I find Watson begging near the dessert table and reward him with a sugar cookie before finding a dark corner for the two of us to do a little internet research in private.
I look up old photos of every Honey Hollow Christmas gala going as far back as time itself and gasp at what I find. My mind races faster than reindeer on performance-enhancing carrots.
Watson squirms in my arms with his nose twitching as if he’s picked up the scent of both Christmas cookies and cold-blooded murder.
“Easy, boy,” I whisper. “We’ve got a killer to confront.”
I weave through the crowd, passing a collection of extravagant gift baskets that could feed a small nation.
One features exotic coffee beans harvested by specially trained monkeys—because apparently, regular coffee picked by humans isn’t fancy enough for Honey Hollow’s elite.
Another offers “Twelve Days of Christmas Wines” with bottles whose prices make my credit card whimper from inside my clutch.
An ornate sleigh filled with hand-carved wooden ornaments catches my eye next—each one depicting a scene from Honey Hollow’s history, including a suspiciously flattering rendition of Mayor Nash winning last year’s chili cook-off.
The current bid would cover my rent for three months, proving once again that nothing inspires financial irresponsibility quite like the Christmas spirit.
I’m about to sidestep a table featuring “Santa’s Workshop Experience”—complete with a private North Pole tour and elf costume fitting that seems more punishment than prize—when a manicured hand clamps down on my arm.
I turn to find Loretta with her face flushed either from champagne, rage, or the effort of keeping that towering hairstyle upright in defiance of gravity.
“Fine! You want to know my connection to the Bianchi brothers?” she slurs her words just enough for me to know I’m about to get the truth.
“I’ll tell you,” she snarls, each word dripping with disdain like icicles melting under an interrogation spotlight.
“Nicholas had some former lover who was promised a portion of the Bianchi fortune years ago. He recently informed her he was changing his will to leave everything to his brother Enzo instead. And Enzo was going to leave everything to his wife—which was going to be me! Are you happy? I was the one who would have walked away with everything if it wasn’t for you and your ridiculously dumb luck.
We were just at the tree lot hours before that ill-fated meeting with the Grim Reaper at the Velvet Fox Hotel.
We hired a photographer and reenacted the entire proposal.
I was going to use one of the pictures as our wedding invite, and yet again you ruined that for me, too. ”
She barks the last words directly into my face, close enough that I can identify at least three different types of alcohol on her breath, before storming off in a cloud of expensive perfume and entitlement.
I blink at the space where Hurricane Loretta just blew through. “Well,” I say to Watson, who looks equally stunned. “I guess we know who won’t be sending us a Christmas card this year.” Or a wedding invite, but that was sort of a given.
Watson’s only response is a confused head tilt that somehow perfectly captures my own mental state at the moment.
But with this new piece of the puzzle, I resume my search for my number one suspect.
And there she is. I spot Stella Martinelli across the ballroom, chatting with a small group of guests.
Her silver-streaked dark hair is styled in soft waves, and she’s wearing a festive red velvet dress with delicate white lace trim at the collar and cuffs—Mrs. Claus goes high fashion.
A glittering Christmas tree brooch adorns her lapel, twinkling under the chandeliers with each animated gesture she makes.
I watch as she excuses herself from the group and drifts toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, stopping at an auction table that’s currently unattended.
Perfect.
Watson and I trek over with my heels clicking against the polished floor like a bomb detonating with my every step.
“Hello, Stella,” I say, breathless, while adjusting Watson in my arms.
She turns with a startled gasp, one hand flying to clutch the pearl necklace at her throat. “Oh hello, Effie. You nearly scared the ghost right out of me.” Her laugh shrills through the air, sounding forced and all around artificial.
“Sorry about that,” I offer with a smile that dies upon initiating. “Enjoying the gala?”
“It’s lovely.” She nods, her gaze darting past me as if checking escape routes. “The Woman’s League has outdone themselves this year.”
“It’s certainly been illuminating,” I agree, thinking of all the pictures I just perused. “I’ve been learning all sorts of interesting things about Honey Hollow’s past.”
Her smile remains frozen in place. “History is so fascinating, isn’t it? Although I prefer to look forward, not back.”
