Page 22 of Christmas Fudge Fatality

A bout of laughter garners my attention from the right, and it’s Stacy and my sisters having a good time.

Noel barks up at me before floating up around head height. “Let’s get moving, Lottie. There’s a killer in the room, and I’ve got one serious bone to pick with them.”

“Very funny,” I say, nodding to my right. “I think I’ll go join that conversation. Maybe Stacy or Lainey will remember something from that night.”

“Good thinking.”

No sooner do we arrive than Stacy looks my way. “Hi, Lottie. I was just on my way to the kitchen. The farm provided all the produce for the crudités and I don’t see any of it out. I have a feeling I’ll have to assemble it all myself.”

“Oh, I can help,” I offer.

Noel groans, “I forbid you to make a glorified salad when there’s a suspect to identify.”

“That’s okay.” Stacy shakes her head. She’s wearing a stunning gold dress and her red hair gleams in the light. I think it’s odd she’s here tonight, especially after she was with Scott at the tree lighting. “Hey, can I ask what those detectives wanted?” She glances to the door.

“I don’t know.” I bite down on my lower lip because it just so happens that I do know.

“I think I know.” Stacy’s left brow hikes into her forehead. “Scott told me someone called into the sheriff’s department and implicated him—said they were an eyewitness to the event. It looks as if tonight is Scott’s last night as a free man. He’ll be going away for a long time.” She offers a forlorn smile. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Wow,” I say as we watch her take off. “Now there’s a twist.”

“No, it’s not.” Lainey shakes her caramel waves. She’d donned a bright red sweater with a reindeer on it and its nose blinks on and off. “Everyone knows Scott did it.”

Meg leans in. She’s got her jet-black hair ironed out straight, a tight leather dress with a row of spikes over her shoulders, and matching spiked heels.

“Do you think Scott did it?” Her icy blue eyes sear into mine like a threat. Meg can make a simple hello sound like a menace.

“No, I don’t.” I’d fill them in on what I know, but I have a feeling whoever is responsible for Tamara’s death is standing right here in this room with me.

Noel lands on my shoulder and it feels as if a ham hock just did a hard landing.

“Lighten up, will you?” I whisper as I try to adjust myself to accommodate him and both my sisters scoff at me.

Lainey makes a face. “You’re the one that needs to lighten up, Lottie. It’s like this case has you twisted up in knots.”

“Speaking of the case”—I look to Lainey—“is there anything at all that you can remember from that night? Did either Joyce or Bonnie say anything that could lead you to believe they were at their wits’ end with Tamara?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t spend much time with either of them. I was too busy trying to help Stacy. She was so focused on her camera. She wouldn’t stop talking about it. She does photography on the side. She made it sound like that camera was her baby.”

The lights flicker on and off, and the entire room lets out a chorus ofoohs.

Lainey cranes her neck past me. “It’s time to start the shenanigans. I’d better help Mom get that microphone working or we’ll all grow old and die here.” She winces. “Bad analogy, I know.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be back.”

Meg scoots in. “So? Who did it?”

“I don’t know.” I glance out into the crowd and spot Joyce spontaneously dancing to the Christmas carol belting out its cheery tune overhead. “Joyce has full ownership of her business now that Tamara is gone. She certainly had a motive.”

“Joyce has always been a go-getter. If she wanted Tamara dead, I wouldn’t doubt she could do it.”

I make a face as Bonnie just about attacks Everett at the registration table.

“Bonnie certainly goes after what she wants. In fact, she’s addicted to just doing that.”

Meg belts out a laugh. “That woman practically lives at Red Satin.”

Noel barks just shy of my ear. “Which one is it, Lottie? Which one has the greater temper?”

“I guess anyone could get riled up,” I say. The crowd only seems to grow more congested just as a photographer squeezes in front of us and snaps a candid shot. He takes off, but my gaze lingers in his direction. He turns his enormous white lens to the side and it’s a foot long at least, with the letters DSLR written across the side.