, she mewls. Holiday smackdown, the deluxe edition.
Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed—a showdown with Santa while I’m trying to host the social event of the season.
“Balthasar,” Matilda says, and she manages to make his name sound like a particularly unpleasant medical diagnosis that comes with a pamphlet and a really expensive treatment plan. “I thought I made myself clear about your presence at community events.”
“Now, now,” Santa says, still smiling that shark smile that makes me want to check for missing limbs. “Surely we can be civilized during the holiday season? After all, ‘tis the season for forgiveness and goodwill toward men.”
“Not toward men who—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I call out with my fake cheer turned up to eleven. “The evening’s festivities are just getting started!”
But even as I’m speaking, I can feel the tension crackling between these two like electricity during a thunderstorm. Whatever history they have, it’s about as friendly as a cage match between hungry wolverines.
And something tells me this Christmas is about to get a lot more complicated than velvet bows, holiday desserts, and Georgie’s quest for seasonal romance.
Told you it was going to get interesting, Fish purrs smugly.
My cat is never wrong.
Merry Christmas to me.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****