I clamp my mouth closed to keep from screaming.
The two geriatric Santas hobble closer, but it’s the woman between them who makes my blood pressure spike.
Loretta Salami—or whatever her full name is, I can never keep it straight—is Cooper’s younger sister.
She’s got dark auburn hair teased and piled high enough to require its own zip code, big brown eyes rimmed with enough eyeliner to supply a makeup counter at a department store, and has a dress on that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
She’s also been married more times than I can count, and by the looks of it, she’s interested in upping that number by one, or maybe two old coots.
I close the gap between us in seconds.
“Loretta Salmonella.” I plaster on a smile faker than the plastic icicles dangling from the ceiling. “What a... surprise to see you here.” I was tempted to say terror .
Her gaze travels down my skimpy elf costume with those giant peppermint pinwheels, and her lip curls like she’s just smelled something particularly unpleasant.
“Effie,” she grunts. “Working as an elf now? How appropriate.”
“This old thing?” I pinch at one of the pinwheels covering my chest and send it spinning. “My boss at the bakery asked me to moonlight. I’m just spreading a little holiday cheer,” I say through gritted teeth. “Speaking of which, who are your friends?”
The old, decrepit Santa-wannabes can hardly focus on me with their eyes. Obviously, their vision is going. And come to think of it, hers must be, too.
Loretta tightens her arm around one of the ancient Santas that she’s claimed as her own. “Mind your own beeswax,” she snaps with a huff that makes her look like a pouty teenager rather than a grown woman—which really explains a lot.
They take off just as Niki, Suze, and Lily sidle up beside me.
“Well, that’s settled, Effie.” My sister laughs. “She’s told you off. Let’s go eat cookies. Lottie brought along some of her Italian specials—pignoli, struffoli, and those amazing cuccidati with the fig filling.”
“No way.” I shake my head, watching Loretta parade her elderly companion through the crowd with her arm wrapped possessively around him. “That’s Cooper’s sister. I have a quasi-familial duty to get to the bottom of this.”
“Your quasi-familial duty is going to get us kicked out of this place for disorderly conduct,” Suze grumbles. “And that’s tantamount to being banned from free cookies.”
“Besides”—Lily adds— “these giant peppermint pinwheels covering our bare essentials aren’t exactly covert operation attire. We’re basically wearing Christmas-themed pasties and a prayer.”
She’s got a point. These outfits make us about as inconspicuous as a neon sign in a monastery. We’re one strong breeze away from giving everyone a very merry Christmas. The last thing I need to end up with tonight is a rap sheet.
Before I can respond, a woman in a proper Mrs. Claus outfit—someone who actually understood the assignment—trots our way.
Her costume is demure, with a modest red dress and a lace-trimmed cap covering tufts of hair from what looks like a gray wig.
She’s holding a tray of eggnog in cute little mugs in the shape of Rudolph’s head as her bright red glossy lips stretch into a smile.
“Ladies, would you care for some eggnog? Compliments of the Honey Hollow’s very own Jolly Holly Tree Lot.” She looks somewhere in her forties, and I can see hints of dark auburn hair peeking out from under her wig.
“Bless you and your dairy-based kindness,” Niki says, snatching up a glass.
“You’re quite welcome.” The woman chortles before moving on to the geriatric Santas and Loretta. “And here’s a lactose-free version for you, kind sir,” she says, offering a glass to the man fortunate enough not to be Loretta’s mark.
“Holly Bellini? Is that you?” Suze squints at the Mrs. Claus.
The woman turns, and her red lips part in recognition. “Suze! How wonderful to see you.”
They exchange pleasantries while I down half my eggnog. Not bad—cinnamon, nutmeg, and enough bourbon to make this elf costume seem like a better idea.
“Let me introduce my friends,” Suze says, gesturing to us. “This is Effie, Niki, and Lily. We all work at the Cutie Pie Bakery with Lottie the Tyrant.”
Suze’s lack of affection for our sweet boss has more to do with the fact Lottie has Suze’s older son on a string than it does with Lottie’s ability to boss us around. Sure, she can be bossy, but that’s because she’s the boss.
“Lovely to meet you all.” Holly offers up a smile as warm as Christmas itself.
“Have you met the Bianchi brothers? They own one of the biggest toy manufacturing companies in the world. They’re a couple of real St. Nicks.
” She giggles as she says it. “This is Nicholas and Lorenzo Bianchi.” She points to them respectively.
“And I believe this is Lorenzo’s girlfriend, Loretta Surami. ”
Ha! I nearly choke on my eggnog. She can’t get her name right either.
Wait a minute—did she say girlfriend ?
I’m about to interject when Nicholas “St. Nick” Bianchi clears his throat and narrows his eyes on Holly. “Still trying to run this town into the ground with your overpriced events, Bellini? I remember when festivals were actually affordable for families.”
Everyone laughs except Holly, whose smile freezes as if doing her best rendition of Frosty the Snowman.
He was joking, right? But then again, he’s old. And old people just say whatever it is they’re thinking. Case in my point, my Nona Jo.
