Page 12 of Pumpkin Spice at a Deadly Price (Brambleberry Bay Murder Club #7)

HATTIE

I still don’t understand why humans put clothes on fake turkeys, Cricket muses from her perch atop a stack of linen samples right here in the Cottage House rotunda. They’re already wearing feathers. It’s redundant.

They’re not real turkeys, Rookie explains with the patience of a kindergarten teacher dealing with a particularly baffled student. They’re decorations. Like how Hattie puts that reindeer sweater on you at Christmas.

We do NOT speak of the reindeer sweater, Cricket hisses while her tail puffs to twice its normal size. That was a dark time in my life.

Rookie woofs out a laugh. Jolly Beary thinks you looked cute in it.

Jolly Beary is a stuffed animal with questionable taste, Cricket shoots back. He’d think you looked cute in a tutu.

Winnie sent yet another employee to the rotunda this afternoon and now the Cottage House looks as if autumn exploded all over it, and the aftermath was then decorated by Martha Stewart on a Thanksgiving bender.

Garlands of preserved leaves wind around every column, massive arrangements of chrysanthemums and wheat stalks occupy every flat surface, and an army of decorative turkeys—some tasteful, others less so—stand guard over the proceedings like feathered sentinels.

Winnie wanted to use up every last stitch of her autumn décor to make room for all the Christmas decorations begging for shelf space. The country club has essentially turned into the clearance section of her crafts store.

I’m technically finalizing plans for the Gilded Gratitude Gala, scheduled for Thanksgiving Eve, but my mind is about as focused as a puppy in a tennis ball factory.

My notepad contains more doodles than actual notes, and two of those doodles involve Venetta Brandt meeting unfortunate ends via a turkey baster and cranberry sauce, respectively.

The gala is shaping up to be the most absurdly opulent event the country club has ever hosted, which is saying something for a place that once flew in snow from the Swiss Alps for a “Winter in July” party.

We’ve got ice sculptures of cornucopias and turkeys that will dispense champagne, a twenty-piece orchestra playing what the conductor insists on calling a harvest-inspired classical fusion, a dance floor constructed of reclaimed barn wood from a farm once owned by a Mayflower descendant, and table settings that include 24-karat gold-dipped acorns as place card holders.

The guests will dine on a twelve-course meal featuring ingredients sourced from farms within a fifty-mile radius, prepared by a chef we imported from Paris who apparently has never cooked an American Thanksgiving meal in his life but assures us his deconstructed turkey terrine will revolutionize how Americans think about their most sacred bird.

I’ve spent most of the morning nodding at fabric swatches and approving floral arrangements while my brain replays last night’s dinner with Killion on an endless loop.

That, and imagining increasingly elaborate scenarios where Killion and Venetta run off to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator, leaving me behind to collect both cats and dogs and become the crazy spinster of Brambleberry Bay.

Honestly, I’m just a few paws away from that being a reality.

After exhausting the elopement scenarios, I moved on to fantasizing about Venetta accidentally falling into a vat of her mother’s overpriced face cream and being preserved for all eternity like a beauty industry insect in amber.

Then I had to include one for Killion, too, because it seemed unfair to leave him out of the fun.

Perhaps something involving handcuffs and a very aggressive raccoon.

My phone pings, and my heart does a little hopeful jig.

Maybe it’s Killion, texting to explain that last night was all a misunderstanding, he’s not secretly in love with Venetta, and would I mind terribly if we got married this afternoon at the courthouse?

But no. It’s the murder club group chat, which pings about as frequently as Clarabelle complains about her bunions—which is to say, constantly.

Tipper: Murder club emergency meeting TONIGHT! 7pm! Hattie’s place! We have a killer to catch before I have to finalize the Thanksgiving menu for Henry’s family!

Kick: It’s almost Thanksgiving! Who has time for a murder circle? Some of us have actual lives and children and PTAs and husbands who think they’re “helping” by reorganizing the pantry.

Hillary: Count me out too. I have boots to hunt down. Jimmy Choo just released their winter collection, and if I don’t secure those crocodile knee-highs, my life is essentially over. #FirstWorldProblems

Chevy: I’m bringing wine and my latest theory: the killer used toxic plants because they’re a deranged botanist seeking revenge for deforestation. Or they just really hate pumpkin spice. Either way, I’m THERE.

