T he scent of roasted chestnuts, hot chocolate, and evergreen trees assaults my senses as we step through the frosted archway into Fallbrook’s Frost & Frolic Festival.
Christmas carols blare from speakers cleverly disguised as oversized ornaments, competing with the cacophony of laughter, smarmy sales pitches, and children squealing with a holiday-induced sugar rush.
Snow crunches beneath my boots as I try to maintain some semblance of dignity while simultaneously preventing Niki, Carlotta, and Aunt Cat from transforming this investigative outing into their personal North Pole bachelor hunt. Although I’m a realist. That’s exactly what this is quickly becoming.
“I spy with my little eye something that begins with H,” Niki says, craning her neck every which way like a hummingbird.
“Hot chocolate?” I guess, trying to steer her focus toward something that won’t get us arrested for public indecency.
“Hot Santa ,” Niki corrects, pointing toward a man in a modern, slim-fit Santa suit helping children onto a small train ride. “Look at those shoulders. He can slide down my chimney any night of the year.”
“That’s amateur hour,” Carlotta scoffs as she continues to scan the festival like a heat-seeking missile. “You need to think outside the Santa box. Check out the elf over there hanging lights.” She fans herself with her mitten. “Those tight green pants leave nothing to the imagination.”
“Ladies, please,” I hiss, grabbing Niki’s arm before she can sashay over to Mr. Slim-Fit Santa. “We’re here on a mission, remember? Find Holly Bellini, ask about Nicholas Bianchi, and figure out who killed the dead Santa. Ring any bells?”
“Speaking of bells,” Aunt Cat interjects while adjusting her fur-trimmed coat, “did you see the size of that guy’s jingle?—”
“Stop!” I clap my hands over my ears. “No more Christmas euphemisms. I’m still recovering from the North Pole twin peaks incident.”
“Fine,” Aunt Cat pouts, despite the fact her eyes continue to rove the festival grounds. “But you can’t blame a girl for wanting a little holiday cheer in her stocking.”
“I’ll get you a bottle of whiskey,” I mutter.
The Frost & Frolic Festival transforms the usually modest Fallbrook town square into a winter wonderland of twinkle lights, evergreen garlands, and enough fake snow to supplement the real stuff falling gently from the sky.
Rows of wooden chalet-style booths line the pathways, selling everything from hand-knitted scarves to artisanal maple syrups to Christmas ornaments personalized with your pet’s paw print.
And I so want one of those ornaments. If only I had Watson with me.
He’s busy chasing the bad guys with Coop—or more to the point, eating donuts and napping at Coop’s feet. It’s not a bad life.
Food vendors hawk their temptations from every corner—apple cider donuts dusted with cinnamon sugar, roasted chestnuts that perfume the air with sweetness, and my personal weakness—peppermint hot chocolate topped with homemade marshmallows.
The crafts tents to our left showcase local artisans peddling their wares—blown glass ornaments that catch the light in dazzling rainbow displays, wreaths made from repurposed book pages, and—I kid you not—hand-carved wooden toilet paper holders shaped like reindeer.
Because there’s no Christmas spirit like Rudolph cheering you on while you do your business.
“Look at that.” Niki gasps, pointing toward a small clearing where a crowd has gathered. “It’s a lumberjack Santa competition!”
Sure enough, a banner strung between two pine trees proudly announces the “First Annual Flannel-Clad Fir Felling Face-Off.” About a dozen men in varying degrees of seasonal flannel stand in a line, flexing muscles that suggest they spend more time at the gym than in the actual woods. Not a big surprise there.
“Sweet baby J in the manger,” Carlotta breathes with her eyes wide as saucers. “It’s like someone read my Christmas list and wrapped it in plaid!”
“Ladies and gentlemen”—the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker— “our contestants will now demonstrate their prowess with an ax by chopping through a mountain of logs in record time!”
“I’d like to demonstrate my prowess with their logs,” Aunt Cat says loudly enough that a nearby mother covers her child’s ears and shuffles away quickly.
“Aunt Cat!” I scold, although I can’t help but laugh. “There are children present.”
“And they’ll thank me one day for their education,” she replies with a wink.
“Or their mothers will respond by way of a restraining order,” I shoot back and she and Carlotta take off without a care in the world.
My money is on the restraining order.
Niki starts edging toward the competition as well. “I’m just going to get a closer look at their, um, chopping techniques.”
I grab her coat sleeve. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re helping me find our suspect.”
“You mean mark,” Niki says with a gleam in her eye.
“No, I mean suspect,” I correct.
“Too bad, because there’s your mark.” She nods ahead, and my stomach drops faster than Santa down a chimney.
Through the crowd, I spot Loretta Spaghetti dripping all over the keeper of the crypt, Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi. She’s wearing a red coat that probably costs more than my car, while her arm is hooked possessively through his as if she’s afraid someone might steal her elderly meal ticket.
Enzo looks surprisingly spry for a man who’s been on this earth since the invention of the wheel, with his designer suit visible beneath a purple cashmere overcoat that screams, “I have more money than taste.”
“Well, that’s disturbing on multiple levels,” I mutter, watching Loretta plant a kiss on Enzo’s wrinkled cheek.
“It’s like watching a vulture cuddle with its dinner,” Niki observes.
“Maybe she just really likes prunes,” I suggest.
“Or simply needs a bank account to prune,” Niki counters.
“Cooper is going to lose his mind when he finds out I’ve been assigned to... retire his potential brother-in-law,” I whisper, making sure a passerby can’t hear.
“You could always claim temporary insanity brought on by excessive exposure to peppermint and tinsel,” Niki offers with a shrug.
I’m about to respond when I spot a woman with auburn hair moving purposefully through the festival, clipboard in hand, directing vendors with the efficiency you could only get with some serious practice.
“That’s her,” I whisper to Niki. “That’s Holly Bellini.”
Holly moves from booth to booth like a Christmas-themed drill sergeant.
But she pauses at The Waxing Poetic candle-making booth, where visitors are dipping string into colored wax to create layered tapers and it looks as if they’re pouring custom scents into festive molds.
Holly makes notes on her clipboard while instructing the vendor about proper display techniques.
“Let’s go introduce ourselves,” I say.
As we start toward the candle booth where Holly is now checking her watch with an impatient frown, I can’t help but notice her perfect posture and composed expression.
She’s clearly someone who thrives on control—which makes me wonder just how far she’d go when someone threatens to derail one of her perfectly orchestrated festivals or her perfectly orchestrated life .
Maybe the Jingle Bell Jubilee’s Santa wasn’t the only thing about to get snuffed out that night.
And I’m about to find out.