Page 1 of Death By Llama (Friendship Harbor Mysteries #7)

ONE

“Soph, I think you’ve lost your member’s card to the Amateur Sleuths of America,” Brandy Hardeson said, staring out at the expansive lawn where clusters of people milled about in front of the newly opened Friendship Harbor Inn. “Because you obviously had no idea what this event was going to be.”

“Both Oliver and Cameron told me this was going to be a Christmas-in-July-themed festival, so I assumed it was going to be kitschy and fun,” I said, watching a group of people in full Victorian garb stroll past. The carolers’ taffeta skirts swished with every step, and fur muffs dangled from their hands, making the scene look straight out of a Dickens’ novel .

I glanced down at my own elf costume, which I had insisted all my employees at Steamy’s Pub wear to the event. The glaring green and red faux velvet short dresses were even more gaudy when combined with the red and white candy cane tights and curled toe elf shoes.

“Kitsch is definitely not the vibe,” Brandy, my pub manager and one of my best friends, muttered, tugging uncomfortably at the neck of her Peter Pan collar.

I fought the urge to do the same. Ordering the right sizes online had been tricky.

“We look like escapees from Santa’s workshop,” Dave, my lead bartender, said as he strolled up to us with my pet llama, Jack, in tow.

Dave’s satiny green knickers looked more like swim shorts on his long legs and one of his red and white socks had slipped down like a melted peppermint around his ankle.

Fortunately, Dave didn’t seem the least bit upset about the costume.

If anything, he appeared to be enjoying it.

He cheerfully tipped his pointy elf cap to one of the carolers as she passed.

The woman, dressed in an elaborately trimmed bonnet and heavy wool cloak, froze for a second at the sight of the llama, then clutched her muff tightly and hurriedly picked up her pace.

Jack rumbled low in his chest, then shook his head, the jingle bells I’d put around his woolly neck jangling.

“I feel ridiculous,” Brandy stated, pulling at her collar again. “Cameron is your boyfriend ,” she exclaimed. “You should know what’s going on with the opening of his fancy-pants bed and breakfast.”

“I am so sorry,” I said sincerely, my cheeks flushed—and not from the warm July sunshine. “But Cameron didn’t tell me?—”

My words were abruptly cut off by the very person I was referring to.

“Sophie!”

All heads turned as Cameron strolled toward us, his hand raising in a casual wave. His steps slowed as he took in the sight of our group, his brows lifting in surprise. Then, he chuckled, unable to suppress his amusement.

“You guys look great,” he managed with near sincerity.

“Don’t we?” Dave replied unironically, giving a deep bow. His other sock slipped down.

“Cameron,” I hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the side. “Why didn’t you tell me this was going to be a themed theme festival?”

Cameron tilted his head, genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

I gestured to our outfits. “I didn’t know we needed to look…”

“Less cartoonish?” Cameron suggested. He laughed again, but caught himself and managed to look serious. Mostly. “I told you I was bringing in actors and performers from Boston.”

It was true, he had told me that. But how was I supposed to know that meant Cameron intended for the coast of Maine to be transformed into Victorian England for the day?

Cameron and I had been dating for a little over three months, and our relationship had been going well.

We liked a lot of the same things—good food, random adventures on the spur of the moment, and singing loudly in the car.

But now—and really not for the first time—I found myself wondering if we had a bit of a communication problem.

Because, honestly, when I thought of Christmas in July—especially in my adopted home of Friendship Harbor, Maine—my mind filled with images of fresh-baked goods, handcrafted trinkets, maybe even a couple of farm animals for the kids to pet. It did not include…

My thoughts suddenly escaped me as a juggler—complete with a waistcoat, top hat, and slightly devilishly expression—strode past us, juggling a half dozen bright red apples with great theatrics.

Behind him was an organ grinder with an actual monkey on his shoulder.

Disturbingly, the monkey was dressed very similarly to Dave.

Jack made a warning sound in the back of his throat. Did llamas and monkeys get along? I had no idea. I tightened my grip on Jack’s lead.

Dave waved happily to the small primate. The monkey chattered back.

Cameron noticed my stunned expression and gave a wide grin. “Cool, right? They’re the Regal Repertoire Troupe. They’re the best performers in greater Boston.”

