I weave through the crowd toward Holly, pausing briefly at some of the auction tables that line my path.
The holiday spirit has apparently loosened purse strings across Honey Hollow, with silent auction bids skyrocketing to ridiculous heights.
The “Christmas in Aspen” package—complete with luxury cabin rental and private ski lessons—already has bids nearing five figures.
A gift basket featuring artisanal maple products shaped into Christmas figures (including a surprisingly detailed maple sugar Santa that looks exceptionally delicious) has sparked a bidding war between two elderly women who are now glaring at each other from opposite sides of the table.
I pass a jewelry display where a diamond snowflake pendant glitters under a spotlight, its price tag sufficient to fund a small country’s Christmas party.
Next to it sits a “Whiskey Wonderland” collection featuring bottles so rare they should come with their own security detail.
The “Ultimate Italian Christmas Feast” package—private chef, wine pairings, and imported delicacies—has Uncle Jimmy’s distinctive scrawl on the bid sheet.
No surprise there. The man loves his authentic lasagna almost as much as he loves ordering hits on people.
A “Christmas Morning Magic” basket catches my eye—packed with gourmet coffee, Belgian waffles mix, and what appears to be a bottle of premium bourbon because nothing says holiday breakfast like spiked coffee while unwrapping presents.
The current high bidder is none other than Cooper, which sends a little flutter through my chest.
Does this mean he thinks we’ll be spending Christmas morning together? That’s either adorably optimistic or tragically misguided, given my current assignment from Uncle Jimmy.
I finally reach Holly Bellini, who stands beside the towering Christmas tree, her glass of champagne clutched like a lifeline.
Unlike her festive ensemble at the Jubilee, tonight she’s opted for a sleek black cocktail dress with only a subtle sprinkling of silver beading at the neckline to acknowledge the holiday season.
Her auburn hair is swept into an elegant updo, but her usually perfect makeup can’t quite hide the shadows under her eyes or the tension in her jaw.
“Merry Christmas Eve Eve ,” I greet her, sidling up with a smile that I hope conceals my suspicions.
Holly startles slightly and causes some of her champagne to slosh over the rim of her glass.
“Oh! Effie, hello. I didn’t see you there.” Her gaze darts around the room as if she’s mapping escape routes. “Lovely event, isn’t it?”
“Very festive,” I agree. “Though I imagine organizing it was quite the challenge after what happened at the Jubilee.”
Her smile tightens. “We event planners are nothing if not adaptable. The show must go on, especially during the holidays.”
“Speaking of the Jubilee…” I say, diving right in. “I saw you serving drinks that night. You served us all a round of eggnog. You made sure Nick got a certain glass because you said he was lactose intolerant.”
Holly’s champagne glass freezes halfway to her lips. “I was just being considerate.”
“Very considerate.” I nod, taking a sip of my own champagne. “But I can’t help wondering if you had other motivations. You knew Nicholas was planning to withdraw his festival sponsorship, and if that happened, you would lose your reputation and future contracts if the festival flopped.”
Her eyes enlarge to the size of sugar cookies, the green in her irises practically glowing with panic. “Effie, I swear I didn’t...”
“You didn’t what? Poison him with pentobarbital?” I nod. “I think maybe you did. You certainly had reason to.”
Holly takes a sharp breath before glancing around as if to ensure no one can overhear us. The music ratchets up a notch, providing a convenient cover for our little murder chat.
“Yes, I hated him,” she admits, her voice barely audible above the music.
“He was going to cost me my career. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to build my reputation in this town?
Ten years of kissing up to every wealthy resident, coordinating every baby shower, anniversary party, and dog birthday.
Then Nicholas threatens to pull funding for all future events because I wouldn’t let his snot-nosed great-nephew play the lead in the Christmas pageant! ”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s what the argument was about? A pageant role?”
“The boy can’t act, can’t sing, and is terrified of crowds,” Holly hisses. “But Nicholas insisted he play Baby Jesus—a speaking role in our production, mind you. When I cast another child, he threatened to destroy me professionally.”
“Sounds like a motive for murder to me,” I comment, watching her expression like a hawk.
“Look, I didn’t send him to the big toy shop in the sky,” Holly shoots back with her professional composure cracking. “Although if I knew who did, I’d gladly shake their hand on a job well done.”
She downs the rest of her champagne in one impressive gulp.
“It’s not like I’d have access to medications like that.
Do I look like a doctor or a nurse to you?
” She sighs, adjusting her dress with a movement that suggests her need for control.
“Besides, I was visible to half the town during the entire event. When would I have had time to orchestrate his death? I was running around putting out fires—literal ones, after someone’s child set the tinsel ablaze. ”
Her explanation makes a frustrating amount of sense. Holly Bellini may have wanted Nicholas dead, but her opportunity window seems narrower than my chances of surviving Christmas without finding another body.
“Fine,” I concede. “But if not you, then who?”
Holly’s gaze drifts toward the dessert table. “I don’t know, but I’d start with the people who had access to the kind of drugs that could do the job.”
She checks her watch and makes a show of being startled by the time. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on the auction. The bidding closes in twenty minutes.” With a tight smile, Holly melts into the crowd, leaving me with an empty champagne flute and a head full of questions.
Wait, did she say nurse? Why does that sound familiar?
The realization hits me like a snowball to the face.
“Oh my word!” How could I have missed this?