T he scent of cinnamon apples, pine forest, and something called Santa’s Secret wafts through the air as Niki and I approach The Waxing Poetic candle-making booth.
A canvas tent houses the entire operation, its interior glowing with golden light that spills onto the snowy ground around it. Tiny white twinkle lights intertwine around the entrance poles, creating a fairytale gateway to what appears to be a Christmas candle wonderland.
The booth is brimming with women, all of whom hunt and peck through the wares as if these were the most sought-after gifts on their lists. And seeing that they smell like heaven, they just might be.
Inside, Holly Bellini stands with her back perfectly straight and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
She looks like a perfectionistic to a fault, impeccably dressed in over-the-top Christmas attire that makes her look like the lovechild of Mrs. Claus and a department store window display.
Her red and green plaid blazer is adorned with actual jingle bells at the cuffs, and a brooch shaped like a Christmas tree—complete with tiny working lights—winks from her lapel.
Her auburn hair is styled in a sleek bob that doesn’t dare move in the winter breeze, and her sharp features remind me of one of those Instagram filters that makes everyone look like they could slice cheese with their cheekbones.
A woman near the front is speaking to a group, and it appears there’s a candle-making class in full swing—which would explain the dozens of women gathered around wooden tables scattered with jars of wax, fragrance oils, and festive molds shaped like Christmas trees, stars, and Santa’s face.
Red and green candles in various stages of completion litter the workspace, while finished products gleam from display shelves in the shape of candy cane striped tapers, gold-dusted pillars, and Mason jars filled with layers of holiday-scented wax.
The woman wearing a holly-patterned apron demonstrates how to properly center a wick in a snowman mold and her audience is rapt at attention as if she was revealing the secret location of Santa’s workshop rather than basic candle-making techniques.
“Ooh, that looks fun. I’m making one, too,” Niki says, already drifting toward an empty seat at the table. “Not only can I get a gift knocked off my list, but I can learn a thing or two about hot wax.”
“Why do you care about hot wax?” I ask, genuinely curious—and let’s face it—concerned.
Niki gives me a look that suggests I’ve been living under a rock—specifically, a rock without internet access. “Everyone knows hot wax and hot men go hand-in-hand. Didn’t they teach you anything at that fancy school of yours?”
“Apparently not.” That fancy school would be the hoity-toity university I still owe some serious cash to even though that job in the tech industry left me high and dry.
If I had known it was my destiny to sling both bullets and buttercream, I would have skipped higher education and jumped straight into stripping.
The tips would have covered at least a semester.
Niki nods at me. “Try to act surprised when you open one of these beauties come Christmas, would you?” She takes off for the demonstration and I boot-scoot my way to the lady of the hour.
Holly is busy checking something off on her clipboard as her red-lacquered nails tap against the paper with the precision of a metronome. She doesn’t even notice me until I’m practically breathing down her holiday-clad neck.
“Excuse me, Ms. Bellini?” I put on my best I’m-not-here-to-interrogate-you-about-murder smile.
Holly turns my way and a professional-looking mask slides effortlessly into place. “Yes? How can I help you? If you’re looking to join the candle class, all you have to do is find a seat at the table.”
“Actually, I just wanted to say hello. I think we met at the Jingle Bell Jubilee.” I extend my hand. “Effie Canelli. I was one of the elves.”
Her mouth rounds out as she squints to inspect me. “Ah, yes. The one wearing the very festive costume.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” I laugh. “Although barely-there bodysuits with strategically placed peppermints would be more accurate.”
We share a quick laugh before she remembers she’s a professional with an image to maintain. Or a killer with a murder to get away with.
“Well, it’s nice to see you again,” she says. “Although I would have preferred under different circumstances. That evening didn’t exactly end as planned.”
“I’m sorry about your old friend,” I say, watching her for a reaction. And emphasis on the old , but I don’t say that part out loud.
Holly’s chest bucks as if someone had shot her, and it makes me glance down at my purse like a reflex in the event Buttercup, my handy-dandy Glock, didn’t just misfire.
“We actually weren’t close friends,” she says as her lips press tight.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed since you worked together on the Jubilee...” I trail off, attempting to look appropriately chagrined while mentally taking notes on the fact she’s frowning like mad.
Holly sighs and manages to soften slightly. “Nicholas and I worked together on several projects. He was one of the major sponsors. In fact, he sponsored this festival, too.” She gestures around at the crowd. “He had his fingers in every pie in this county.”
“What was he like to work with?” I ask innocently enough—as if I didn’t know where he wanted to put his face and why.