I absently roll my shoulder and force myself to wince. “Speaking of looking back, I’ve been having this annoying shoulder pain lately. It feels like someone is jabbing candy canes right underneath my shoulder blade.”
“ Ooh .” Stella’s expression shifts to professional concern, her professional persona sliding into place seamlessly. “Does it feel stiff in the morning? Do you have a limited range of motion?”
“Exactly.” I nod. “Like my arm is stuck in a chimney.”
“You’ll need a good muscle relaxer for that,” she says with authority.
“I had both shoulders freeze on me—one year on the left, another year on the right. It took six months to freeze and six to get back to normal for each if you can believe it. Come to find out, frozen shoulder is a symptom of menopause. And you look as if that’s the stage of life you’re about to enter into. ”
Why, that little witch!
I’m about to tell her what’s what and who’s going to prison, but I think better of it and blink a smile instead.
“I still get a stiff shoulder once in a while,” she adds, demonstrating a stretch that looks more like a bizarre yoga move.
“That sounds like something a medical professional would say—like maybe a nurse ,” I suggest casually, watching her reaction.
Pride blooms across her face like a poinsettia. “Why, I am one. Or at least I used to be.”
“That’s right, you mentioned you were a retired nurse,” I lie, knowing full well she never shared this detail. Although she did mention the telemetry unit. How in the world did I let that little detail slip?
I’m really losing my touch in my old age.
She gives a proud nod. “Forty-two years devoted to healing and helping others. Most of it at Honey Hollow General Hospital. In fact, I come from such a long line of medical professionals, there’s a hospital satellite location that bears my family name.
There’s nothing more rewarding than a life spent in service. ”
“But you didn’t help Nicholas, did you? Or Enzo, for that matter.” I take a step closer, lowering my voice. “You knew Nick on an intimate level.”
“No, I—” she tries to deny but falters under my steady gaze.
Loretta’s revelation slams into place in my mind like the last piece of a murderous jigsaw puzzle. “You killed him,” I breathe. “You killed them both! You were Nicholas’s lover for decades. He promised you part of his fortune, then changed his will to leave everything to Enzo instead.”
Stella’s grandmotherly facade cracks, revealing something hard and bitter beneath. Okay, so some grandmothers are hard and bitter, but that’s not the point.
She shakes her head my way. “Nicholas was going to expose our past financial... arrangements. Transactions that would have ruined my reputation, destroyed the respect I’ve built in this community.”
“So you poisoned his eggnog with pentobarbital,” I continue.
“Then when Enzo inherited everything that should have been yours, you did the same to him. The night he died, he was at the tree lot taking pictures with Loretta, and I bet that’s where you slipped him the lethal mickey.
How were you getting your hands on that drug? ”
Stella lifts her chin as if she was struck.
“You’re right, Effie. I did it. And I did the world a favor.
Nicholas Bianchi was nothing but a lying, manipulative parasite, and the world is better without him and his greedy brother in it.
And as for the drugs, let’s just say the black market has been alive and well for years—unlike the Bianchi brothers. ”
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve killed before?”
Her eyes narrow and any pretense of warmth vanishes completely.
“Nicholas and I helped certain patients end their suffering over the years. We provided services for those who wanted a dignified exit—for a fee, of course. He handled the finances; I administered the drugs. Then suddenly he grows a conscience? Threatens to confess everything, and drag my name through the mud while he walks away clean with his ‘charitable donations’ reputation intact?”
She scoffs, and it sounds as cold as the December night outside.
“And Enzo? He was worse. Already planning to auction off the hospital satellite site that bears my family name to build luxury condos? Forty-two years of service to this community, and my legacy was going to be bulldozed to make room for overpriced housing. So yes, I eliminated the problem. Twice.”
Her expression shifts, calculation replacing confession. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe the North Pole is calling my name.”
Before I can react, Stella bolts like a reindeer on Red Bull, shoving past a server carrying a tray of eggnog (ironic, much?) and sending glasses flying in a festive explosion of dairy and nutmeg. And I bet not a drop of that is lactose-free.
“Stop! Christmas killer on the loose,” I shout, depositing Watson on the floor before taking off after her.