T he heated tent here at the Frost & Frolic Festival smells like a collision between Nona Jo’s kitchen and a carnival midway—a glorious cacophony of garlic, sugar, and deep-fried everything.
“This is the life,” I say as Cooper and I hunker down at a wooden picnic table with a feast spread before us as if we were planning to hibernate through winter. Nona Jo just left us with yet another mystery and somehow managed to unleash our appetites all at the same time.
Watson sits at my feet with his golden eyes tracking each morsel in front of me with the precision of a missile defense system.
“I’ve died and gone to food heaven,” I announce, surveying our haul once again.
Okay, so we may have gone slightly overboard at the festival vendors.
There’s a massive plate of arancini—fried risotto balls oozing with cheese and spicy Italian sausage—a steaming heap of zeppole dusted with powdered sugar, homemade cavatelli with vodka sauce, and some truly magnificent Italian meatball sliders on fresh-baked rolls.
The carnival side of our spread features hand-cut fries buried under a mountain of garlic and Parmesan, corn dogs that are mostly batter (the way the Good Lord intended), and funnel cakes that could be a part of Mrs. Claus’s doily collection.
For dessert, we’ve got chocolate-dipped candy cane cookies, gingerbread whoopie pies with eggnog filling, and peppermint bark so thick it could probably stop a bullet.
Not that I’m planning to test that theory.
Our beverages consist of peppermint hot chocolate for me and spiced mulled cider for Cooper—and the steam in the chilly air sends up ribbons of fragrant Christmas spices.
“I’m going to need a bigger gun holster after this,” I say, patting my stomach preemptively. Not that I wear one. Buttercup prefers to be cradled.
Cooper shakes his head, still looking shell-shocked from our encounter with his not-so-sweet baby sister. “I can’t believe Loretta Surprise is engaged to Fossil Fred.”
“Fossil Fred?” I snort. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”
“Among other things not appropriate to say in public.” Cooper tears into a meatball slider like it personally offended him. “Did you see that rock he put on her finger? It’s bigger than her entire dating history.”
“Which is really saying something,” I mutter, remembering the trail of ex-husbands Loretta has left in her wake.
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Watson whines with his chin resting on my knee. He’s giving it his best “I’m starving” performance which could win him an Oscar tonight—or a meatball sandwich.
“Don’t fall for it,” Cooper warns. “He already conned three hot dog vendors into giving him samples.”
I break off a corner of a meatball and slip it to Watson while Cooper looks away. The dog’s tail thumps against the ground with joy and it warms my heart while doing so.
“Happy dog, happy life,” I’m quick to say and Cooper frowns twice as hard.
From the next table over, Niki’s voice rises above the general festival hubbub. “I’m just saying, if you ever need help applying wax to those hard-to-reach places, I’m available for house calls.”
Aunt Cat and Carlotta are also holding court with the shirtless wonders from the candle booth.
The men still have traces of colorful wax on their chests, which have now hardened into festive patterns.
One poor guy has what appears to be a candy cane running from his shoulder to his navel. And I’ll admit, it does look tasty.
“Hey, I know him.” Cooper squints at the guy. “That’s Deputy Diggins. Are those my tax dollars at work?” Cooper nods toward the muscular man who is definitely a county deputy when he’s not moonlighting as a human candle.
“Consider it community outreach,” Carlotta calls over. “Loosen up, Foxy Knoxy. We’re spreading a little Christmas cheer!”
“And hot wax!” Aunt Cat adds, raising her glass as if she were toasting.
“To body hair—may it rest in peace!” Niki joins in and I nearly choke on my hot chocolate as I hold back a laugh.
“What?” I say to Coop. “It’s practically the battle cry of every woman under fifty. They’re the only ones who really investigate the hairy matter at hand.”
Cooper shakes his head my way. “Speaking of investigations, I saw you talking to Holly Bellini earlier.” He hikes a brow. “Care to tell me what that conversation was about?”
I take a strategic bite of arancini to buy time. “Just a little girl talk,” I say around a mouthful of rice and cheese. “You know —fashion, makeup, the mysterious death of a wealthy old man during a Christmas festival. The usual.”
“ Effie .” There’s that detective voice I know and occasionally fear.
“Fine.” I swallow and give him a quick recap of my conversation with Holly. “She basically pointed the finger at Stella Martinelli. Said they had an argument right before he died.”
“And you just happened to be asking about a potential homicide because...?”
“Because I’m curious by nature.” I bat my eyelashes innocently.
Cooper shakes his head. “Effie, you cannot investigate this case.”
“Why not? Is it officially a homicide?”
Watson barks sharply as if answering for Cooper and wags his tail like mad.
“I thought you were on my side?” Cooper frowns at the pooch.
“Watson knows talent when he sees it,” I say, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “He’s backing the winning team. So what happened to the guy, Coop?” A thought comes to me and I gasp. “Don’t tell me he was poisoned.”
Cooper gives a wistful tick of his head. “You really are good, you know that?”
“Wait until you see what I can do under the sheets,” I tease, enjoying the smile begging to curve on his lips.
It’s the truth, too. Even though Coop and I have been hot and heavy for a while now, there’s still plenty of room to get hotter and heavier, if you know what I mean.