Peggy: I’ll bring my special pumpkin bread! And by special, I mean store-bought with the label removed. See y’all at 7!

Peyton: I can bring my seven-layer fiesta dip. The one that won the county fair three years running.

I stare at my phone. Peyton? When did Peyton get added to the group chat? Was she always lurking there, and I chose to ignore her presence? That would actually make sense. My brain has a convenient Peyton-filtering system that activates automatically.

Peyton: You’re all coming to the Gilded Gratitude Gala, right? Because I need the final headcount by 3pm today. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Hattie: I’ll see everyone at 7. Don’t forget to bring theories AND alibis.

I set my phone down with a sigh. Peyton Blakey is a dip, all right—just not the kind you’d want to bring to a party.

“Earth to Hattie! Are you communing with the linen samples, or just sleeping with your eyes open?”

I look up to find my sister Winnie striding toward me, a vision of autumnal chic in a chunky caramel-colored sweater that perfectly matches her loose waves of caramel hair.

Her stylish cognac boots—the kind Hillary would probably commit minor felonies for—click across the marble floor with purpose.

She’s carrying a large wicker basket overflowing with what appears to be more decorative gourds, because apparently, we don’t have enough of those already.

“Winnie!” I stand to hug her, inhaling the comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon that seems to follow her everywhere. “What are you doing here?”

“I just dropped off more decorations to the ballroom for the staff,” she says, setting down her basket of seasonal overkill. “Thought I’d pop in and say hello to my favorite sister.”

“Don’t let Neelie hear you say that.”

“Neelie is too busy picking out diamond-encrusted napkin rings to care about sibling rankings.” She glances at my notepad. “Is that Venetta Brandt being attacked by a turkey?”

I flip the notepad over. “Maybe.”

Aunt Winnie! Rookie barks with joy as he bounds over, nearly knocking down a club member in the process. Did you bring treats? You always bring the BEST treats!

Cricket slinks over with marginally more dignity. I suppose I could tolerate some of those salmon nibbles you had last time. If you insist.

“How about we grab some coffee?” Winnie offers, already reaching into her purse to produce two gourmet cat treats and a dog biscuit the size of my palm. “I’ve got about thirty minutes before I need to head back to Willoughby Hall.”

“You read my mind.” I grab my coat, and we head toward the Cozy Bean, the little café recently converted from what used to be a utility closet just off the main rotunda.

It’s amazing what some exposed brick, Edison bulbs, and an espresso machine can do to transform a room where mops once went to die.

The Cozy Bean embraces fall with an enthusiasm that borders on obsessive.

Every surface features some combination of mini pumpkins, acorns, or leaves.

The fireplace crackles merrily in the corner, surrounded by overstuffed armchairs upholstered in fabrics that look like they were woven from flannel shirts and good intentions.

The scent of cinnamon, cloves, and coffee creates an olfactory hug that wraps around you the moment you step inside.

We order pumpkin spice lattes that come topped with whipped cream, cinnamon dust, and tiny fondant leaves, because apparently, regular whipped cream isn’t festive enough. Newsflash, it’s not.

The barista, who’s wearing a headband with bobbing turkey antennae, hands us our seasonal heart attacks in a cup with a cheerfulness that suggests she’s either new or heavily medicated.

“So,” I say as we settle into armchairs by the fire, Cricket immediately claiming Winnie’s lap while Rookie sprawls at her feet. “How’s the wedding planning going?”

Winnie takes a sip of her latte, leaving a whipped cream mustache that she doesn’t seem to notice. “We’re keeping it simple.”

Simple is Winnie-speak for only moderately extravagant . What follows is a list of wedding details that would make a royal planner break into a cold sweat.

“Just a small ceremony in the grand ballroom at Willoughby Hall—we’re only inviting three hundred of our closest friends and family.

” She waves her hand as if three hundred people is practically eloping.

“The reception will be in the gardens, weather permitting, with fairy lights in all the topiary animals and a string quartet on the terrace. We’ve hired that chef from Boston—you know, the one who was on that cooking show?