I stared, my mouth slightly agape. This was what he thought I would have envisioned from the small amount of details he’d shared with me? Instead of cozy baked goods, handmade quilts, and a warm community event, I was suddenly in the middle of A Christmas Carol . In July.

And what did something like this cost? Certainly hundreds and hundreds of dollars more than my ordered costumes—which I’d gotten on sale.

Maybe that was our issue more than miscommunication.

I couldn’t have even imagined Cameron’s idea of a small town festival because I couldn’t imagine dropping the amount of cash he had to put on an event like this.

Of course, I didn’t have that amount of money to begin with.

I budget planned events. Cameron thought bigger. More expensive.

“I told you I invited several of my most influential colleagues this weekend,” Cameron said, his voice both excited and confident. “The most important thing I can do with this event is create a buzz, some word-of-mouth that’ll keep The Captain’s Inn booked all season long.”

Cameron was a venture capitalist as his day job.

He knew what small businesses needed to make it big.

And an inn in coastal Maine wasn’t going to be booked to capacity by the locals.

He needed to draw in the tourist dollars.

And this…this was going to make a big splash.

Cameron had created a grand grand opening.

Which made me feel all the more absurd, as his girlfriend, had shown up to run a booth to promote my pub in these costumes. I should be learning how to be more business savvy from him. And candy cane tights were not the way to be seen as a serious businesswoman.

“Maybe we should go home and change,” I suggested.

“No,” he said, much more emphatically than I expected. When he saw my startled expression at his reaction, his own face softened slightly. “I don’t want you to leave right now because we’re expecting a couple of very important guests.”

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stick around and meet whoever these important guests were, especially while dressed like an extra from the movie Elf .

I cast a dubious glance down at my skirt, which suddenly felt shorter than I remembered.

Instead of being playful and fun, the whole costume suddenly seemed a bit too sexy for mid-afternoon.

Definitely ill-fitting at the very least. I tugged at the hem nervously, wishing I’d gone with a simple sundress.

I even had a red one that would have been Christmasy enough.

But before I could argue further, Cameron said softly, “I think you look adorable.”

Cameron had that easy charm that made you want to believe everything he said, and the winsome curve of his smile wasn’t doing me any favors.

I started to mumble a thank-you, when his focus shifted, sliding past me to something over my shoulder. “Plus,” he added, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief, “our special guests are already here.”

I turned to follow his gaze. I spotted Cameron’s BMW pulling into one of the parking spaces in the already crowded lot of the inn. The car engine turned off, and Henry, Cameron’s brother, hopped out of the driver’s seat. He came around to the passenger’s side to the door, opening it.

Who was this special guest? The governor? Maybe even one of the state’s senators? I wasn’t even sure who Maine’s senators were, but I knew I didn’t want to meet them in my current attire.

Then I saw two people get out of the car.

One from the passenger’s seat and the other from the back.

I saw perfectly coiffed hair and a linen suit.

And the second person was in a golf shirt and dark pants.

My stomach immediately lurched as I recognized them immediately.

They also recognized me. No elf costume was going to stop that. They waved and headed in my direction.

The VIP guests were my parents.

That shocked me more than finding a corpse in my hydrangeas a few months back had. Well, okay, maybe the same amount of shock.

“Mom. Dad.” As soon as I called out to them, I realized that my voice didn’t hold the enthusiasm I’d been aiming for.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my parents. I have the best parents, which a lot of people say, but I really do.

I was happy to see them. But my parents were not ones to just hop on a plane and make an impromptu trip from Los Angeles to Maine.

In fact, that was one of the last things they would do, because they’re super busy in California.

My father was a man of absolute routine.

He left for work at eight o’clock on the dot every morning.

He’d had the same tee time at his golf course every Sunday since I could remember.

He always had one martini before dinner—no more, no less.

My mother, the consummate workaholic who sold high end real estate, was always too busy to do anything without checking her planner app on her phone.

Spontaneous was not even in her vocabulary.

So, their presence was definitely unexpected.

Apparently my mother bought my feigned excitement, because she grinned and waved wildly. In fact, she looked almost giddy.