I guess you could call Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club my almost workplace.
Niki, Watson, and I hightail it to the armpit of Vermont in less than fifteen minutes. I credit the icy roads for expediting the effort.
Remember me telling you that just last year when I got laid off from my cushy tech job, I was so desperate to avoid moving back to our parents’ house that I went crawling to the biggest crime lord I know—my dear Uncle Jimmy.
He gave me two options: dance at his strip club or hunt down his enemies. And seeing that I’m no fan of public nudity, I opted for murder.
My mortality rate might be nil so far, but Loretta Sleazzari just might change that ratio.
Yeah, this is the place where all of my stripping dreams would have come true if I had opted for what was behind red door number one.
Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club sits at the end of a row of equally disreputable establishments with its neon sign flickering like a crimson beacon for the morally flexible.
Inside, there’s far more crimson than should ever be legal—red walls, red carpet, and red lights, hence the red light district nickname it’s garnered for itself, casting a bordello glow over the perverted proceedings.
The music is loud, the lighting is dim, and the scent of cheap cologne mingles with spilled beer, debauchery, and the unmistakable aroma of world-renowned nachos being ferried to tables by women wearing nothing but strategically placed pasties and G-strings.
“Those nachos are legitimately delicious,” Niki practically drools as she eyes a passing tray. Watson gives a sharp woof as if he agreed, too. “Do you think Uncle Jimmy would be upset if we helped ourselves to a platter or two on the house?”
“Considering he still thinks I successfully offed Lorenzo Bianchi, I think we’ve got some nacho credit to spare.”
The club is packed with the usual Saturday night crowd—a sea of drunken men waving dollar bills at the small army of women dressed as a naughty Mrs. Claus—or rather undressed while twirling around poles to a bass-heavy remix of “Santa Baby.”
I take a few steps deeper inside with Watson trotting happily beside me, when something—or rather, someone—stops me dead in my tracks.
Watson barks up a storm. On second thought, he’s already drooling over the girls bouncing around on stage juggling what he must think are flesh-colored volleyballs. And boy, does he want to play. He really is such a boy.
“Isn’t that Cooper?” Niki says, pointing toward a corner booth.
“It sure is,” I growl as I spot my hot detective boyfriend seated with a brunette with some seriously offensive red highlights that look as if they were applied with a Sharpie. “Would you look at that hair? That’s who he chooses to cheat on me with?”
Niki squints at the woman. “She really should see Mom at Hairway to Heaven.”
My mother, who works part-time at my aunt’s hair salon, would have a field day fixing whatever tragedy is happening on that woman’s head. But hair disasters are the least of my concerns right now as the crowd parts slightly, giving me a clearer view of Cooper’s companion.
“Holy cannoli, that’s Loretta Sassafras!” I hiss, recognizing Cooper’s sister—the very same Loretta whose name now burns a hole in my memory (and a slightly singed spot in the snow at the Jolly Holly Tree Lot).
Niki grabs my arm and attempts to pull me in their direction. “We should go say hello. This is too good to pass up.”
I’m about to reluctantly follow when I spot another figure seated alone at a table near the stage—a heavyset man with dark hair and a genuine white beard that makes him look like Santa on his day off.
Gabriel Esposito, in the flesh, looking significantly less jolly than his Christmas shop persona would suggest. He’s got the requisite platter of nachos in front of him, a finger length of something brown in a glass, and a prime view up Mrs. Claus’s skirt.
“Change of plans,” I say, redirecting Niki toward Gabe’s table. “There’s our target.”
We weave through the crowd, dodging wandering hands and sloshing drinks until we reach Gabe’s table. Without waiting for an invitation, I slide into the seat across from him with Niki following suit.
“Hey there, Hot Stuff,” I say with a wink as Gabe looks up from his whiskey, shocked and definitely not thrilled by our sudden appearance.
But in three seconds flat, Watson has jumped into his arms as he struggles to get a better look at the women on stage and his tail manages to slap poor Gabe silly from utter excitement.
Gabe belts out a hearty, ho, ho, ho , and it sounds like a genuine cackle on his part as Watson licks his face.
“What are a couple of nice girls like you doing in a sleazy joint like this?” he asks once he’s recovered.
Niki snags a nacho from his plate. “Our uncle owns the place.”
Gabe’s face grows pale and he nearly tosses Watson out of his lap. “Your uncle? As in Jimmy ‘The Candy Man’ Canelli?”
