T he sound of Cooper’s boots crunching angrily through the snow punctuates the festive Christmas carols blaring from nearby speakers. But not by much. Those carols are far too loud if you ask me.
I sprint after him, the scent of gingerbread and pine mingling with the sharp bite of winter air as I weave through the crowd.
His broad shoulders are squared with a determination that screams “detective on a mission”—or possibly “brother about to commit a homicide.” At the moment, it’s hard to tell the difference.
“ Cooper, wait ,” I call out as my fingers grasp for his leather jacket.
Watson bounds past us both, his golden fur gleaming under the festival lights, and that cute little red bow of his bounces with each leap. He looks like the personification of Christmas morning himself, oblivious to the family drama about to erupt. At least someone is having a good time.
I catch up to Cooper just before he reaches Loretta and her geriatric Romeo. “Hold on,” I say, tugging him back. “You can’t just go storming over there like?—”
“Like what?” His marbled blue eyes flash. “Like my sister is being pawed at by a man who was collecting Social Security when The Beatles were still together?”
“Maybe she’s into him,” I cringe as I say it. Those words felt wrong even as they leave my mouth. “Or maybe she’s into his bank account? You know how it goes. Some women like their men the way they like their cheese—aged and wealthy.”
“What are you talking about, Eff?” Cooper says my name like the expletive it was meant to be before charging ahead. “That geezer is clearly attacking her.”
And he’s not wrong about the geezer part either. Lorenzo “Enzo” Bianchi makes Father Time look like a spring chicken. His weathered face carries enough lines to map a small country, and his hands—currently wrapped around Loretta’s waist—are spotted like a leopard against her red coat.
Before I can stop him, Cooper closes the gap and yanks Lorenzo back rather abruptly. “Get your filthy paws off my baby sister!”
Loretta whirls around and, to my absolute shock, swats Cooper silly with that designer handbag she’s toting.
It’s a rapid-fire assault of Italian leather that I’m sure costs more than my parents’ house in Grimstone Heights.
Come to think of it, most things do. The old neighborhood hasn’t exactly appreciated.
Last time I checked, you could buy a three-bedroom there for what some people spend on a pair of shoes—namely the ones Loretta is currently wearing as she dances around her brother, swinging her bag as if she’s training for the Purse-Wielding Olympics.
“Cooper Carmichael Jackson Knox!” she screeches. “How dare you!”
Aww, he has two middle names. Did I know that?
A commotion erupts behind us as a parade of half-dressed men with wax dripping down their chests comes running out of the candle-making tent. They’re followed by Niki, Aunt Cat, and Carlotta, all looking slightly too pleased with themselves.
“Catch ’em, Coop!” Carlotta shouts, pointing at the fleeing, glittering torsos. “They’re trying to escape!”
“Yeah, don’t let all that hard work go to waste!” Aunt Cat fans herself in their wake. “We spent good money making those pecs look so festive!”
“I still have more wax.” Niki waves a dripping ladle. “And I’m not afraid to use it!”
Cooper chooses to ignore them completely as his gaze locks onto his sister.
“Loretta”—he says slowly, as if speaking to a child— “what the hell is going on here?”
Loretta Simpleton—or Salami, take your pick—straightens and tucks her weapon of a handbag under her arm while linking her elbow with Lorenzo’s. “What were you saying?”
“I said, what the hell?—”
“I meant him,” she cuts Cooper off, nodding toward Lorenzo. “He’s the love of my life, and he just landed this ice cube on my finger tonight.” She holds up her left hand, where a diamond the size of a small planet catches the light and nearly blinds everyone within a ten-foot radius.
Every woman on Earth gasps simultaneously. The rock is less a diamond and more like that glacier that sank the Titanic , only sparklier.
“ My eyes! My eyes! ” Aunt Cat cries, shielding her face.
“Why is it so shiny?” Carlotta squeezes her peepers shut. “Is that legal to wear in public without a permit?”
“Sweet mother of mercy,” Niki whispers like a tire expiring air. “You could signal ships with that thing.”
Lorenzo beams proudly, an expression that turns his wrinkled face into something resembling a pleased prune. “I was just saying, only the best for my Loretta,” he says with a slight Italian accent. “She deserves the stars, so I gave her one to wear.”
“Actually, it’s a D color, internally flawless, twelve-carat—” Loretta begins as she beams with both pride and greed.