—to create a specialized menu featuring Fitz’s family recipes reimagined with modern techniques. ”

“So... molecular gastronomy meets old money?”

“Exactly! And for dessert, instead of a traditional cake, we’re having a six-tier installation of petit fours decorated to look like tiny versions of Willoughby Hall through the seasons.”

“That sounds...”

“Simple, right?” She beams. “Oh, and we’re releasing doves at sunset.”

“Of course, you are.” I take a fortifying gulp of my latte. “What about Neelie? Any updates on her Valentine’s Day extravaganza?”

Winnie rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “I can’t believe she’s actually going to marry that cheating old coot. Stanton Troublefield is trouble, indeed.”

“Hence the name.”

“She’s ordered a dress that requires six bridesmaids just to carry the train. Six! And it’s covered in so many crystals that it’s technically a safety hazard if sunlight hits it directly.”

“Blinding the wedding guests—a bold choice.”

“The cake is going to be shaped like Stanton’s face.”

I choke on my latte. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. Apparently, it’s to show her ‘devotion to his visage.’ Those were her actual words.”

“That’s... disturbing on multiple levels.”

“She’s also hired synchronized swimmers to perform in the country club pool, which will be filled with rose petals and floating candles.”

“That sounds like a fire hazard.”

“The entire wedding is a hazard—to good taste, to her future, to our family’s reputation.” Winnie sighs. “But what can we do? She’s determined to marry him.”

“Maybe he’ll run off with his receptionist before Valentine’s Day.”

“We can only hope.”

Winnie’s phone bleats, and she checks it with a frown. “I’ve got to run. There’s an issue with the east wing renovation at Willoughby Hall. Something about the contractor finding another secret passage that wasn’t in the blueprints.”

“Ah, the trials of living in a mansion with more rooms than some small countries.”

She stands, gathering her coat and giving Cricket one last scratch behind the ears.

“By the way”—she says as she buttons up—“you’re next to get engaged. I can see it coming a mile away. You and Killion are perfect for each other.”

The words hit me like a snowball to the face—cold, shocking, and leaving behind a weird residue of feelings I’m not prepared to deal with.

“Have fun with your secret passages,” I call after her, avoiding any engagement talk as she waves and heads for the door.

I slump back in my chair, contemplating the universe’s cruel sense of humor. Winnie thinks Killion and I are heading toward engagement, while I’m drawing cartoons of him being attacked by woodland creatures.

My dark musings are interrupted by the café door banging open with enough force to make the decorative wreaths shudder. Clarabelle and Peggy barrel in like two geriatric tornadoes, scanning the room until they spot me.

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding!” Clarabelle announces loud enough for the entire café to hear. She’s wearing a hat shaped like a turkey, complete with a fabric wattle that wobbles when she moves.

“Get off your shiny hiney,” Peggy demands, strutting over in leopard print leggings that no eighty-something-year-old woman should be able to pull off, yet somehow she does.

“We called Sunrise & Cinnamon, and guess who’s back from her mysterious absence?

Autumn Harrington is serving up more than waffles today, and we’ve got reservations for the interrogation buffet! ”

I blink at them. “You made actual reservations?”

“Table for three at noon,” Clarabelle confirms proudly. “I told them we’re food critics from New England Noshes . I even made business cards.” She produces a slightly crumpled index card with “FOOD CRITIC” written with a Sharpie and what appears to be a clip art image of a fork glued to it.

“Well, that’s resourceful,” I tell her. “But I doubt we’ll need them.”

“Time’s a wastin’.” Peggy taps her watch impatiently. “We’ve got a killer to corner and Eggs Benedict to consume. Two birds, one fork!”

I glance at my unfinished gala plans, then at the eager faces of my elderly partners in crime-solving.

Peyton will have my head if I don’t complete the seating arrangements by this afternoon.

On the other hand, Autumn Harrington might have poisoned someone with yew plants and then conveniently faded back into her own world right after the murder.

Really, when you look at it that way, there’s no choice at all.

“Let me get my coat on,” I say, standing up. Because nothing says “professional investigator” quite like pretending to be food critics with homemade business cards and a geriatric entourage.

Sunrise & Cinnamon, prepare to be served a three-course meal of suspicion, with extra questions on the side.