Sneak Peek!
A Very Merry Manual for Murder
Book Description:
This Christmas, murder is definitely on the naughty list.
And some gifts will come wrapped in crime scene tape.
This book club just turned into a murder club. It’s so cozy it’s criminal! *RECIPE INCLUDED*
Chapter 1
The Victim….
One hour from now…
This is absolutely perfect.
I’m standing in this gaudy lounge surrounded by pearl-clutching socialites and their ridiculous lingerie display, and all I can think about is how spectacularly this story is going to destroy everyone here.
The photos I’m taking right now will ruin careers. The commentary I’m already composing in my head will turn their carefully constructed lives into viral cautionary tales. Each shot is another nail in their social coffins, and I’m the one holding the hammer.
The uptight manager thinks she can intimidate me with her threats and her corporate speak. She has no idea I’ve already dug up dirt on her financial indiscretions. A few well-timed posts about mismanaged funds and creative accounting, and her career will implode faster than a cheap Christmas ornament.
That designer with her fake accent keeps shooting me nervous glances, probably worried I’ll expose her working-class origins and fabricated European training. One reverse image search and some digging into her past, and her entire brand becomes a punchline.
The flour-dusted baker looks like she wants to stuff me into one of her desserts. She’s still pouting from my review that called her confections aggressively mediocre. Tonight’s photos of her desperate attempt to cater this disaster will finish what I started.
I’m drunk on the power of it all. The ability to destroy reputations with a single post, to turn successful businesses into bankruptcy cases, to prove that no one—no matter how wealthy or well-connected—is safe from my particular brand of digital justice.
By tomorrow morning, half these people will be unemployed. By next week, the country club’s reputation will be in shambles. By next month, I’ll be fielding offers from major media outlets who want to hire the society columnist who single-handedly brought down Maine’s most exclusive establishment.
This is going to be the story that launches me into the big leagues.
After all, Christmas is the season of giving—and I’m about to give everyone here exactly what they deserve.
Chapter 2
Hattie
“Sweet heavens to Betsy!” A familiar Georgia drawl cuts through the air. “Would you look at this spicy little number! It’s got more bells than a sleigh and less fabric than a postage stamp!”
“Oh honey, that’s nothing compared to this elf costume I found.” Another voice cackles in response. “Look here—it’s got mistletoe attached to the… well, let’s just say it’s not meant for wearing in mixed company.”
“Ladies,” I call out, recognizing the voices immediately. “Please tell me you’re not starting a collection already.”
Peggy Ebersol turns toward me, her bright copper curls—suspiciously vibrant for someone who’s eighty-seven—catching the chandelier light as she waves what appears to be a Mrs. Claus outfit in leopard print. “Sugar pie, we’re just conducting quality control! Someone has to make sure these items meet proper Southern standards.”
“And by proper Southern standards, she means scandalous enough to make a preacher blush.” Clarabelle Harper adjusts her rhinestone glasses and holds up a Christmas stocking designed for limbs that definitely aren’t meant for the mantelpiece. The eighty-something New Yorker’s wild gray hair barely stays contained beneath a Santa hat that blinks in Morse code. “I haven’t seen craftsmanship like this since my granddaughter’s bachelorette party—although that involved considerably less mistletoe.”
The Brambleberry Bay Country Club’s Crown Jewel Lounge pulses with Christmas music that’s decidedly more upbeat jazz than traditional carols, and has been transformed into something that can only be described as Christmas at its most unapologetic.
There are enough evergreen trees in the room to deplete a respectable stretch of Canadian wilderness, standing at attention in every corner, and each one decorated to within an inch of its life with gold ribbon, crystal ornaments, and lights that bounce off the marble floors and ricochet straight up into the chandeliers above.
The effect is blinding in the best possible way.
The fireplace is wide enough to park my truck, Ginger, in sideways, and roars with a fire that crackles and snaps and gives this holiday party all the cozy feels it demands. Although, I’d hardly call this a holiday party, at least not in the traditional sense. It’s more of a naughty nightie trunk show. And how this is happening at the most conservative country club in Maine, I will never know—and I’m the event planner.
Garland drapes every surface that will hold still long enough, and the whole room smells like pine needles, warm vanilla, and the kind of ambition that comes with a decorating budget most small nations would envy.
It’s a lot.
It’s also, I’ll admit, completely magnificent.
At three o’clock on this snowy December afternoon, the most exclusive room in Maine’s most prestigious club has been transformed into what amounts to a bordello—if that bordello happened to be in the North Pole.