“ Nicholas .” Holly smears his name as if it were an expletive. “It’s good to see you still have your sense of humor.” She cranes her neck into the crowd. “Stella, careful with that tray!”
She gestures to another older woman who’s navigating through the crowd with a second tray of eggnog, teetering dangerously close to spilling it on Nicholas’ Santa suit.
“And this is Stella Martinelli,” Holly says to us all as the older woman steadies herself. “She runs our caroling group.”
Stella is the picture of a warm grandmother, with silver-streaked dark hair and a festive sweater under her volunteer apron. Her sweet smile only seems to expand as she nods at Nicholas.
“Nice to see you again, Nick,” she says it with a tone that implies otherwise before nodding at his brother as well.
Before I can process the tension bubbling before us, a series of screams erupt from the stage, followed by what sounds like the mayor pleading for mercy.
I whip around to see Aunt Cat and Carlotta doing their best to smother Mayor Nash with what my mother would delicately call two of their best “assets.” Or in this case, four .
“Duty calls,” I mutter, thrusting my empty glass at Niki. “Save me a struffoli.”
I dash toward the stage with my elf shoes jingling with each step. By the time I reach them, Mayor Nash looks like a man who’s seen both heaven and hell in the span of five minutes.
His Santa hat is askew, lipstick marks cover his face, and he’s clutching the armrests of his throne as if they’re the only thing anchoring him to reality.
“Ladies,” I say, inserting myself between Aunt Cat, Carlotta, and our traumatized mayor. “I think Santa needs a cookie break.”
“He can have a cookie,” Aunt Cat purrs, “but what he really wants is?—”
“Nothing that should be said out loud at a family friendly event,” I interrupt, shooting her a look.
It takes a full minute for me to wrestle them both off the poor man, and as I’m escorting them off the stage, I spot Nicholas Bianchi down below having what appears to be a heated argument with Stella Martinelli.
Her grandmotherly demeanor has vanished, replaced by tight lips and flushed cheeks.
Before I can get close enough to eavesdrop—a skill my family considers a valuable career asset—an older, dark-haired man plucks Stella away.
He turns back to Nicholas, jabs a finger in his chest, and says something that looks pretty threatening before storming off with Stella in tow.
Well, isn’t this interesting? Santa seems to have made someone’s naughty list.
The party atmosphere picks up as “Jingle Bell Rock” blasts over the speakers. Mayor Nash makes a hasty exit, taking his two naughty Mrs. Claus groupies with him.
Nicholas Bianchi climbs the steps to the stage, settling his considerable girth onto the throne. He’s finally attached a fake beard to match his Santa suit—and it’s about time he got with the program.
Suze, Lily, and I take our positions around Santa’s throne, passing out candy canes and plucking crying children from his lap once they inevitably realize this stranger in red isn’t as jolly as advertised.
“That man’s breath could strip paint,” Suze mutters after leaning in to help a toddler go over the finer points of his Christmas list. “I think he raided the eggnog— and the bourbon.”
“Maybe he’s trying to numb himself to all these sticky fingers,” Lily suggests as a particularly enthusiastic child yanks on Nicholas’s beard.
I’m about to respond when I notice Nicholas starting to sway in his seat. His eyelids droop, and he slurs something unintelligible to the child currently perched on his knee.
“Oh my word, he is drunk,” Lily hisses.
“Or maybe he’s just playing sick to get out of kid duty?” Suze wonders.
My guess is the sticky finger fiasco—and the booze.
Before we can solve that mystery, Nicholas lurches forward, almost toppling out of his throne. Without thinking, I jump onto his lap to steady him, blocking the view from the line of children and their smartphone-wielding parents.
“ Ho, ho, ho, ” I shout to the crowd like a crazed lunatic. “It looks like Santa is tired from all his toy-making!”
The photographer at the front of the stage continues to click his camera my way. “ Say cheese! ”
No sooner does the flash go off than Nicholas buries his face directly into my peppermint pinwheels with a groan.
“ Hey .” I shove him back and slap him silly for the effort. “Drop dead, you old pervert!”
As if on cue, the community center goes silent save for my voice echoing off the walls.
Nicholas’s eyes roll back as he slides from the throne like a melting snowman, grabbing a candy cane on his way to the floor.
“ Santa! ” a couple of children scream from the line.
Lily rushes forward and presses two fingers to Nicholas’s wrinkled neck before her eyes meet mine and she shakes her head at me.
“Is he okay?” someone calls from the crowd as the room breaks out in murmurs.
“He’s...” I begin, but the words stick in my throat like dry fruitcake.
I look down at the dead man who took his last breath nestled between my festive chest decorations.
“To think the last joy ride he took just happened to be between my peppermint pinwheels,” I mutter. “Talk about going out with a bang.”
The room erupts in gasps and whispers. Some of the parents usher their children toward the exit while others pull out their phones to capture the holiday disaster for posterity—and probably TikTok.
The Jingle Bell Jubilee just became a silent night for Nicholas Bianchi, and I have a feeling the holiday season is only going to get deadlier from here.
Ho, ho, ho—Santa Claus is dead.