“He could be difficult,” she says, then seems to catch herself. “But effective. His company, Bianchi Enterprises, has been behind most of the major events in this area for decades. The Jubilee, this festival, the upcoming summer fair—all would be impossible without the Bianchi money.”
“Sounds like he had a lot of influence,” I observe. And a thing for boobs, but I leave that part out.
Okay, so he probably didn’t mean to deep-dive into my peppermints, but as it stands that’s what happened.
“Too much influence, according to some people.” Holly’s gaze drifts toward the candle-making table where Niki is enthusiastically raising her hand and bouncing in her seat.
Oh, good grief, what now?
The instructor nods her way and well, unwittingly unleashes the beast.
“How hot does the wax need to be to use on a hot hunk?” Niki asks loudly enough for the entire state of Vermont to hear.
The class breaks into laughter, and even the instructor—whose cheeks now glow like Rudolph’s nose—manages to crack a smile. “Well”—she says with a hesitant wink— “if I had a couple of hot hunks on hand, I could demonstrate.”
Niki gives a sharp whistle and, as if on cue, Aunt Cat and Carlotta run into the tent with not two but three young bucks dressed as hot Santas.
In no time at all, their red coats come off and tables are cleared with the frantic urgency of a Grey’s Anatomy season finale.
The hunky Santas lie on their backs while the instructor kneels beside one, demonstrating the proper temperature and technique for dripping wax in festive patterns across a muscular chest.
“Good gravy,” I mutter. “Is this a candle class or an audition for North Pole After Dark ?” A show I’ve already starred in, mind you.
Holly clears her throat and draws my attention back to her. “You were asking about Nicholas? If you’re wondering whether he had enemies—” She pauses, glancing around before continuing more quietly. “Well, that’s all he had.”
I remember Nicholas’s cutting remark to Holly at the Jubilee . “Still trying to run this town into the ground with your overpriced events, Bellini? I remember when this festival was actually affordable for families.”
“Did you and Nicholas have a disagreement before the Jubilee?” I ask, hoping she’ll highlight why he was so nasty to her—and if she was one of those aforementioned enemies.
“Oh, we had our creative differences,” she says carefully as if she were already treading on thin ice. “About the direction of the event, too.”
“So, you mean that creative differences were what led to him threatening to pull his sponsorship?” I push a little harder, like trying to put Cinderella’s glass slipper on one of her ugly stepsisters.
But hey, if the ugly fits. If these festivals lost their biggest corporate sponsor, I’m guessing Holly here would be out of a job.
And a lack of funds would most certainly create a need to kill. It did for me.
Holly’s eyes narrow. “You seem very interested in my relationship with Nicholas. Tell me, are you investigating his death?”
I shrug. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in figuring out what happened. A man died while motorboating my peppermint pinwheels—that creates a certain bond, if you know what I mean.”
She gives a conciliatory shrug at the thought because I’m not wrong.
“Look”—she says as she leans in— “I don’t know what happened to Nicholas.
But if you’re digging for information, I’d talk to Stella Martinelli.
She’s known him longer than I have, and I saw her having a full-blown argument with him just minutes before he dropped dead.
If anyone knows something, my money is on her. ”
Interesting. I file that away for future reference because I happened to see the very same thing.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Holly is about to turn away when her gaze catches on the shirtless Santa situation unfolding at the candle table. She pauses, pulls out her phone, and snaps a quick picture.
“Really?” I hike an eyebrow her way.
“Strictly for research purposes,” she manages to say with a straight face. “Event planning requires thorough documentation of successful attractions.” With that, she glides away with that clipboard once again pressed to her chest like armor.
I’m about to head over to the hot wax spectacle taking place myself —purely for investigative purposes, of course—when something catches my eye. Actually, someone. Two someones .
Loretta Salami is pawing all over Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi near a booth selling ornate glass ornaments.
Her hands flutter over his expensive coat like she’s searching for his wallet, while he gazes at her with the slightly vacant expression of a man who’s either smitten or can’t remember where he parked his car. Possibly both.
Not only that, but I spot Cooper just a few feet away as our happy-go-lucky pooch Watson races in my direction, already thrilled to see me. Must be the snacks I keep in my pocket—or possibly the lingering scent of peppermint pinwheels.
Cooper follows Watson’s trajectory and spots me, then returns his gaze to his sister and her elderly fiancé. It’s too late. He’s already done the geriatric math, and I’m guessing it equals a premature death.
He holds a finger my way before heading straight for the May-December (or perhaps March-December) couple.
Oh boy.
I’m about to witness a family reunion colder than the North Pole and twice as explosive as Aunt Cat’s infamous rum-spiked eggnog.