Red velvet drapes frame displays of lace and silk, champagne flows from a fountain shaped like a candy cane, and the air smells like expensive perfume mixed with pine and something vaguely cinnamon.
Bunny Prescott, in all her blonde glory, is leading the charge with her “Christmas Couture & Cocktails” event, which I’m starting to suspect should have come with a warning label—many, many warning labels.
“This is turning into quite the educational experience,” I say to no one in particular.
Crystal chandeliers drip with red silk ribbons and gold mistletoe, casting sultry shadows across displays that feature more lace than a Victorian wedding dress and less coverage than a bikini contest.
Why are all these women making those noises? Cricket mewls from her perch on a velvet Louis XVI chair, her green eyes tracking the chaos with feline superiority. Half of them sound like they’re choking, and the other half sound like they’re… well, never mind.
I think they’re excited, Rookie gives a soft woof, his golden tail wagging as he navigates between Louboutin heels with his teddy bear, Mr. Jolly Beary strapped to his back like a fuzzy brown paratrooper. Although I’m mostly excited about those bacon-wrapped things on the buffet table. I think I’ll help myself. Or I’ll whine and beg until one of these nice ladies tosses me a handful.
“Rookie, no begging,” I tell him, though honestly, with everything else happening, a little food theft seems like the least of my worries.
I’m about to head over to him when Bunny Prescott decides to take center stage with a sharp whistle.
Bunny glides to the middle of the room, her chin-length blonde bob styled in loose waves that catch the chandelier light.
She looks hot to trot today in an emerald dress with strategic cutouts and clinging fabric that suggest rather than reveal, but what they suggest could light up half of Maine. Her mischievous blue eyes sparkle as she surveys her domain.
Bunny also happens to be one of my very best friends. She’s eccentric, quirky, and filthy rich—pretty much everything I’m not. She’s a member here, I’m the event planner, but we still seem to get along as if those pesky tax bracket differences didn’t matter.
Look at them all squirm, Bunny thinks with far too much satisfaction. These uptight socialites with their pearl-clutching and fake gasps. Half of them are dying to buy one of these deliciously naughty nighties, but too proud to admit it. This is better than Christmas morning.
“Ladies, ladies!” Bunny’s voice carries across the room. “If I could have your attention for just a moment!”
“And here we go,” I mutter under my breath.
Let’s just say the country club set isn’t exactly the target market for naughty nighties, no matter how upscale they might be. I’m not sure what I was thinking, letting Bunny talk me into hosting a lingerie trunk show at the club, and so soon to Christmas no less.
The chatter dies down, though the music continues its seductive rhythm.
“Welcome to our ‘Christmas Couture & Cocktails’ extravaganza!” Bunny’s smile could melt icicles. “I’m absolutely thrilled to introduce our incredible designers who’ve traveled here to share their specialized holiday collections.”
She gestures toward a brunette vision in red silk. “First, we have the incomparable Vivienne Velour from Midnight Velour Intimates. Vivienne creates pieces that make Christmas morning unforgettable—and I do mean unforgettable.”
A round of titters circles the room.
Vivienne steps forward—dark hair in a sleek chignon, mysterious smile, wearing black silk that whispers secrets with every movement. “Thank you, Bunny. My ‘Midnight Under the Mistletoe’ collection is designed for those special moments when Santa isn’t the only one coming down the chimney.” A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by nervous giggles and a few scandalized squeaks. “In Paris, we understand that love is an art form.” Her French accent adds an extra layer of sophistication to the scandal.
“Tonight, I share some of my favorite pieces for creating the most memorable Christmas moments.”
The room temperature seems to rise ten degrees.
“And over here,” Bunny continues, clearly enjoying every second, “we have the fabulous Diva Divine Temptation from Temptation Station. Diva specializes in… educational accessories for those who want to learn new ways to deck the halls.”
“Educational,” I repeat weakly. “Right. Of course.”
Diva Divine—platinum blonde hair piled high in an elaborate updo, wearing a dress that suggests gravity doesn’t apply to her bosom—waves from behind a display that features items I’m pretty sure weren’t covered in any home economics class. “Christmas is about giving joy, darlings. And sometimes the best gifts come with instruction manuals!”
“Diva offers private consultations for those seeking to elevate their holiday celebrations in far more creative ways.”
I’m pretty sure my boss is going to find a creative way to fire me.
