T he scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla hangs in the air of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery like the edible Christmas cloud it is.
It’s nearly noon, and the morning rush has finally died down, leaving me to contemplate the frosting patterns on our Christmas cookie display while my mind replays last night’s Santa catastrophe on an endless loop.
I wipe down the white marble counter for the tenth time, surveying our little sugar haven. The bakery is a pastel wonderland with its mix-and-match furniture in shades that would make a unicorn jealous—mint green chairs paired with baby blue tables and a lavender lounger tucked into the corner.
Twinkle lights crisscross the ceiling like a constellation, and Lottie has gone full Christmas elf with the decor this year.
Miniature trees sparkle on every table, a life-sized nutcracker guards the door, and enough tinsel dangles from above that I’m pretty sure we’re one small static charge away from a holiday inferno.
Outside, fat snowflakes cartwheel to the ground, adding another inch to the six we already got overnight.
But snow and the holidays go hand-in-hand, which would explain why every customer who walks in looks as if they’ve been attacked by a craft store’s Christmas clearance section—ugly sweaters in garish reds and greens, adorned with 3D reindeer noses and actual working lights.
It’s as if the town collectively decided fashion takes a mandatory holiday during December. And let’s face it, it sort of does.
“Did you see Mrs. Wilkinson’s sweater this morning?” Lily asks, arranging gingerbread men in the display case. “That thing had actual jingle bells sewn into the reindeer’s collar. She sounded like a one-woman sleigh ride every time she moved.”
“I liked Mr. Peterson’s better,” Suze counters, refilling the napkin dispensers. “Nothing says festive like a sweater that proclaims, ‘Santa Saw Your Facebook Posts’ in blinking LED letters.”
Now that would be a nightmare.
“Speaking of Santa”—Lily turns to me with a smirk— “I hear you and Lottie are taking turns finding the bodies now. What does the schedule look like? Does she get New Year’s and you take Valentine’s Day?”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan, flicking a dish towel in her direction. “For your information, I did not find Santa’s body. I was merely adjacent to it when his soul decided to vacate the premises.”
Lottie emerges from the kitchen, balancing a tray of fresh candy cane brownies. “At least I find my bodies in respectable locations, not sprawled across my lap in the middle of a children’s event,” she says with a wink.
“He wasn’t sprawled across my lap,” I’m quick to defend myself. “He was face-planted in my North Pole twin peaks. There’s a difference.”
“And what a way to go.” Suze nods sagely. “It’s obvious the poor man had a heart attack after you did your best to smother him with your Christmas comfort pillows.”
“My what?” I sputter.
“Your jingle bell jugs,” Lily offers.
“Your mistletoe mountains,” Lottie adds, hardly able to contain her grin.
“Your yuletide—” Suze begins.
“I get it!” I hold up my hands in surrender just as the door chime rings, announcing another round of Christmas-clad customers.
Carlotta and Aunt Cat bustle in along with them, shaking snow from their matching fur-trimmed coats like two festive bears emerging from hibernation. Aunt Cat’s hair is teased higher than usual, maybe to accommodate the Santa hat perched precariously on top.
“Two peppermint mocha lattes with extra whip, a shot of caramel, chocolate sprinkles, and those little candy cane bits,” Carlotta announces without preamble.
“And whatever unholy creation you’ve got that packs the most calories into a single serving.
If I’m getting too cold, that means I’m getting too skinny. ”
“So, basically liquefied diabetes with a side of cardiac arrest.” I laugh as I start preparing their drinks.
“Says the woman who killed Santa with her cleavage,” Aunt Cat quips while settling onto a stool at the counter. “At least our indulgences only harm ourselves.”
“I did not—” I start, but it’s no use. The Santa jokes are clearly going to be my personal holiday soundtrack this year—and maybe every year afterwards, too.
Niki strolls in from the adjoining Honey Pot Diner. Her apron looks dusted with enough powdered sugar to outfit two trays of cookies.
Carlotta lifts a crooked finger my way. “That Lorenzo Bianchi sure didn’t waste any time cozying up to that pretty young thing looking for an intimate level of comfort after his brother dropped dead.”
“You mean Cooper’s sister?” Niki says, perching on a stool. “Loretta What’s-Her-Face?”
“Salami,” I supply automatically. “Or Surami. Or possibly Tsunami. Something Italian-ish that ironically I can never quite nail down.”
The women cackle, but my mind drifts as they continue with their gossip. I can’t believe that my hit is Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi.
Uncle Jimmy wants me to take out an octogenarian who’s engaged to my boyfriend’s sister. Talk about awkward family dinners in my future—assuming I have a future after Cooper discovers I whacked his potential brother-in-law. But let’s be fair, he doesn’t have all that many years left to begin with.
Kidding . Sort of.
And speaking of families and awkward family dinners…
Just a couple of weeks ago, my own Nona Jo made some oddball toast to Cooper and me regarding our blossoming relationship and the fact she expects some Italian heirs in the very near future.
And once that dicey diatribe was over, she said , ”I’ve got another surprise for the two of you at the Velvet Fox Hotel down in Leeds.