Some territories remain unexplored—which only makes the exploring more fun.
“Okay,” he says, as if accepting my proposal, and for a second I think he’s going to suggest we ditch the festival for more private activities. Instead, he leans in close. “I’ll fill you in on what toxicology discovered. Nicholas Bianchi had elevated levels of pentobarbital in his system.”
“Penta-what-now?”
“Pentobarbital. It’s a sedative, primarily used as an anesthetic, but if it’s strong enough it could euthanize just about anyone. It depresses the central nervous system, slows breathing, and in high enough doses?—”
“Sends you face-first into a hot elf’s peppermint pinwheels?” I finish for him. And yes, I just called myself hot. Someone has to. Besides, it’s good for my ego to hear it once in a while.
“Essentially,” he says.
“So, it’s a prescribed drug? Maybe he accidentally overdosed.”
“According to his physician, it wasn’t prescribed to him.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmur. “Sounds like this case is heating up faster than Aunt Cat’s love life after three mulled wines.”
Speaking of heating up, we’ve demolished our food mountain with impressive efficiency. Even Watson, who technically wasn’t supposed to get any table scraps, looks satisfied as he settles into a post-meatball nap under the table.
“What do you say we walk off some of those calories?” Cooper suggests, gathering our trash.
“Are you implying I ate too much?” I challenge.
“I’m implying that I ate too much, and if I sit here any longer, I’ll fall into a food coma.”
“Fair enough.”
We dispose of our trash and venture back into the festival grounds with Watson trotting happily at our heels.
The Frost & Frolic Festival has transformed into a magical wonderland in the twilight hours.
Strings of white twinkle lights flicker against the darkening sky, and vendors have lit small bonfires that cast a warm glow over the snow-covered grounds.
The carnival rides on the far side of the square have come alive with colored lights and so have the screams of those foolish enough to hop onto them.
“Now this”—Cooper says softly into my ear— “is worth the price of admission.”
“Careful, Detective. You’re starting to sound festive.”
“Blame the cider. It’s gone to my head.”
We wander through the crowded pathways hand-in-hand as we sneak barely there kisses every now and again. And it drives me crazy in the best possible way.
“Check that out.” Cooper points to a small clearing where couples are ice skating on a temporary rink. It looks like something out of a Christmas movie, strung with lights and surrounded by evergreen trees.
“Oh no.” I back up. “I don’t skate.”
“Everyone skates,” Cooper counters. “It’s just a fancy way of walking on knives.”
“That’s the part I’m concerned about.”
“Come on, Eff. Live dangerously.”
The irony of a hitwoman being afraid of ice skating isn’t lost on me, but some fears are rational. Like the fear of slicing off your own fingers with footwear.
“What about Watson?” I try.
“He can watch from the sidelines. Can’t you, buddy?”
Watson wags his tail like the little traitor he is.
“Fine.” I sigh. “But when I break something vital, you’re nursing me back to health.”
“Deal.”
We rent skates—Cooper somehow knowing my shoe size without asking, which is both sweet and vaguely concerning—and make our way to a bench near the rink. Watson sits obediently nearby with his red bow still festive against his golden fur.
“Why do I feel like I’m strapping guillotines to my feet?” I mutter, lacing up the once-white skates.
“It’ll be fun,” Cooper promises, standing with frustrating ease on his own blades. “I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
I take his hand regardless, letting him guide me onto the ice. My ankles wobble immediately, and I clutch his arm with a death grip that would make Uncle Jimmy proud.
“Easy.” Cooper laughs, steadying me. “Bend your knees a little. That’s it.”
Slowly and perhaps far too cautiously, we make our way around the edge of the rink.
Cooper is annoyingly good at this, gliding with the kind of effortless grace that makes me wonder what other hidden talents he’s keeping from me.
I, on the other hand, move like a newborn giraffe trying to navigate a slip-and-slide.
“Now you’re getting it,” Cooper encourages as I manage a few strides without nearly toppling over.
“Don’t jinx me,” I warn. “I’m one compliment away from asking Santa for my two front teeth.”
As if on cue, my right skate catches on something—possibly air—and I pitch forward.
Cooper’s arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against him before I can hit the ice.
We slide together, a tangle of limbs and momentum, until my back meets the rink wall and Cooper’s body presses against mine, pinning me there.
Our breath forms a cloud in the cold air between us. His face is inches from mine, those blue-green eyes dark with something that has nothing to do with solving crimes.
“Nice save,” I whisper.
“I’m full of surprises,” he murmurs back, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face.
And then he kisses me, right there on the ice with Christmas lights twinkling overhead and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” playing from nearby speakers.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes me forget all about murder investigations and hit assignments and dirty old men marrying Cooper’s sister. The kind that makes my toes curl inside these death-trap skates. And that I fully approve of.
We pull apart and Coop nods my way. “My place or yours?”
“Yours,” I decide quickly. “My heat’s been acting up.” Among other things.
He gives a little shrug. “I think we can bring the heat.”
And we do just that—but not that . Get your head out of the gutter.
But between my uncle’s hit list, a dead Bianchi, and whatever storm is brewing at the Velvet Fox tomorrow night, I have a feeling the real inferno hasn’t even begun.