Kick Lawson actually fans herself with a cocktail napkin.
She makes a few more steamy introductions, and every single one of them makes me want to drop into a hole.
“Of course,” Bunny continues, “we must thank Henry’s Holiday Lobster House for providing our absolutely scrumptious appetizers and the divine Millie Ashford from The North Pole Confectionery for our dessert table that’s sweeter than Santa’s workshop!”
My brother Henry waves from next to his girlfriend Tipper and a light applause breaks out.
Millie Ashford waves from her dessert table, looking slightly overwhelmed in a navy dress that suggests she rarely leaves her kitchen for anything that doesn’t involve flour. In her sixties, with a round, kind face and her graying brown hair pinned up in a tidy bun, she has the warm, soft look of someone who’s been baking since before microwaves existed.
“At least the food isn’t scandalous,” I whisper to Cricket, who flicks her tail in what I’m guessing is feline agreement.
“But most importantly,” Bunny’s voice rises to a projection level that would impress any Broadway star, “we have the privilege of being covered by the absolutely brilliant Seraphina Sparks, society columnist, fashion blogger extraordinaire, and the voice of style for the modern woman!”
She gestures toward the entrance and Seraphina Sparks sweeps in with a wave. Her platinum blonde hair is scraped back, her cold gray eyes hide behind designer glasses, and she’s wearing a black and white ensemble that screams “I’m here to judge you and find you wanting,” wearing an expensive Christmas tree brooch that glitters like a holiday dream, or a weapon.
“And now,” Bunny’s voice drops to that sultry purr again, “let the festivities begin! Remember, ladies—if you’re all naughty enough, Santa might just make his big debut before we’re through!”
The crowd murmurs with what sounds like delight. But, let’s be honest, it’s most likely fright.
This is absolutely perfect, Bunny thinks with glee. Mrs. Pemberton looks like she’s about to faint, and that’s just from Vivienne’s introduction. Wait until they see what Diva brought.
The innuendo hangs in the air like overpriced cologne as the music swells and conversations resume with twice the energy.
I’m about to peruse the offerings myself when I notice my boss, Peyton Blakey, near the doorway with her chestnut hair in its usual perfect curtain, designer heels clicking against marble, her face cycling through colors that would make a Christmas light display jealous as she charges toward me. Have I mentioned she’s the manager of the club?
“Holiday,” she snaps, using my last name like a weapon dipped in poison. “What in the name of all that’s holy is happening in here?”
This is a complete disaster, Peyton’s thoughts blast through my mind like a foghorn. The board will have my head if this gets out. And it will get out—that society columnist is documenting everything. My career is over. Finished. Kaput. But not before I toss Hattie out on her naughty little ear.
“Well,” I say, trying for optimism, “it’s certainly lively.”
“Lively?” Peyton’s voice cracks like a whip. “This is supposed to be a respectable Christmas luncheon, not a traveling circus of debauchery! And that gossip columnist is documenting our destruction in real time!”
She points a manicured finger at Seraphina, who’s now photographing Diva Divine’s demonstration of something involving mistletoe and physics.
“I’m banning all phones immediately,” Peyton announces loud enough for everyone to hear. “No pictures, no social media, no documentation!”
“Peyton, maybe we should—” I begin.
Seraphina looks up from her phone, her cold smile sharp enough to slice a Christmas ham. “Just try to stop me, sweetie. Freedom of the press and all those good constitutional things.”
And there goes any hope of damage control, Peyton’s thoughts scream. She’s going to destroy us. Absolutely destroy us. And it’s all Holiday’s fault for letting that blonde bimbo turn our luncheon into a sex shop demonstration!
Peyton’s face goes from red to purple. “Don’t test me, you social media vulture. I will shut this down faster than you can say ‘viral scandal,’ and if you think I won’t destroy your precious blog to protect this club’s reputation, you clearly don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
She doesn’t. I can attest to that. Peyton is twice the hound of hell of anyone I’ve ever met, and twice the viper too. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side—and yet that seems to be the only side I’ve ever been on when it comes to her.
Her voice drops to a lethal whisper. “In fact, I’m so furious right now, I could kill you.”
“Peyton,” I say with a gasp, “maybe we should take this conversation somewhere more private?” Like Vermont.
But the damage is already done. The music suddenly seems too loud, the laughter too sharp, and the Christmas lights overhead flicker with what sounds suspiciously like an electrical warning.
Something tells me this holiday celebration is about to become memorable for all the wrong reasons.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****