I’m not telling you what day or what time.
Just know I’m cooking up something so big, it might take months to prepare.
One thing is for sure, it’s going to go off without a hitch.
I’ll give you the heads-up twenty-four hours before the big day. Be there or be dead.”
I’m not sure what that tiny Italian tornado has brewing, but it’s definitely not her espresso. However, if I did have a cup of her espresso handy, I bet I could solve the mystery. Everyone knows you can see your future in the muck left over at the bottom of some good Italian coffee.
The bell chimes again, and this time a small crowd wanders in, shaking off snow and stamping their boots. Among them is a quasi-familiar-looking woman that I’m pretty sure I recognize from last night.
Stella Martinelli walks in looking every bit the warm grandmother type with her silver-streaked dark hair and a festive sweater featuring a Christmas tree with actual 3D ornaments dangling from the knit branches. She makes her way to the counter, her deceptively sweet demeanor firmly in place.
“Good morning, dear,” she says to me. “Could I get a box of mixed donuts? I’m bringing them to the Jolly Holly Tree Lot this morning.” Her eyes twinkle with grandmotherly charm that feels like Christmas personified. If someone told me she was the real deal Mrs. Claus, I’d believe them.
“Coming right up,” I say, selecting an assortment from the case. “Rough night last night, huh? Do you know what happened to poor Nicholas?”
Stella’s smile falters for a microsecond before reappearing. “Oh, that poor man. I guess it must have been a natural demise. At that age, anything can happen.”
Carlotta nods from her perch at the counter. “Having that many sugared-up kids in your midst could do just about anyone in. It’s a shocker more folks didn’t drop dead last night, what with all the little yippers running free.”
Lottie rolls her eyes. “Please, ignore her.” She slides another box of donuts across the counter to Stella. “Two baker’s dozen,” she says. “And since it’s for the Jolly Holly Tree Lot, it’s on the house.”
Stella thanks her profusely, clutching the box as if it was filled with gold rather than a bunch of fried dough.
Lottie leans toward the woman. “Did you happen to sense anything unusual with Nicholas last night?”
Stella exhales a sigh. “I wouldn’t know. But Holly Bellini might have an idea. She was pretty close to the man.”
I offer a covert nod to my sassy boss. She really is the expert when it comes to connecting the dots in a homicide case.
Niki tips an ear toward the woman, about as subtle as a reindeer with a spotlight. “Where, pray tell, could a certain someone find Holly Bellini? You know, if they wanted to question her about a certain dead Santa.”
I shoot her a look. Smooth, real smooth, sis.
Stella collects her box of treats and her brow furrows as she considers the question.
“Oh, I do know where you can find Holly. She’s an event planner, and she mentioned that she was also overseeing some Christmas festival out in Fallbrook.
She said something about having to be on her feet all day.
” She secures the donut boxes to her chest, wishes us all a merry Christmas, and shuffles out into the snow like a holiday-themed secret agent with a bakery payload.
The moment the door closes, Niki spins toward me and her eyes are bright with the kind of excitement usually reserved for clearance sales or free dessert.
“A Christmas festival in Fallbrook?” she practically gags on the words.
“We have to go! There might be an entire herd of hot Santas just waiting to be discovered!” She fans herself at the thought.
“After all, now that one Santa is out of commission, we need to make sure the Christmas spirit stays alive.”
“Honey, I’ll drink to that.” Carlotta raises her peppermint mocha. “Nothing says Merry Christmas like a man with a beard and a big bag full of goodies.”
“And we’re not talking about toys,” Aunt Cat adds with a wink that makes me wish brain bleach was a real thing.
Lottie shrugs. “Go on and get out of here, Effie. I think you have some Christmas shopping to catch up on.” She winks my way.
She’s not wrong. The big day is less than a week away, and I’ve been too busy dodging bullet points on Uncle Jimmy’s hit list to actually tackle my gift list.
“Fine,” I concede, untying my apron. “But this is strictly a reconnaissance mission. We’re looking for Holly Bellini, not auditioning replacements for last night’s expired Santa.”
“Of course.” Niki nods solemnly before breaking into a grin. “But if we happen to find ourselves surrounded by men in red suits, well... I think we’ll just call it a Christmas miracle.”
I grab my coat and can’t help but wonder what twisted holiday movie I’ve found myself starring in. ’Tis the season to be jolly—unless you’re Santa Claus. Then ’tis the season to end up face-first in my peppermint pinwheels before taking your last candy cane ride to the great North Pole in the sky.
And now I’m supposed to help Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi book the same one-way sleigh ride. Ho, ho, homicide, indeed.
I button up my coat, mentally calculating how many suspects I’ll need to cross off my list before I can unwrap the truth about Nicholas’s death. Because one thing is becoming crystal clear—someone decided to give Santa an early retirement, and it wasn’t me.
The bell jingles as I push open the bakery door and the cold air slaps me in the face like a wake-up call. Fallbrook Festival, here I come. Let’s see if Holly Bellini has been naughty or nice—and whether she knows who crossed Saint Nick off their Christmas list permanently.