“You can’t be serious,” Cooper interrupts. “This is... you’re... he’s...”
“Collecting dust?” I supply helpfully.
“Older than dirt?” Niki adds.
“The reigning champion of the ‘I Survived the Plague’ contest?” Aunt Cat offers.
Cooper shoots us all a look that could freeze Hell in one blast. “You’re not helping.”
“I’ll have you know”—Lorenzo starts with surprising dignity for a man who probably needs help tying his shoes— “that I am very much in love with your sister. And she with me.”
“It’s true,” Loretta says, nestling against his side like a cat who just found a particularly comfortable sunbeam to lounge in. “In fact, we’re getting married next month.”
“Next month?” Cooper’s voice rises to a pitch that probably has dogs across town perking their ears to attention. “And you’ve known him how long?”
“Time is irrelevant when it comes to true love,” Loretta sniffs.
“And an impending appointment with death,” Niki mutters under her breath.
Before Cooper can respond—likely with something that would get us all banned from the state of Vermont—a bizarre figure waddles into our little circle.
It’s a small, elderly woman dressed entirely in black from head to toe, including a tall, strange-looking black veil that billows around her face like a personal storm cloud.
A child nearby takes one look at her and bursts into tears. A small dog being walked on a leash yips in terror and tries to bolt. In fact, every last soul at the festival seems to be shrieking back in terror while simultaneously making the sign of the cross.
The woman dressed like Death approaches our group with the speed and grace of a tranquilized turtle, then proceeds to hand each of us a black envelope before attempting to waddle away again.
Wait just one Italian grandma pickin’ minute…
“Nona Jo?” I call out after her because, for one, I happen to recognize her unique shambling gait. “I know it’s you! I can tell by your shuffle-step-pause-complain combo. And you’re the only person I know who sighs loudly after every third step!”
She doesn’t bother to acknowledge me, so we each tear into our mysterious black envelopes to find formal invitations printed in elegant gold script on black cardstock. The message is simple—our presence is requested at the Velvet Fox Hotel down in Leeds tomorrow night at seven o’clock sharp.
“What’s happening tomorrow night at seven?” I shout after Nona Jo, who has managed to travel approximately three full steps away in the time it took us to open the invites.
Nona Jo turns around and lifts her veil, revealing that she is indeed the woman doing her best impersonation of midnight. Her face, which happens to be lined with years of disapproving scowls and Italian curses, breaks into what might be a smile or possibly a grimace of indigestion.
“ Be there and find out ,” she shouts back, her voice carrying the distinctive rasp of someone who’s smoked cigarettes since they were invented. She looks my way with narrowed eyes. “Or I’ll put a hit out on all of you.” She winks at me and I gasp as she waddles toward the parking lot once again.
“Did your grandmother just threaten to have us all killed?” Cooper asks, momentarily distracted from the Loretta situation.
“In this family, it’s how we say please,” I explain.
Loretta seizes the opportunity and tugs at Lorenzo’s arm. “We should take off, honey. We have... plans .” She gives Cooper a glacial stare. “I expected better from you. I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Happy that you’re marrying someone who could have been a character witness at the trial of Moses? Nothing suspicious about that archaeological find at all.”
Loretta gasps. “Cooper!”
Enzo’s bushy white brows hike into his forehead. “What are you implying, young man?”
“Nothing,” Loretta cuts in. “He’s implying nothing because he knows better.” She gives her brother a look that could peel paint. “See you tomorrow night, Cooper. Try to be less of a donkey by then.”
With that, she sashays away with Lorenzo in tow, his elderly hobble working double-time to keep up with her irate strut.
“Tomorrow at seven at the Velvet Fox Hotel.” Cooper shakes his head at the invitation in his hand. “Whatever it is, it couldn’t be worse than that.” He looks up where his sister and Enzo are heading toward the parking lot.
Watson nudges my hand with his cold nose, and I absently scratch behind his ears as I watch the retreating odd couple.
Between my pending assassination assignment targeting Lorenzo, Cooper’s sister being engaged to said target, and Nona Jo’s mysterious summons, this holiday season is shaping up to be messier than my brother Nico’s attempt at wrapping presents while wearing boxing gloves.
I glance down at the black invitation again and the gold script gleams ominously in the festival lights.
Something tells me that tomorrow night at the Velvet Fox Hotel, something will be getting wrapped, all right—with crime scene tape.