Uncle Jimmy’s nickname—earned not from any Willy Wonka-like generosity but from his habit of “sweetening the deal” for business partners right before they mysteriously vanished—has always struck me as inappropriately whimsical for a man who once threatened to feed someone their own kneecaps.
“Yup,” Niki says, leaning in hard. “So you’d better think twice before lying to us about the questions we’re about to ask.”
“Good grief,” I groan, resisting the urge to slide under the table. “Why do I bring you along again?”
“Because I’m the pretty one,” Niki replies without missing a beat. “You’re the brains, I’m the beauty, and Watson is our muscle.”
I turn my attention back to Gabe, who’s looking increasingly like he regrets every life choice that led him to this moment.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say. “How well did you know Nicholas Bianchi?”
Gabe takes a fortifying swig of his whiskey. “He was a business rival, nothing more. He was trying to put me out of business.”
I tip my head his way. “Care to elaborate?”
“Look, I’ve been running Miracle on Main Street for five years now, ever since I burned out in corporate marketing and decided to follow my Christmas dream.
” His tone suggests the dream has since turned into a nightmare.
“Everything was fine until Nicholas decided to open a pop-up Christmas store during the holidays—selling the same merchandise as me but cheaper because he could afford to take a loss.”
“That’s not very holly jolly of him,” Niki says as she steals another nacho—with just the right amount of orange goo on it, might I add.
“It gets worse,” Gabe continues, warming to his tale of Christmas treachery. “He was planning to open a permanent toy and Christmas store in Honey Hollow. He would have put me out of business within a month.”
“So, you had words with him at the Jubilee,” I say.
Gabe shifts uncomfortably. “We exchanged some heated opinions, yeah. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“And what about his brother?” I ask casually.
“Lorenzo?” Gabe snorts. “That old fossil was worse than Nicholas. At least Nicholas had the decency to tell me to my face he was going to destroy me. Lorenzo would just smile and pretend he wasn’t bankrolling the whole operation.”
“Sounds like you had motives for both brothers checking out early,” Niki observes while helping herself to yet another glob of orange goo.
“Hey, I didn’t shed any tears when I heard the news, but I didn’t help them along either.” Gabe’s eyes narrow. “If you’re looking for someone with a real grudge, talk to Holly Bellini. She and Nicholas had some kind of financial arrangement that went south.”
“Holly the event planner?” I ask, recalling the perfectionistic woman from the Jubilee.
“Yeah. And there was that older woman, too—the one who was always hovering around him at events. Sweet as sugar to your face but cold as ice when you turned around. Those two had a history with the guy, if you know what I mean. They’ll both be at the auction at the Evergreen tomorrow night, as will I. ”
Before I can press for more details, the music changes to a thumping remix of “Deck the Halls,” and the stage lights sweep across the club.
The current performers exit the stage and begin moving through the audience, selecting victims—I mean, participants—for what appears to be an interactive portion of the show.
“And now the real fun begins,” Gabe shouts with glee.
A woman in a Mrs. Claus outfit that’s been reduced to little more than a red bikini and a Santa hat zeroes in on our table.
Before I can protest, Watson is scooped up by one performer, Niki is pulled to her feet by another, and I’m grabbed by a third.
Gabe spontaneously hops out of his chair and chases a fourth woman who looks as if she’s trying to evade him.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—the DJ announces over the speakers— “give it up for our brave volunteers!”
“This is not how I planned to spend my Saturday night,” I hiss to Niki as we’re paraded toward the stage.
“Speak for yourself,” she replies with a grin, already playing to the crowd.
As we’re maneuvered onto the raunchy runway, I crash directly into a solid wall of muscles and expensive cologne. I look up and lock eyes with none other than Cooper Knox, who appears equally surprised to find himself on stage.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, despite the fact that we’re surrounded by half-naked Mrs. Clauses and an audience screaming take it off .
Cooper’s expression darkens as he frowns, and I’ll admit, it’s a vexingly good look on him. “I can say the same.” His eyes darting to Watson, who’s being paraded around like a furry little king by one of the dancers. “What exactly are you doing here?”
Before I can turn the question around and point it at him, glitter rains down from somewhere above us and Watson barks with unbridled joy. But it’s what I see just past my happy-go-lucky puppy that has my blood running cold.
I get the feeling that explaining why I’m interrogating suspects at my uncle’s strip club might be the least of my problems tonight.
Because across the room, at the VIP entrance, I spot Uncle Jimmy himself—and he’s heading straight for us with the determined look of a man who’s just discovered someone’s been playing detective instead of assassin.